“Do ye reject me, then?”
“Why would I—”
She pulled back, understanding twisting the curve of her full lips into a wary scowl. His eyes caught on them, the same way they had the afternoon before while riding in Holyrood. Even as they flattened in anger, he felt an indecent urge to taste them.
“No, it’s not a rejection. I simply need to stay here. I have work to do at Haven. People who need me.”
He pressed forward until he stood less than a handspan away. She refused to give an inch; the heat of her body and her womanly scent rolled up against him. Ronan lowered his voice, his husky timbre not entirely put on. “Ye’re my betrothed. I need ye.”
Her lips parted, and a wisp of breath beat against his neck. “Why?”
“For our engagement ball, mutton chop. Perhaps it should be in London now. Four or five weeks hence, I think. I cannae have a ball without my betrothed, now can I? If ye call off the ball, I’ll take that as a severing of the engagement as well.”
Imogen clenched her jaw, nostrils flaring in ire. He had her, and she knew it.
As much as he despised London himself, he suspected it would gouge her even more to leave Haven and the work she was doing here for an entire month. Enough to capitulate and be rid of him once and for all? One could only hope.
On his brief tour of Haven, he’d noticed that while they didn’t lack for much, things were in need of repair. Imogen was wealthy, he knew, and losing her inheritance to the forfeit would be a blow to this place. Perhaps he could offer a donation in lieu.
“Will ye come with me to London?”
Walk away, he pleaded silently.
But Imogen lifted her chin, eyes flashing with temper. “How could I refuse?”
Ronan ground his teeth. The stubborn little amadan. He knew she was agreeing out of sheer bullishness. It was obvious she did not want to leave and resented him for making her do so. He could see it in the tense line of her jaw, the curl of her fingers into fists, but still she resisted. Still she fought.
“Easy. Say nae.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Did we read the same betrothal agreement, you clodpole?”
“Ye dunnae want to marry me. Or go to London. Here’s yer chance.”
“You must think me weak and stupid. Well, think again.” Imogen rose to the tips of her toes and squared her chin in defiance, her nose almost butting into his. “Yes, you vile man, I’ll go to London with you.”
And by God, Ronan lost his mind. Because before Imogen could land back onto the flats of her heels, he’d crushed his mouth to hers.
The soft velvet of her lips reached into him, silencing his brain and stilling time. Imogen’s mouth parted on a delayed gasp of surprise, and the world went tumbling forward again. Ronan froze, aware and yet utterly paralyzed. He hadn’t meant to kiss her…but her scent had filled his nostrils, and the heat of her body had risen with her temper, and that lush, caustic mouth of hers had taunted him to indecency.
He nudged his mouth against hers, licking at the seam of her lips—and felt the warm, wet tip of her tongue dart out to touch his. The tentative stroke, accompanied by another soft gasp, shot through to Ronan’s brain and obliterated any sense still left between his ears. She hadn’t slapped at him or screamed and shoved him away.
No, she wanted this as much as he did.
Ronan reached around her slim waist and dragged her up against his chest, the yielding softness of her breasts making the tight coil in his groin deepen. He answered her foray with one of his own, drawing his tongue along her lower lip in a slow caress before parting her to him. He tipped her chin so he could better angle his mouth and tasted her more fully. He devoured the tang of black tea along with the sweet savor of her, and when her hesitant tongue finally surged forward and welcomed his, Ronan swallowed her soft whimper of pleasure. Her lithe body slumped against him, and he wrapped his hands around her hips to lift her from the floor.
“Ronan,” she gasped as he seated her on the edge of her desk, knocking a stack of books in the process. In some distant part of his mind, he heard them tumble, but his mouth was already on hers again, tugging her bottom lip into his mouth.
God, he couldn’t get enough. He bit at her lips, groaning when she mimicked his motions, taking his and nipping for good measure, before soothing with her own tongue. She kissed as she sparred with words, with passion and fire, though her technique lacked the finesse that came with experience. The thought pleased him, but the why of it escaped him. Ronan was too far gone to care by that point.
