Cecelia drew in an exhausted breath and was suddenly aware of a miracle.
Or rather, a miraculous aroma. The distinct mélange of garlic, onion, and rendered succulent meat underscored with—she sniffed once again. Was that thyme?
Her stomach made a rude and rather insistent noise that drove Cecelia to venture out of the cupboard-sized bedroom. She turned to close the door behind her as quietly as she could, though it would probably have taken an entire symphony of off-key bagpipers to wake Jean-Yves at this point.
Once she turned to the main room, Cecelia had to swipe off her spectacles, shine them with her handkerchief, and replace them on her nose in order to process the mighty transformation the cottage had undergone.
When she’d arrived, it’d been a graveyard of ghostly furniture covers and grimy windows. With the application of the supplies Ramsay had sent ahead for in town, the tiny windows now sparkled. The one rough, wooden table—which she’d previously feared would leave anyone who approached it speared by several splinters—had been covered by a clean blue cloth.
A rocking chair hunkered in the corner, as though being punished for a slight, and an old but sturdy couch faced the modest fireplace. Tools and sundries were piled neatly next to the door, while a few scattered around the corner that seemed to function as a kitchen complete with an antique water pump that must draw from an old well.
Cecelia found herself utterly charmed by the entire room. One could believe that fairy-tale gnomes had once lived there. Or perhaps witches.
A cauldron even simmered over a cookfire in the stone hearth, and she couldn’t imagine a better-smelling brew.
A large and surly Scot perched on said hearth and whittled at a long thin stick with a knife long enough to rival that of the kukris Alexandra had brought back from subcontinental India.
Cecelia caught her breath and pinned her feet to the floor. The firelight gilded his hair with every conceivable fine metallic hue. Copper and bronze sifted like sands beneath the desert sun on the shorter strands near his neck and above his ears. A forelock of gold fell over a brow pinched with concentration, and even threads of silver dusted the thick hair at his temples.
Resting his elbows on knees thrust high by the low hearth, Ramsay appeared to be almost squatting rather than sitting as he worked intently, and Cecelia found the pose both indecent and intriguing.
He’d shucked all but his shirtsleeves and a pair of fawn trousers stretched over thighs tensed to hold his weight and spread so he could hold his work between them. His sleeves had been rolled up to the elbows, revealing muscled forearms dusted with a down of gold hair.
Cecelia watched his large hands make deft and quick work of shaping the stick and stripping it of all bark.
His jaw, generally set into a stubborn square, relaxed with the absorption of his attention to his work enough to soften his lips. It was easy to forget that his hard mouth could be full, as he so often kept it tightly drawn into a frown.
The only other time she’d witnessed that mouth relaxed like this was the night he’d kissed her. That night seemed so long ago, and yet she remembered it with the fresh detail of yesterday.
Because she thought of that kiss every time she lay down to sleep.
Did he?
Next to him, a pile of firewood that appeared to be a decade old hunkered in the corner waiting to be immolated.
She could suddenly relate. She tugged at the high collar of her slate-gray traveling kit as heat licked over her skin.
“Where’s Phoebe?” she asked by way of greeting.
Avid eyes found hers, and she offered him what she hoped was a nonchalant smile.
Ramsay jutted his chin toward the ladder leading to the closed loft hatch above the front door. “She collapsed into bed hours ago.”
“Oh.” Cecelia followed her many appetites farther into the room. She locked her hands behind her as she glanced about her surroundings, letting her gaze alight on anything but the man currently wreaking havoc on her senses.
“Did ye find anything in the book?” he asked.
“No.” She’d found her own mouth locked in a disgruntled frown. “At this rate it could take me days. A week. Perhaps more. But I do find myself getting closer … I think.” Her list of what the code wasn’t certainly grew by the moment, and she decided to optimistically consider that progress by process of elimination.
He stood, abandoning the stick but not the knife, and retrieved a rough-hewn bowl from the shelf. “Ye take what time ye need,” he said without looking at her as he ladled the fragrant stew simmering on the fireplace into the bowl. “I’ll take care of ye until then.”
I’ll take care of ye. Cecelia tried to think of the last time anyone had said that to her.
“You’re very kind. Very generous.”
“We both ken that’s not true.” Ramsay carried the bowl to the table and pointed to the rickety chair with his knife. “Sit. Eat.”
She sat and picked up the spoon, dipping it into the peasant stew with a delicate motion as Ramsay retreated to the other side of the couch to reclaim his perch on the hearth.
“There’d be more, but yer girl foraged her own portion, most of Jean-Yves’s, and half of mine.” He shook his head in disbelief. “She’s such a wee thing, I doona ken where she put all that food.”
Cecelia smiled with a growing fondness. “We share a hearty appetite, I suppose.”
He gave a gruff chuckle and retrieved a long feather from a basket of many at his side. “I used to eat like that at her age, and I stayed scrawny until…” He let the sentence die away, then seemed about to say something before he changed his mind. “Until I was older.” He took the knife to the feather, shaping it in delicate strokes.
Awareness of a strange and civil awkwardness that had bloomed between them ate at Cecelia. He’d avoided all but the barest of contact with her on the train, instead providing Phoebe most excellent and patient company while Cecelia looked after Jean-Yves.
She’d fretted at first that Phoebe’s newfound hero worship of the giant Scot would be irritating to him. But he’d suffered her endless barrage of questions with not only patience, but a good humor Cecelia hadn’t known Ramsay possessed.
She almost wished that he’d been an ogre. She really didn’t need any more reasons to want—er—like him right now. Not while everything was so chaotic. So awful.
Because around him she found herself less self-reliant than she ever had been.
There was a magnetism about a man so large and strong, she decided. That had to be the whole of her problem. He simply radiated some sort of gravitational or magnetic pull, unwittingly drawing her into his orbit. The urge to cast her burdens onto his wide shoulders had become overwhelming. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up relying upon him. She’d give in to the impulse to play the damsel to his knight in shining armor.
I’ll take care of ye.
Generally, it was her job to do the caring, a vocation she devoted herself to wholeheartedly. Of course, the Red Rogues and Jean-Yves were dedicated to her in the absolute. She’d never wanted for love.
But there was a difference between being cared about and being taken care of. She’d never even considered that difference before now.
Lost in such thoughts, she blew puffs of air over the fragrant stew waiting for the steam to cool.