Page 11 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Ramsay wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he left Penelope’s cabin. A missing doll. A dusty storeroom. Some corner of the ship full of forgotten things. But not this. Nother.

He should have kept walking. He should have gone on with his ridiculous, hopeless search. But something about her made the thought of turning away feel almost unbearable.

A low groan pulled Ramsay’s attention back to the deck. The man the lass had struck—still crumpled but beginning to stir—rolled onto his side, fingers twitching like a beetle that had been turned belly-up. A moment later, he lifted his head, groggy and squinting. Then, with an angry hiss and the stubborn pride of someone too stupid to stay down, he pushed himself upright.

“You—” he snarled, swaying slightly. His face was mottled red, his lower lip already swelling like a bloated plum. One of his eyes was starting to darken.

Ramsay stepped forward at once, placing himself between the man and the lass, though she remained by the railing, upright and unmoved, chin high.

“Stay out of it,” the man growled. “This isn’t your concern.”

Ramsay didn’t blink. “It became mine the moment you put hands on her.”

The man lunged without warning, shoulders low, fists curled, teeth bared like a dog who hadn’t yet realized it was outmatched.

Ramsay saw it coming. He’d seen it in barrooms, in back alleys, in the jittery pause before a fight broke out. He sidestepped cleanly, grabbed the man by the lapels of his jacket, and punched him. A clean, simple maneuver, executed without rage or elegance. The man’s own momentum betrayed him. He stumbled backward, feet slipping on the wet deck.

He flailed. One arm shot out blindly for balance. It landed—unfortunately—against her shoulder as he fell flat on the floor.

She yelped. It wasn’t a scream. Just a sharp sound of surprise. Her feet slid. Her body jerked sideways. Ramsay turned in time to see her back tilt over the railing.

“Saints above,” he muttered and lunged.

His hand shot out and caught hers as it flailed in midair. His other arm hooked around her waist, gripping tight, dragging herback with a grunt of effort that scraped through his throat. Her skirts billowed as her leg skid through the wooden floor.

They tumbled and landed hard on the deck, tangled together in a heap of limbs and fabric. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Her elbow caught his ribs, and one of her curls got stuck in the button of his coat.

For one stunned moment, neither of them moved. They were breathing. That was all. Breathing and stunned and very, very close.

Then Ramsay exhaled into her hair. “We really must stop meeting like this.”

She made a sound that was half outrage, half breathless laughter.

Her bonnet was gone. Her hair was everywhere—soft, wild, fragrant. Her hands had somehow ended up on his chest, and her mouth was a fraction too close to his for propriety.

Ramsay became acutely aware of her weight and warmth and the way her body was pressed against his in places no one was supposed to witness, let alone feel. Her breath came fast, short, and shallow, catching slightly at the top of her throat. It stirred the hair near his collar, warm against the skin just below his ear.

Not fear. He knew the sound of fear. He’d heard it in screams and sobs and the quiet shudder of a child crying into a blanket.

This wasn’t that. This was something else entirely.

Her corset pressed against his chest, rigid and unforgiving, laced too tightly for comfort but too perfectly for modesty. His arm had hooked instinctively around her waist when she fell, and now, it held her still, hand splayed over the small of her back. She was firm against him. Her breath still came fast, shallow, and hot, and her face was close enough for his thumb to graze skin. Warm, smooth, and far too real.

She was trembling. He could feel every tremor passing through her body and into his. Adrenaline crackled in the space between them. Her chest heaved. Her eyes blazed.

And he still hadn’t let go.

He could feel the curve of her. Too much of her.

No. No, don’t read into it. Don’t be a fool.

And yet, he didn’t move.

Then she spoke, voice low and clipped. “Get off me.”

“I’m not holding you down.”

“You’re breathing on me.”