Her fingers delved into his hair, tugging at the strands and hanging on as the kiss became something…more. No longer exploratory but possessive. He ran his hands up her sides, feeling the curves of her spine, her ribs, the generous swells of her breasts under his thumbs as they swept slowly over them, catching and pausing on the hardened peaks of her nipples.
This woman, she drove him mad, and it wasn’t rational, it wasn’t wise, and it sure as hell wasn’t strategic genius, but he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. And when Imogen’s knees fell apart, allowing him to step closer, between her trembling thighs, a boulder of understanding struck him right on the head. She didn’t want to stop, either.
Christ, he was supposed to be repulsing her, not tempting her. Not tempting himself.
Stop.
Ronan released her in a rush, pushing himself away and turning at the same time.
“A little sampling of what ye can expect in London,” he said, his voice too thick and shaken for his liking. He cleared his throat and pretended to adjust the cuffs on his jacket, feigning calm.
Imogen shoved off the desk with an angry grunt, glaring daggers at him. Her lips were rosy, the bottom one especially so from where he’d sucked it into his mouth. Ronan dragged his gaze away.
“I’ll send word about the arrangements,” he said, turning to leave.
Or escape, really. Before he did more he would regret. Like shoving her skirts up, bending her over that desk, and giving them what they both wanted.
Ronan swallowed hard, his blood on fire.
Hell, he needed to be far away from the temptation that was Lady Imogen Kinley.
Chapter Seven
Damn the bloody gall of the man. Damn his lips, his strong hands, his big body…all of it.
Damn all men, for that matter, not just virile, high-handed Highlander dukes.
Imogen sat stewing in the morning room in her parents’ home, where she and Lady Kincaid were presently hosting two ladies for tea. There was nothing to be done to hide Imogen’s irascible mood, so she didn’t try.
“Tell me again, who is this Stormie person?” Lady Glenross asked, frowning into her teacup. Sorcha had taken up Imogen on her invitation to tea and had brought with her Lady Tarbendale, one of the Maclaren brothers’ wives. There seemed to be a half dozen or more Maclaren brothers and sisters and in-laws, cropping up like weeds everywhere she turned.
That isn’t fair, Imogen scolded herself. Aisla was perfectly charming and kind, and to Imogen’s mother’s delight, she had brought her baby with her to tea. The little boy’s chubby chin and cheeks, his hearty squall, and his constantly fisted hands made him appear like a miniature caber-tosser in training. He was asleep at the moment. Maxwell was precious, and when even he could not stir Imogen to a good mood, she realized nothing would.
With another, worthier male target in mind, she let her seething frustrations settle on the flash man who was currently sinking his hooks into Rory.
“He’s an awful brute,” Imogen answered Sorcha. “He trains these children, many of them from the time they can walk, to depend upon him for everything. To pickpocket and steal. And once they are older, especially the girls, even to—”
“Imogen,” her mother said with a cautionary look to their guests.
“Well, it’s the truth, Mama, whether anyone wants to acknowledge it or not.” She let out a sigh and lowered her cup, the oolong inside gone cold. Across from her, both Sorcha and Aisla w
aited for her to continue. They were not daunted, she realized with a lift of her spirit. “Rory, one of Stormie’s lads, has befriended me, only…well, Rory isn’t a lad.”
Aisla nodded knowingly. “A lass in disguise.”
“And do you think this Stormie knows?” Sorcha asked.
It was what Rory had come to her office about the afternoon before. She’d asked Imogen whether she knew of a tonic. Something, anything, to halt her courses. The monthly flux was becoming difficult to hide.
“She wouldn’t say. Rory masks her concern with a show of bravado; she’d never admit to being afraid.” But she was, Imogen was certain of it. And she’d refused to accept help, yet again, when Imogen had offered her a place at Haven.
“Your efforts are commendable, Imogen,” Aisla said, her tea in one hand, her other rocking the sleeping infant in his small bassinet beside her on the sofa.
“They’re not enough.” Another burst of bitterness made her restless, her legs aching to stand and pace the room. “And now, going to London, being away from Haven and the women, and Rory and Emma…not to mention an engagement ball…”
She shot up—to hell with it—and went toward the windows overlooking the gardens, her temper renewing.
