Page 111 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Ramsay rose, breath heaving, fists still clenched. Dirt smeared his coat. Blood marked his sleeve. His eyes—those cold, hard eyes—softened when they met hers.

He looked at her, not like a duke. Not like a man who had just nearly killed someone in her garden. But like a man who’d been drowning and had just broken through the surface. Like she was air.

“Ramsay,” she said again, softer now. Her throat tightened. “You’re hurt.”

He glanced down. Blood was dripping from his knuckles, slow and thick, a bloom of red across the back of his hand. But he didn’t seem to feel it. His chest rose and fell, hard and uneven. His coat hung open. His waistcoat was torn. And when he stepped forward, the sunlight caught the smear of blood on his jaw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

She blinked. “You left me.”

His eyes flinched.

“I didn’t want you in danger,” he said, jaw taut.

“Then you should not have made me your wife.”

He exhaled once, like he’d been punched again. And in that same moment, Callum groaned behind them.

Ramsay turned. In one stride, he was looming over the man on the ground again. But this time he didn’t strike.

He stared down at Callum—battered, wheezing, half-conscious. His voice came out rough.

“You should be dead.”

Callum coughed, spitting blood into the grass.

Eleanor stood frozen, barely breathing.

Ramsay crouched beside him. His body cast a long shadow over the lawn. “If you came three weeks ago, I’d kill you here. Slowly.”

Eleanor took a step forward. “Ramsay.”

“But I won’t,” he said, not looking at her. “Because of my wife—” His voice cracked on the word. “—and you owe your life to her.”

Callum laughed. It came out broken. “How noble of you.”

Ramsay stood, fists still clenched.

Just then, the sound of hooves broke through the stillness. Eleanor turned. A group of riders was storming through the gates—two of Ramsay’s men at the front, another three just behind.

The first rider dismounted in a rush.

“Your Grace,” he called. “We came as fast as we could. Lady Penelope sent word.”

Ramsay didn’t move. “Take him.”

Two of the guards immediately seized Callum’s arms and began dragging him across the grass. He didn’t fight. Just looked up at Eleanor with that same sick smile, blood caking his teeth.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” he muttered as they hauled him away.

“Shut his mouth,” Ramsay said. “Gag him. I don’t want to hear another word.”

The others obeyed.

Eleanor watched them go. Watched the man disappear beyond the hedge, his threats still echoing faintly in her ears. Her legs felt weak. Her throat was tight. But it wasn’t until Ramsay turned back to her—his eyes wild, his chest heaving, the echo of violence still written all over him—that her composure cracked.

“Eleanor,” he said.