Epilogue
The physician had left not long ago. He’d said the bruises would fade and that her wrist would be tender for a few days. But the rest—her heartbeat, her breath, her voice—he hadn’t checked for those.
She sat by the window, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders, still wearing the same dress from earlier though someone had unlaced the bodice to help her breathe.
The house had quieted. Penelope was with the governess, the guards posted at every entrance, and the silence stretched between every heartbeat like a held breath.
She turned toward the door before it opened. She knew it would be him.
He stepped in quietly, hesitantly. His coat was gone, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was still damp from where he’d washed the blood away. There was a thin cut just under his eye. And his eyes—dear God, his eyes—looked haunted.
He shut the door behind him but didn’t move further.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” he said.
Eleanor didn’t answer right away. She just watched him. The rise and fall of his chest. The way his hands curled slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“You came back,” she said at last.
He nodded, but his throat moved as he swallowed. “Not soon enough.”
The words hung between them.
She turned fully toward him, pulling the blanket tighter. Her wrist throbbed dully beneath the linen wrap.
“You lied to me.”
“I know.” He came closer then, slowly, as if afraid she might flinch. “About what I did. About who I was.”
“You said you had blood on your hands. I thought it was guilt. Regret.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “I didn’t know it was truth.”
His jaw tightened. “It was an accident. Callum’s brother. I didn’t mean to do it, but he left me no choice. It was either him or me.”
“Was it? What happened?”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide. “I was protecting a friend. One of ours. Young, reckless, but he didn’t deserve to die that day.” A pause. “It was a dispute between clans. Nothing new. I stepped in to stop it from turning into a bloodbath.”
She stayed still, watching him. Waiting.
“He lunged,” Ramsay continued, voice low. “I fought back. The fall killed him. Broke his neck on the stone.”
“You were just protecting a friend…”
Ramsay stepped closer. He knelt beside her, one knee to the floor, and took her uninjured hand in his.
“I thought I could protect you,” he said, voice low. “By keeping it from you. By being—less. Less than I am. Less than what you’d want.”
Her breath caught. “You’re not less.”
“I am.” His thumb traced over her knuckles. “You’re London. You’re grace and logic and kindness. You’re clever and brave and brilliant. And I’m a rouge Highlander who’s only good at fists and fear.”
She blinked at him.
“I thought if I gave you peace, safety, I could be enough,” he went on. “That if I gave you everything quietly, without history or shadows, you might stay.”
“And you didn’t think I’d choose you if I knew the truth.”
His eyes met hers. “No.”
Eleanor swallowed. Her voice was barely audible. “That isn’t fair.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
He exhaled, slow and uneven. “Because you’re everything I ever wanted. And I was terrified that if I told you the truth, you’d see me for what I am and run. And I couldn’t bear to watch you walk away.”
She didn’t speak. Not right away. She looked down at their hands, his rough and warm, hers still trembling faintly.
“I don’t want peace,” she said.
He blinked, startled.
“I don’t want a quiet life. A drawing room and tea and smiles for strangers. I want to feel everything. Even when it hurts.” She paused. “You gave me that. You gave me more than that.”
His throat moved. “I gave you danger. And a house full of secrets. A man with enemies and a child that isn’t yours.”
“Yes.” Her voice was steady now. “And adventure. And passion. And freedom. You gave me something no one else ever has.”
He watched her, unmoving. “I just didn’t know,” he whispered, “that falling in love with you would mean I couldn’t leave. That I would become the kind of man who stays.”
Ramsay drew a slow breath. His voice cracked.
“I am yours,” he said. “Utterly. I would shackle myself to your side and call it freedom.”
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time since she’d met him, Eleanor believed she might be safe.
When she opened her eyes again, he was still there, kneeling on the carpet like some repentant knight, hands loose at his sides, head tilted slightly up as if her forgiveness were a benediction.
“I have something for you,” he said quietly.
Eleanor blinked. “You’ve already given me enough.”
His mouth lifted—not quite a smile but something gentler. “Not nearly.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a long velvet ribbon.
Curled inside it was a delicate golden chain—so fine it shimmered like sunlight.
At its center hung a pendant, oval-shaped, matte with age but unmistakably beautiful.
Silver and gold chased in overlapping curves. A crest. A sigil. Reworked.
She tilted her head, brow furrowed. “What is it?”
“The chain was my father’s,” he said. “Or rather, it belonged to his father before him. English, of course. He wore it on his watch fob.”
Eleanor reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the chain. It was warm. “But the crest…”
“I had it changed,” he said. “The brooch was Highland—Fraser. My mother’s clan. I melded them together.”
Her breath caught. “You did this for me?”
“I did this because of you.” He lifted it gently, and for a moment, she thought he might fasten it himself. But instead, he handed it to her with both palms open. As though she might refuse.
“I never knew where I belonged,” he said. “Not fully. Not in England. Not in Scotland. Not in any of the houses that bore my name.”
She looked up, heart thudding.
“But then you walked into that blasted ship with your too-loud voice and your perfect posture and the nerve to speak to me like I was just a man—and I thought, there. There it is.”
