Page 113 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

The physician had left not long ago. He’d said the bruises would fade and that her wrist would be tender for a few days. But the rest—her heartbeat, her breath, her voice—he hadn’t checked for those.

She sat by the window, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders, still wearing the same dress from earlier though someone had unlaced the bodice to help her breathe. The house had quieted. Penelope was with the governess, the guards posted at every entrance, and the silence stretched between every heartbeat like a held breath.

She turned toward the door before it opened. She knew it would be him.

He stepped in quietly, hesitantly. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was still damp from where he’d washed the blood away. There was a thin cut just under his eye. And his eyes—dear God, his eyes—looked haunted.

He shut the door behind him but didn’t move further.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” he said.

Eleanor didn’t answer right away. She just watched him. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his hands curled slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“You came back,” she said at last.

He nodded, but his throat moved as he swallowed. “Not soon enough.”

The words hung between them.

She turned fully toward him, pulling the blanket tighter. Her wrist throbbed dully beneath the linen wrap.

“You lied to me.”

“I know.” He came closer then, slowly, as if afraid she might flinch. “About what I did. About who I was.”

“You said you had blood on your hands. I thought it was guilt. Regret.”Her eyes didn’t waver.“I didn’t know it was truth.”

His jaw tightened.“It was an accident. Callum’s brother. I didn’t mean to do it, but he left me no choice. It was either him or me.”

“Was it? What happened?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide.“I was protecting a friend. One of ours. Young, reckless, but he didn’t deserve to die that day.” A pause. “It was a dispute between clans. Nothing new. I stepped in to stop it from turning into a bloodbath.”

She stayed still, watching him. Waiting.

“He lunged,”Ramsay continued, voice low.“I fought back. The fall killed him. Broke his neck on the stone.”

“You were just protecting a friend…”

Ramsay stepped closer. He knelt beside her, one knee to the floor, and took her uninjured hand in his.

“I thought I could protect you,” he said, voice low. “By keeping it from you. By being—less. Less than I am. Less than what you’d want.”

Her breath caught. “You’re not less.”

“I am.” His thumb traced over her knuckles. “You’re London. You’re grace and logic and kindness. You’re clever and brave and brilliant. And I’m a rouge Highlander who’s only good at fists and fear.”

She blinked at him.

“I thought if I gave you peace, safety, I could be enough,” he went on. “That if I gave you everything quietly, without history or shadows, you might stay.”

“And you didn’t think I’d choose you if I knew the truth.”

His eyes met hers. “No.”

Eleanor swallowed. Her voice was barely audible. “That isn’t fair.”

“I know.”