Page 13 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Eleanor bit her lip. This could not possibly be worse.

Gifford, who had begun to rise again, cradling his swollen nose, suddenly found his courage.

“He attacked her. He even attacked me!” He pointed at Ramsay with a trembling finger, eyes wide and desperate. “Ask anyone here. He’s been—looming around her all voyage. I caught him in the act?—”

“I’ve never had the patience to loom,” Ramsay cut in lazily. “Though if I did, you’d be the last man I’d let find me doing it.”

“You’re lying!” Gifford barked. “You pushed her! I saw it. I?—”

Ramsay stepped forward. “Careful.”

The word was quiet. Sharp as a blade unsheathed. Norman moved at once, stepping between them.

“I don’t care who started it,” he said tightly. “You’ll both stand down now.”

Ramsay didn’t move. “Then perhaps your man should stop spitting lies before I throw him in myself,” he said, voice low and dark. “Let the sea decide which of us she believes.”

Eleanor stood frozen just behind them, fingers clenched in her skirts. She couldn’t speak.

Everything felt heightened—the scrape of boots on wood, the slap of wind in the sails, the rush of blood still pounding in her ears. She’d nearly gone overboard. Nearly died.

And now, here she was, watching three men circle like wolves—Ramsay towering over the rest, rough and magnificent and utterly unbothered by the scandal forming around them.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t posture. He didn’t explain. He simplywasdangerous, male, and maddeningly solid.

She stared. Couldn’t help it. Her mind kept replaying the way he’d pulled her back, the way his chest had felt against hers, the press of his hand at her back.

Heat bloomed beneath her corset. She looked away, breath catching in her throat.

God help her.

Ramsay let out a quiet laugh beside her. She did not look at him.

Gifford’s face turned a blotchy shade of red. “Your Grace,” he said to Norman, his voice strained, “surely you’re not going to believe a Scotsman and a hysterical woman over?—”

“I’ll believe my sister,” Norman snapped.

He glanced around then. So did Eleanor.And what they saw froze the blood in both their veins.

Dozens of passengers and crew had gathered at the rails and across the promenade. Eyes—dozens of them—watching. Some with curiosity, some with pity. A few, Eleanor was certain, were already thinking how swiftly they could pass along what they’d witnessed.

She felt her stomach turn.

Ramsay tilted his head toward the gawking crowd and said, conversationally, “If we’re going to brawl, might I suggest we do it elsewhere? Somewhere less…public. Though I’m happy to fight two at once if you’d rather.”

Eleanor nearly choked.

Norman, to his credit, did not rise to it. He straightened, eyes scanning the onlookers with dread sinking into his features. He cursed under his breath then fixed his attention back on Ramsay.

“You. My house. Tomorrow.”

“Which one?” Ramsay said idly. “You look like the sort who owns several.”

“Wharton Manor. In London. Eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

Ramsay turned then looked at Eleanor. Just briefly. And something in the look made her shiver. Not from fear. From recognition. He had taken the heat for her. Willingly.