Page 112 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

She moved toward him without thinking.

“Ramsay,” she whispered, reaching for his sleeve. “You—he was?—”

But she didn’t finish. Because the moment her fingers touched him, he surged forward and kissed her.

It was the kind of kiss born of blood and desperation and fear, the kind that grabbed by the throat and didn’t let go. His hands were on her waist, then her back, pulling her in so fiercely her breath disappeared. His mouth found hers, rough and searing, and she tasted sweat, and copper, and him.

She gasped. He drank it in.

The pressure of his body against hers made her knees weaken. Her hands clutched at his ruined coat then fisted in his shirt. Her thoughts—every single one of them—dissolved.

She didn’t care that the servants were still on the edge of the lawn. She didn’t care that the sun was overhead or that anyone might see. She only cared that he was here. That he’d come back. That his mouth was crushing hers, and he was trembling beneath her hands like he was barely holding together.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips brushing his.

“You left.”

“I know,” he rasped. His forehead rested against hers. “I was a damned fool.”

Her chest rose. “You almost got me killed.”

His breath hitched. “I know that too.”

Eleanor didn’t move. Her eyes were burning again, but she wasn’t sure if it was from anger or relief.

“You can’t keep running from me,” she whispered.

“I’m not running anymore.”

She searched his face. There was a bruise forming on his jaw. A cut on his brow. His lip was bleeding. He looked like hell.

And still, she wanted him.

Something dark and warm and shameful twisted in her stomach. The same part of her that had burned when he held her on horseback. The same part that had woken up when he kissed her in the meadow. She looked at his throat, the way it flexed as he swallowed. The blood at his temple. The way his shirt clung to his chest with sweat.

“I thought you were gone forever,” she said.

“I was,” he said. “And I regretted it the second the carriage pulled away.”

She closed her eyes. She wanted to believe him. She needed to. Because if he left again, it would tear her in two. The wind stirred the trees. Eleanor could feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hands.

“What happens now?” she asked, her voice quieter.

Ramsay looked at her. Not just at her face. At all of her. Like he was memorizing every inch.

“I take care of it,” he said. “For good this time.”

Eleanor drew in a slow breath. The kiss had left her dazed. His presence—his heat—was still so overwhelming, she felt like her skin didn’t belong to her anymore.

He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with one blood-streaked hand. “Now, I’m going to spend every day proving I don’t deserve you—and begging you to let me try anyway.”

Her lips parted. Her heart turned over.

And then he kissed her again. This time it was softer, slower, as if the urgency had passed and all that was left was need. When he pulled away, she leaned into him. His breath warmed her cheek. His fingers curled at her waist.

He was hers. And she was his. No matter what came next.

Epilogue