Page 9 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Why did it catch him so? Why this strange rush of—what? Admiration? Concern?

He didn’t even know her name. But something about the tilt of her chin, the steadiness in her gaze, made the moment feel…personal.

Damn it.

“Well,” Ramsay murmured, stepping closer, “that’s one way to handle a disagreement.”

She turned. Her eyes narrowed when they landed on him.

“I have this under control,” she said, slightly breathless.

“I can see that.” He gave the unconscious man a casual glance. “I was only going to ask if you’d like another go.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “It wasn’t exactly planned.”

“No?”

“He grabbed my arm.”

“Did he now?”

She brushed her skirts off with brisk dignity then winced as her knuckles caught on the fabric.

Ramsay caught the motion. His eyes dropped to her hand where blood had begun to bead faintly at the edge of one knuckle. Nothing severe. A scrape, as she would likely call it. But the subtle, fleeting tremble in her fingers was enough to pull something tight across his chest.

He took a step closer before he could stop himself. Just decency, he told himself. A gentleman helping a lady, even one who had just felled a man like a seasoned prizefighter.

There was something about the way she held her injury behind her back, as if ashamed of it, as if afraid that showing pain would undo all the fierce composure she’d just summoned. Something about that refusal to appear weak.

He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “Let me see,” he said, nodding toward her hand, keeping his tone even.

“I said I have it under control,” she replied sharply, drawing her hand slightly behind her back, her eyes flashing with a warning that didn’t quite match the faint tremor in her fingers.

“And yet you’re bleeding,” he pointed out, watching her with furrowed brows, his tone somewhere between dry and concerned.

“It’s only a scrape,” she muttered, not quite meeting his gaze.

“A scrape that might worsen if not seen to,” he returned evenly, folding his arms but not stepping away.

She gave him a look, part challenge, part gratitude. “I’ll wrap it when I go below.”

He nodded but didn’t move.

“In Scotland,” he said, “we admire a lass who can throw a proper punch.”

She tilted her head. “Do you also admire those who loiter?”

Ramsay grinned despite himself. “Only when they’re bleeding and brave.”

The man on the deck groaned softly.

She looked down at him then quickly around the deck. “I need to get out of sight. If anyone sees me like this, I’ll be ruined.”

“Ruined for defending yourself?”

“You clearly haven’t spent much time among English society.”

“Not willingly.”