Page 8 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

He rose, brushing his hands on his trousers. “I’ll start now. Best to look while the light holds.”

He moved toward the door. He paused. Her voice had been so small. So certain.

I don’t have anyone now,it echoed.

He turned his face slightly toward her and said, quieter this time, “I’ll find the doll, Penelope. And a mother to take care of you, too. The way a child deserves.”

He paused, hand still on the latch. The words had come from somewhere deeper than he expected, perhaps, by the echo of a voice he’d only heard once.

That bold English lass.

The one who’d stepped between him and the child without hesitation. Who hadn’t softened her words, hadn’t curtsied or simpered or smiled like so many had since he had become a duke. She’d stared him down and spoken plain:A child does not deserve to be treated like this.

He hadn’t liked hearing it, but he hadn’t forgotten it either.

Penelope didn’t reply, but as he stepped out into the corridor, he realized her eyes had closed at last.

He nodded to Miss Bransby in passing, and she stepped into the room without a word, leaving Ramsay to the corridor and the gathering dusk.

The hunt for Marigold was about to begin.

Three

Ramsay was halfway down the narrow corridor when he heard it.

A voice cut through the corridor like a blade.

“Let go of me!”

He stilled, breath catching low in his chest, a sharp spike of alertness flashing down his spine. His body moved before his thoughts did, legs propelling forward, heart already drumming, as if some ancient instinct had snapped awake and pointed him toward the fire.

As he rounded the corner, the scene snapped into view.

It wasshe. The lass from earlier. The one with the vase. And the voice. And the eyes that had met his so fiercely, he’d been chewing on them ever since.

Ramsay didn’t think. He charged forward to rescue her.

A tall man in expensive tailoring had her pinned against the railing with one arm clenched around her wrist. Her free hand was braced against his chest, trying to push him back.

“You’ll belong to me soon enough,” the man sneered. “Once we’re back on English soil, you’ll be mine?—”

“You can’t make me.” Her voice was low, seething.

And then she punched him. A closed fist, fast and sharp, straight to his jaw. The man stumbled back with a guttural sound of pain, nearly tripping over his polished shoes.

She didn’t need his rescue. Ramsay couldn’t help it. A chuckle escaped him as he stepped into view.

The woman stood above the man, arm still slightly raised, chest heaving. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, a vivid rush of color against porcelain skin. Her bonnet had slipped halfway off, and one damp curl clung stubbornly to her cheekbone. She looked altogether wild and magnificent, like a goddess interrupted mid-curse.

Now, with her back against the railing, chest rising in fury, and that dress clinging to her curves like it had been sewn on wet, he felt it again. That low thrum of unwelcome want, deep in his gut.

She was irresistible.

He’d seen fights before—dozens, perhaps hundreds. Street brawls, clan disputes, bloodied noses and split knuckles, all delivered with brute force and no poetry. He’d even seen women fight—sharp-tongued Highland matrons with broom handles or broken plates, defending hearth and pride. But never like this.

Never with such elegance. Never with such defiant, unshakable grace.

His eyes dropped to the tremble just beginning to show in her fingers, the slight quake of breath beneath her stays. Still, she stood tall, unflinching, daring anyone to question her.