Page 114 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“You should have told me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

He exhaled, slow and uneven. “Because you’re everything I ever wanted. And I was terrified that if I told you the truth, you’d see me for what I am and run. And I couldn’t bear to watch you walk away.”

She didn’t speak. Not right away. She looked down at their hands, his rough and warm, hers still trembling faintly.

“I don’t want peace,” she said.

He blinked, startled.

“I don’t want a quiet life. A drawing room and tea and smiles for strangers. I want to feel everything. Even when it hurts.” She paused. “You gave me that. You gave memorethan that.”

His throat moved. “I gave you danger. And a house full of secrets. A man with enemies and a child that isn’t yours.”

“Yes.” Her voice was steady now. “And adventure. And passion. And freedom. You gave me something no one else ever has.”

He watched her, unmoving. “I just didn’t know,” he whispered, “that falling in love with you would mean I couldn’tleave. That I would become the kind of man whostays.”

Ramsay drew a slow breath. His voice cracked.

“I am yours,” he said. “Utterly. I would shackle myself to your side and call it freedom.”

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time since she’d met him, Eleanor believed she might be safe.

When she opened her eyes again, he was still there, kneeling on the carpet like some repentant knight, hands loose at his sides, head tilted slightly up as if her forgiveness were a benediction.

“I have something for you,” he said quietly.

Eleanor blinked. “You’ve already given me enough.”

His mouth lifted—not quite a smile but something gentler. “Not nearly.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out a long velvet ribbon. Curled inside it was a delicate golden chain—so fine it shimmered like sunlight. At its center hung a pendant, oval-shaped, matte with age but unmistakably beautiful. Silver and gold chased in overlapping curves. A crest. A sigil. Reworked.

She tilted her head, brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“The chain was my father’s,” he said. “Or rather, it belonged to his father before him. English, of course. He wore it on his watch fob.”

Eleanor reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the chain. It was warm. “But the crest…”

“I had it changed,” he said. “The brooch was Highland—Fraser. My mother’s clan. I melded them together.”

Her breath caught. “You did this for me?”

“I did this because of you.” He lifted it gently, and for a moment, she thought he might fasten it himself. But instead, he handed it to her with both palms open. As though she might refuse.

“I never knew where I belonged,” he said. “Not fully. Not in England. Not in Scotland. Not in any of the houses that bore my name.”

She looked up, heart thudding.

“But then you walked into that blasted ship with your too-loud voice and your perfect posture and the nerve to speak to me like I was just a man—and I thought, there. There it is.”

“There what is?” she whispered.