He’d perched up here some days shooting at anyone who dared approach. Not knowing if they were looters or neighbors.
Once in a while, they’d been both.
He forgot how to act or eat properly first. Then how to speak. In the years he’d lived in this cottage alone, an empty hole had opened up in his chest. This cold, silent void where a family ought to have been. Where mercy might have lived.
Where vagaries like happiness and love could have been nurtured.
He’d never succumbed to the silence or the emptiness, but he’d always carried it with him, even after he’d been taken to Redmayne Keep.
He couldn’t believe it. More than twenty years had passed since he’d been dragged from this place, feral and filthy. A bestial, inhuman creature driven by nothing but instinct.
And the process of civilizing him had been both painful and humiliating.
He’d pledged never to become that creature again.
Which was what made Cecelia Teague such a danger to him.
Because she spoke to everything that had once made him little better than an animal. Despite her innate gentility, her intelligence, and her impeccable manners, she drew from him a carnal—nay—carnivorous instinct he found impossible to ignore, let alone control.
As evidenced by the prior night.
Ramsay’s body responded, tightening at the memory. Hardening with need.
The first time he’d met her as the Scarlet Lady, he’d been so angry, so self-righteous. Partly because he’d wanted to know what it would feel like to have that generous mouth wrapped around his cock.
He might have guessed it would be a singular experience.
But he’d never expected to lose himself in unparalleled bliss. He’d never have thought she’d surpass his every previous encounter, exceed his most salacious fantasies. That her body would be the vehicle to a rapture most men were not fortunate enough to attain.
He’d lain awake all night with the taste of her coating his mouth, the pleasure she’d wrought in him still thrumming through every sinew and cord of his body. He’d been so grateful for the chill of the evening, and yet he’d yearned for her warmth. Even after the heat had cooled, something else became insistent. Some other organ than his sex.
He didn’t simply want to fuck her, but to hold her. To comfort her. To find comfort with her.
The thought of making her laugh held more innate appeal than receiving a knighthood. He’d rather spend an afternoon indulging her appetites for chocolate than dining with royals and Continental contacts.
Even after he’d cleaned his teeth this morning and washed all traces of her away, her essence clung to him like it was now a part of him.
And therein lay the crux of the problem.
She threatened to topple all he built. To leach his ambition from him and replace it with contentment—nay, complacency.
That, he could not abide.
He could not simply melt into her comfort. Couldn’t allow her softness to smooth away his sharp edges and temper what had made him hard, angry, and unrepentantly ruthless. He could not indulge, not without facing dastardly consequences.
But there was still honor to consider. His. Hers. And a mutual desire that was undeniable.
Only one thing to be done about it.
Claim her in every absolute way.
Marry her.
She was now Cecelia Teague and the Scarlet Lady. But … what if she could become someone else?
Cecelia Ramsay.
With her considerable skills, soft heart, and unparalleled intellect, she could be such a force in his world. Even though they both were cursed with tainted legacies, there was a chance to build a dynasty together that future generations would be proud of.
He could protect her, pleasure her, grant her and Phoebe opportunities they’d never have otherwise. Both freedom and respectability.
And perhaps, she could teach him something about happiness. And the odd indulgence.
Every time she smiled at him, with every kiss or intimacy they shared, a little light had ignited within that dark void inside him. He felt less empty.
What would a lifetime of her smiles do?
Ramsay shook his head, pushing the longing away and replacing it with resolve.
There would be time for that. But today, he had to stay sharp. Dangerous. Especially if he was about to take on the fortress built around the current Lord Chancellor and steal his dubious throne. All the while, he had to keep Cecelia safe. And to do that, he mustn’t allow distractions.
Something else stalked along the game trail, confidently picking its way through the thicket.
Ramsay took in a deep breath, drew a bead, and let his arrow loose.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The afternoon sun had been uncharacteristically relentless. Ramsay swiped at his forehead and squinted at the sky. He had time for a dip in the loch before the shadows became long, and he could think of nothing better.
Even though it was bloody and disgusting work gutting, skinning, and stringing up a buck to treat the meat properly, Ramsay didn’t mind; it kept him occupied and away from temptation.
Wiping his hands, he snuck into the house to retrieve a clean change of clothing, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
No such luck.
Phoebe sat at the table, swinging her feet off the ground as Jean-Yves allowed her to cheat at whist.
Ramsay glanced around for Cecelia and couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disappointed not to find her. She’d be working at the desk on that dratted codex.
Phoebe beamed at him, the divot in her chin deepening. “There you are. Why are you stained?”
Cecelia’s butler eyed him with rank misgiving, but nodded in a respectful manner. Well, respectful for a Frenchman, anyhow.
“I skinned a buck just now, lass,” he explained, extracting a fresh shirt and trousers from his trunk.
“Seems a waste to shoot a buck if we are only here but a few days,” Jean-Yves harrumphed from behind the fan of cards he held up with his uninjured arm.
Ramsay frowned, but he didn’t rise to the occasion.
“There are several large families hereabouts who would be glad of what meat we doona use.” He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, especially not in his own home. But he’d long since understood that the Frenchman was more a father figure than employee of Cecelia’s, which disposed him to dislike and distrust a man who had designs on her.
Designs so undeniable, any fool could decipher his intent. His desire.
Jean-Yves was no fool.
Ramsay couldn’t say he minded the older man’s protective nature. Were he a father, he’d not approve of their current situation for his daughter, that was for certain.
Phoebe scooted off her chair and landed on the scuffed boots she’d taken to wearing daily to romp out of doors. “I don’t believe I’ve tasted buck,” she said, drifting closer to watch him curiously. “Is it delicious?”
“It can be.” He stepped around her, refusing to be charmed by her tiny voice and perfect little proper accent. He fetched a towel for drying along with a bar of soap and opened the door. “I’ll be back to prepare supper.”
He shut the door behind him, but it didn’t remain closed for long.
“Where are you going?” Phoebe chirped, chasing him down the path.
“To the loch shore, wee one. I willna be far.”
She scampered around to block his path. “I’ll go with you, so you won’t be alone.”