Page 1 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

One

Lord Gifford, I’ve tried, truly, but the more I get to know you, the more I realize I cannot imagine being your wife. You deserve better.

Eleanor had chosen that last line carefully, hoping it might soothe Lord Gifford’s pride. Pacing restlessly along the ship’s deck, she replayed the last few weeks in her mind. He had asked her brother Norman for permission to court her during their voyage back to England from Greece.

Greece.

Her fingers tightened around a small ceramic vase from Corfu, painted with an image of Hercules wearing the skin of a lion. It was one of the few mementos she had kept from what had otherwise been a delightful journey with her brother and his wife. That is, until Lord Gifford’s overbearing presence began to sour everything.

It had not taken long for his condescension and controlling nature to show. Eleanor had seen enough. She did not want to marry him, nor, if she was honest, anyone she already knew. But the longer she delayed, the more heartless she feared she would appear.

He might think I had led him on…

She practiced the words she would say once more until she was interrupted by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a child crying. Eleanor paused, brow furrowed, then clutched the vase tighter and hurried toward the sound.

The passage narrowed. Crates were stacked haphazardly along the corridor, damp with sea spray. Her skirts caught on a protruding nail, and she tugged them free with irritation before turning the next corner?—

And she collided, quite firmly, with what she thought was a wall. It jarred her shoulder and knocked the breath from her lungs. The vase slipped from her hands, linen wrapping unspooling midair. She reeled backward?—

—but before she could fall, strong arms caught her. One at her waist, the other bracing her back. Her face landed against cloth stretched over a broad, unyielding chest. Not a wall. Alive. Warm. Startlingly firm.

Her breath caught. The sudden stillness in the air, the heat of his grip, the absurd closeness—all of it struck in a single, stunned heartbeat.

“Watch yourself,” said a voice, rough and Scottish.

Her mouth fell open.

The man set her back on her feet. She blinked up at him, flushed and breathless. He was tall. Ridiculously so. Grey eyes, like storm clouds caught mid-turn. A severe sort of face. Brown hair, wind-tossed.

For weeks, she had wandered through sunlit ruins gazing up at carved heroes—Theseus, Achilles, especially Hercules. Always Hercules. Muscle-bound and impassive with arms capable of bearing the world.

And now, here one stood, scowling on the deck of a British vessel. Solid and unyielding with an arm still wrapped around her waist. She could feel the heat of him through layers of clothing, the press of his body where he had caught her just in time. Her breath came shallow, almost trembling. Her chest rose against his, drawn to him.

Eleanor, dazed, noticed a faded scar along one cheekbone, as if the sculptor had grown bored of perfection and carved in something human.

He looked altogether too heroic. Until he spoke again.

“Next time, try looking where your pretty little feet are headed, lass,” he said flatly, glancing down at the shards on the floor.

How dare he? Honestly.Eleanor could hardly believe the man. He’d practically barreled into her like a cannon shot and now stood there, towering and unrepentant, as thoughshewere the problem.

Her face was still warm from the collision, her skirts damp at the hem, and her pulse doing a most undignified jig. And still—still—he had the audacity to smirk at her. Eleanor tightened her spine. If smugness were a crime, he’d be in chains by now.

Eleanor drew herself up. “That’s no way to speak to a lady,” she snapped. “And it wasyouwho turned the corner like a charging bull. My vase is ruined.”

The man lifted a brow. “Do you own the deck, then? Shall we all request your permission to pass through it?”

“I beg your pardon?—”

“A fragile object ought not to be waved about like laundry on a line.”

“I wasn’t waving it about!”

“Could have fooled me.”

He looked amused, and it made her blood boil.

“It was a gift,” she said icily. “For my brother. He’s expecting his first child.”