“There what is?” she whispered.
“Home.”
The word struck her with all the force of a vow. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the chain around her neck. It sat high—just at the hollow of her throat. And Ramsay’s eyes dropped to it like he’d branded her.
She felt it. That slow, impossible ache that only he could summon. It started at the base of her spine and coiled upward, breathless, unspoken, until her skin burned.
“I love you, Eleanor,” the words hit her like waves.
A pause. The world held still.
She stepped closer. He didn’t move.
She touched the front of his shirt, fingers brushing the torn edge of the lapel, still crusted with blood and dust. “Do you know what I thought when you threw that man to the ground?”
“That I’m a savage?” he said softly.
She smiled. “No. I thought you were mine.”
His breath hitched.
She pressed her hand to his chest. Felt the beat of his heart beneath it—uneven, wild. “Do you know what I thought when you kissed me after?”
His gaze burned. “Tell me.”
“I thought you’d never leave again.”
“I won’t,” he said.
Eleanor leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Prove it.”
He didn’t ask how. He didn’t need to. His hands came up like a prayer, one at her waist, the other curling into her hair. And then he was kissing her again.
But this time there was no violence behind it. No desperation. Only heat.
Her body swayed into his. He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms without breaking the kiss. She gasped against his mouth, clutching at the back of his neck.
He walked—stumbling once on the edge of the carpet but laughing, low and rough—and carried her to the bed. When her spine hit the mattress, her breath left her.
“Ramsay—” she began.
But he was already there, lowering over her, his fingers at her stays, his lips trailing fire down her throat.
“I want to feel you,” he said, voice ragged. “I’ve waited too damn long.”
She arched beneath him, eyes fluttering shut. “Then take me.”
He groaned—low, reverent. As if she were made of glass. As if he didn’t know whether to worship her or shatter.
The layers came away slowly. Her bodice first, loosened with trembling fingers. Then her petticoat, the ties shaking as he worked them loose. The soft linen shift clung to her hips like it didn’t want to leave her, and still he coaxed it down, inch by inch, baring her like a secret.
Eleanor lay back against the pillows, breath shallow, skin flushed. Not a single part of her was hidden from him. And not a single part of her wanted to be.
Ramsay hovered above her, hands braced on either side of her hips, his eyes devouring every inch of her skin like he was learning her, line by line, and committing the shape of her to memory.
He bent slowly, brushing his mouth across her shoulder. Her breath caught. The gentleness of it undid her. Lips grazed the slope of her neck. Then lower—along her collarbone, the top of her breast, the swell of it.
When his tongue flicked against the peak of her breast, Eleanor gasped, fingers flying to his hair.
He groaned against her. “You taste like sin.”
She arched up, mouth parting. “Then keep sinning.”
That drew a soft laugh from him—low and hoarse. “You’ll ruin me.”
“Already have,” she whispered.
His hand slid down her waist, fingers skimming her ribs, the curve of her hip then further—down the length of her thigh and back up again. He touched her like she was something precious, something living and breathing and unrepeatable. Every stroke was deliberate. Every pause a question.
Eleanor’s legs parted instinctively, her skin already slick with heat, her hips restless beneath him.
He looked down at her, hair falling loose over his brow. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she said, without hesitation. “Every inch of you.”
He didn’t respond with words. He dipped his head again, trailing kisses down her sternum, her stomach, lower—until she cried out, twisting against the sheets. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady as his tongue circled her with maddening patience.
Eleanor had never felt anything like it.
She buried her hands in his hair, legs trembling.
Every nerve in her body lit with fire. Her breath came in shallow pants, her head thrown back against the pillow, and still he didn’t stop—working her with his mouth until she was shaking, until she was desperate, until she was on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful all at once.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, half a sob, half a prayer.
He moved back up her body, his mouth finding hers again. She tasted herself on his lips. She moaned into him, pulling him closer, wrapping her legs around his hips until there was nothing left between them but heat and want.
She opened her eyes once and caught him staring.
“What?” she whispered, breathless.
“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice rough with awe. “And I’ve seen war.”
Her stomach clenched. Her pulse thundered.
She reached up, cupped his cheek, and pulled him down.
Then he slid inside her.
Her breath caught on a sob, his name a broken plea on her lips. He moved slowly, reverently, like a man terrified of waking from a dream. Her nails bit into his back. Her legs wrapped tight around his hips. They breathed the same air.
He touched her like he’d been blind for years and had finally been given sight.
He whispered her name. He pressed kisses to her shoulders, her collarbone, her lips.
And when she broke apart beneath him, he followed, groaning against her throat like it hurt to leave her body.
They lay tangled in silence.
The sunlight shifted through the curtains. Her chest rose and fell against his. Her hair stuck to his jaw.
She could feel his heart—still thundering. Still hers.
Eleanor turned her face and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I love you.”
Ramsay opened his eyes.
“I know,” he said with a smirk.
She smiled. “Cocky.”
“Yours,” he said.
She curled into him, the pendant warm at her throat, his arm wrapped tight around her. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t wonder what would come next.
Because whatever it was—this was her home now. And she would never walk away.
The End?