Page 12 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Would you rather I hadn’t pulled you back from the brink?”

Her brow knit. “That man?—”

“Is about to wish he’d never stepped foot aboard.”

She made another sound—less dignified this time—and shoved at his chest until he rolled off her.

He rose to his knees then stood fully, offering her a hand. She ignored it and pushed herself up, brushing furiously at her skirts.

But before either of them could speak again, a new voice split the air.

“Get your hands off my sister!”

Ramsay turned sharply. The lass stiffened beside him.

A tall figure strode across the deck, his stride swift and his fury unmistakable. Broad-shouldered, well-dressed, and very clearly armed with righteous indignation.

“Norman,” the lass breathed.

Four

“Eleanor!”

Eleanor barely had time to step back before Norman surged forward, taller than anyone in the crowd, dark coat billowing behind him like a storm.

She thrust herself between them.

“Wait—please don’t—he didn’t do anything wrong!”

Norman halted, only barely. His eyes snapped to her, wild and disbelieving.

“You’re defending him?” Norman jabbed a finger toward the Scottish Hercules without looking. “After I just watched you tumble into his arms like—like?—”

“Like a woman nearly pushed off the ship,” the man cut in, voice low and unhurried. “That bampot made a move. I stopped it.”

Norman turned fully to him now. The man didn’t flinch.

“If that offends your sense of honor,” he continued, “we can settle it properly. But if you’re just here to shout, I’d rather go back to hunting dolls.”

The silence that followed was taut. The man tilted his head slightly, not aggressive—just prepared. Ready, if Norman wanted to make something of it.

Eleanor blinked as she felt her cheeks turn into a mortified shade of pink. She hadn’t expected that.

“And you are?” Norman growled.

The Scotsman stepped forward, broad shoulders taut with barely veiled aggression. “Ramsay Brooking,” he said. “Duke of Stormglen.”

No bow. No courtesy. Just words, sharp and flat, like a gauntlet thrown.

A ripple moved through the gathered passengers.

Norman narrowed his eyes. “Stormglen?”

“Dispute it,” Ramsay said, voice darker now. “But I doubt your English courts would appreciate the spectacle.”

He took one more step forward, close enough that Norman would have to crane his neck to meet his eyes.

“Unless you’d rather settle it here,” he added, quiet and dangerous. “I much prefer fists. They don’t need paperwork.”