Page 83 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

There was only his mouth—urgent, worshipful. The sun-warmed field beneath her—rough and sweet-smelling. And the way her heart pulsed wildly wherever he touched her.

There was only him.

Onlythis.

And she never wanted it to end.

Twenty

She was still beneath him, breathing unsteadily, hair mussed from the grass, lips kiss-swollen. The sun caught on the edges of her lashes. Her chest rose and fell, slow and heavy, and her hand was still pressed against his back.

Ramsay looked down at her and knew, without question, that he was damned.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of her under him had rooted him to the earth, and the imprint of her body seared into every part of his skin. She hadn’t become fully his yet, but the way she’d kissed him—the way she’dlethim,wantedhim—that was something no oath or title could fabricate.

She’d wanted it.Wanted him. And not because he was a duke, not because the marriage required it, but because something wild and unwritten between them had finally broken open.

He ran his hand along her waist, slowly, fingers brushing over the thin fabric. She shivered beneath his touch. He felt it like lightning.

“Are ye cold?” he asked softly, voice rough from restraint.

“No.” Her voice was barely there. “You?”

He smiled. “I’m burnin’, lass.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him, and something about her gaze—unguarded, half-dazed—made his chest ache. Then she blinked, as though returning to herself all at once.

She touched his shoulder. “We should… return.”

“Aye.” But he didn’t move. He needed to feel her a little longer.

“Ramsay,” she said, a little more firmly this time.

He leaned down, kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and slow, then pushed himself upright with a groan. She followed, cheeks flushed, gown rumpled, hair falling loose over her shoulder.

He offered her a hand. She didn’t take it. Shegrabbedit. And when he pulled her up, her body collided with his chest.

They stilled.

His pulse pounded so hard he could hear it.

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” she whispered, eyes locked on his mouth.

He smirked. “Never.”

They rode back together, silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t empty but thick with everything that had just happened, and everything that still might. Her thigh brushed his with each step of the horse. He didn’t adjust, just let himself feel it.

Let himself want her.

But the second they neared the house, he noticed something odd. Raised voices. Not one, but two. Female. High-pitched and growing louder by the second.

He slowed the horse.

Eleanor straightened, brow furrowed. “Is that?—?”

“Aye,” he muttered grimly. “That’s indoors.”

As they approached the front steps, a servant darted out looking vaguely traumatized. Ramsay dismounted, helped Eleanor down—though it cost him greatly not to pull her right back into his arms—and strode into the front hall just in time to hear?—