To force her hand and drag her to London for no less than five weeks… It was despicable of the duke! And then, practically within the same breath, to stand so close and use those lips and tongue and hands the way he had… Imogen shivered at the memory of her body being heaved up against his unyielding one. And how swiftly she’d submitted to the heady explosion of sensation it had elicited, how hungrily she’d kissed him back.
She wouldn’t think of it. Couldn’t. Not without feeling like a brainless hussy.
“Perhaps a London engagement ball is a better idea, Imogen,” her mother said after a few moments of quiet. “You two haven’t exactly made the best impressions in Society here.”
“Yes, it seems my brother has worked up quite a reputation these last weeks in Edinburgh.” Sorcha subdued a wry grin. “They’re calling him the Dreadful Duke.”
“Dreadfully unfashionable.” Aisla snickered.
“Those same papers dubbed me Lady Rosebud,” Imogen remarked. “Though my more recent favorites are Lord Troglodyte and Lady Pompadour.”
Aisla giggled. “Troglodyte, that’s marvelous. I shall need to keep a list, if only to torture my stick-in-the-mud brother with it later.”
Lady Kincaid looked as if she’d like to change the subject. Imogen and her mother had been silent with each other after that morning’s breakfast, when Lord Kincaid had declared he would not hear another word about how unsuitable the duke was.
“He is a duke and the son of a very good friend,” her father had said. “And by God, he’s weathered your charades like a saint these last two weeks, hasn’t he? His patience speaks volumes.”
Imogen’s eyes had goggled. “His patience? Papa, have you seen the man parading in his kilts and swinging his claymore like he’s Wallace reborn?”
“He’s a Highlander,” her father had huffed, waving a dismissive arm that made Imogen want to throw her teacup across the room.
He’s a Highlander?
That was her father’s excuse for the man’s uncivilized, vulgar behavior? She bit her lip hard. Her so-called charades were tame by comparison. She’d opened her mouth and shut it at the dour look on Lord Kincaid’s face.
“Not another word, Imogen. We will go to London, and you will see that this is the best course of action. You need someone to keep you in line, my girl.”
Her stomach had lurched, threatening to unseat the kippers she’d eaten. “Is that what you do with mother? Keep her in line?”
Lady Kincaid had burst into laughter. “Only when I’m utterly unruly.”
“Which is all the time,” he’d added with an arch glance her way.
Imogen had wanted to scream bloody murder, cast up her accounts, and roll her eyes all at once. Blast their love match! She didn’t mean it, of course. She’d dreamed of a love match herself, once upon a time. But that had been long ago. That dream had withered and was now buried, impossible to exhume.
She was unable to love completely, wholly, without doubt. It simply wasn’t possible. Because she herself wasn’t whole and complete and never would be. Not after what had happened to her dear Belinda. What had happened to her.
And the monster she’d given her heart to.
There were pieces of her missing, stolen away by a man she’d once trusted completely… No man deserved the rest of those pieces, ruined the way they were. Not even a rotted, overbearing Highlander who she’d like to throttle in his sleep—or kiss.
The tormenting thing was, she couldn’t make up her mind as to which one she wanted more.
“I think I should take some air,” she said to Sorcha and Aisla, apologizing with a glance toward them and her mother.
The weather was warm enough to go about without a cloak, and so she ambled along one of the garden paths until she came to a sundial. The light was weak, hidden behind banks of clouds, and no shadow was cast on the dial to mark the hour. If only time was as simple to pause.
“If you’re thinking to catch a cold and stay behind instead of going to London, I should warn you I’m rather good with healing tonics and rubs and the like.”
Aisla had followed her. Sorcha, too.
Imogen wasn’t annoyed, however. She liked the pair of them immensely. Too much, perhaps.
“I’m sure the duke would insist upon my presence even if I had dysentery,” Imogen muttered.
She had already considered and dismissed a number of excuses, from a curious case of amnesia all the way to a broken leg. But from his previous conduct, Imogen suspected Ronan would toss the crutches aside and haul her right over his shoulder, giving her bottom a smack for good measure. The ripple of thrill the thought sent through her was enough to make her feel truly nauseated.
“He can be a devil,” Aisla said, coming toward the sundial. She held little Maxwell, the babe now squirming against her shoulder. “When Niall and I were sixteen, we eloped. Ronan was furious, and good Lord, when that man is angry he can be intimidating. But then, when the marriage didn’t work out and I went to Paris, Ronan would check in on my welfare. I had no idea at the time. Niall told me later, after we fell back in love.” Aisla smiled as she spoke, looking a bit wistful as she swayed her baby back to sleep. “I was still a Maclaren, and he felt he had a duty to care for me, even when he’d rather have taken me by the ear and dragged me back to his brother.”
“I know I sang his praises earlier,” Sorcha said before Imogen could speak. “What we’re trying to say is…well, perhaps you’ve only seen one side of Ronan these last weeks. The angry, dispassionate one. The one who feels as if he’s been forced into a corner.”
“Much like you have been,” Aisla added.
Imogen took a seat on a bench, suddenly ashamed to have been in such a belligerent mood before. Sorcha and Aisla were only trying to help what they knew was a difficult situation for their brother—and for her as well.
“So you’re saying there is another Ronan I’ve not yet met,” she said. If he was so perfect, how had he arrived at the age of seven and thirty without a wife? “Is there some great mystery surrounding him? Some ghastly thing he’s done in the past that makes all the women in the Highlands terrified to accept his hand? Goodness, did he accidentally kill a lady and bury the body in the yard?”
Too far. She saw it in the speaking look Aisla sent toward Sorcha.
“I’m sorry,” Imogen quickly said. “That was appalling.”
Sorcha shook her head and, astonishingly, smiled. “I think it better you know the real story than the ones your alarming mind is churning away.”
Aisla continued walking Maxwell around the sundial as Sorcha sat beside Imogen.
“He had just turned eighteen when he fell madly in love with a lass from a neighboring clan. Grace Donaldson was her name. But the pair of them were far too y
oung to wed, according to her father and ours.”
A dull pain slashed into Imogen’s stomach, and she frowned. Jealousy? Over some girl he’d fawned over twenty years before? Absurd. She shoved it away.
“Ronan was devoted, so certain that in a few years’ time they would marry and finally be together. Grace, however, didn’t see things the same way—not that she ever bothered to tell him. She became enamored with an English viscount. He and Grace eloped, and off they went to America. She never even bothered to give Ronan so much as a goodbye.”
Imogen winced as she pictured a younger Ronan, swallowing such a betrayal, trying desperately to mask his pain.
“He was jilted and humiliated,” Sorcha went on. “He’d made it clear to everyone that they were going to wed, and when she brushed him aside, it devastated him.”
“So he hasn’t married because he’s never gotten over her?” Imogen asked.
Could hurt feelings truly linger so long? The next instant, she felt a fool. Of course they did. She knew from experience. Hers had scarred her beyond belief. Ruined her for any other man.
“Perhaps, though I do not think that’s the whole reason. After Grace, he closed himself off. Protected his heart, or what was left of it, and swore off women,” Sorcha said.
Imogen squashed the rise of compassion in her chest. She should not feel sorry for him. He didn’t deserve it, not after what he’d done in her office.
“There’s something else.” The worried edge of Sorcha’s words reeled Imogen back from the heated memories. “You know who she is, Imogen. Grace was in the retiring room at my ball, if you recall.”
Imogen sat forward, the cold stone of the bench seeping into her. “The redhead?”
Sorcha nodded. “She came on the arm of an earl I invited, and the rumors are she’s widowed and residing in Edinburgh for the time being.”
The woman who’d sat beside Imogen…the gorgeous, venomous woman who’d so overtly mocked her gown?
“Lady Reid,” she recalled. “Yes, she said she’d just returned from overseas.” She’d also made an odd comment that Imogen had promptly forgotten, until now. How a lady should know her competition. “I think she might be here for your brother.”
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