What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Imogen’s cheeks were flush with both shock and breathless desire when at long last the actors departed the stage and intermission began. Her chest felt full and hot.

  “Imogen?” Ronan rasped, looking concerned, though pinched around the eyes and mouth as if he, too, had been plagued by indecent imaginings.

  She stood up, the desire to flee almost as powerful as the one she’d just experienced regarding Ronan’s…sword. She cringed. What a coward she was! She couldn’t even think the word cock without another sweaty flash of heat along the nape of her neck. The women at the shelter had been more than willing to share their lessons, anatomy and vocabulary included. However, despite what she couldn’t remember from that awful night with Silas, she was still very much an innocent in mind, if not in body.

  “Excuse me, I need a bit of air,” she mumbled, turning and nearly stumbling for the box door.

  Ronan stood as well. “Yer no’ ill again, I hope?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just a little too…close in here.”

  Something like triumph flickered in his eyes as his lips formed a smug little grin. Impossible man! He’d tally her skittering away as a win, no doubt. But Imogen could not have stayed. She didn’t trust herself around Ronan, especially with this lustful yearning for him smoldering away in the pit of her stomach.

  Imogen was alert as she hurried through the corridors. Her encounter with Silas at the Bradburne ball had shaken her. The man was here tonight; she’d seen him as she’d arrived, his figure looming overhead at the balustrade as she’d walked in.

  The sight of him had been like a punch to the gut. Head high, she’d pointedly ignored him until she’d found Ronan. And even then, it had taken every ounce of skill she possessed to not falter in her role for the evening, one designed not just for Silas but for her fiancé as well. Not to mention for the woman who’d been hanging on to Ronan’s side.

  The gown Imogen had chosen for tonight had been a part of the ploy. The daring dress would, she hoped, serve to make a statement and to make Silas see she wasn’t the same girl he knew. That she was different. Older and wiser. Stronger.

  The corridors throughout the opera house were crowded, and Imogen kept herself alert. She had not spied Silas in the audience. It was also entirely possible he had left in a fit of ire after having seen her with the duke. While she hoped for the latter, she wouldn’t count on it.

  She took in every face she passed, the knot in her belly loosening when she didn’t see him. A glass of punch in the refreshments room helped cool her, but when she saw Ronan’s head of glossy black hair in the crowd, her pulse picked up again with anxiety of a different kind.

  Good Lord, she didn’t know what to do from here with the duke. Ronan believed she was trying to seduce him…and in truth, that’s exactly what she wanted it to look like. For Silas’s sake. But this seductive act wasn’t conducive to her original goal: to make her betrothed run for the hills. Then again, if she could drive him mad with desire, and if he was determined not to marry her, perhaps his honorable side would do the decision making for him. If he bedded her, he would have to wed her.

  And that was the last thing he wanted.

  It was the last thing she wanted, too. The wedding, that was. The bedding…well, a part of her—an ever-increasing, utterly shameless part of her—couldn’t quite decide if that would be so terrible after all. It frightened her, the intensity of her desire. Imogen hadn’t felt attraction for any man in more than a decade, almost to the point that she’d felt as though her body was broken in some essential way. But now…now, every bloody pulse point felt it all.

  Imogen darted behind a tall and rather rotund man as Ronan’s eyes coasted toward her location near the punch table. She continued to move toward the exit, unseen in much the same fashion, using people and other objects as shields. It wasn’t that she was running from the duke; she just needed a little space to calm. To stave off this base, almost primal urge to know him. She took the corridor and stairs back up toward the private box, thinking to close herself inside and wait for the second act to begin.

  She passed a shadowed recess under the stairwell that twisted and climbed to the next floor, and she felt something bump her in the arm. Too late, she realized it was a hand, and it had already closed around her elbow. With a hard tug, her feet tangled together, and she careened into the alcove. She smelled Silas’s cologne, and her stomach instantly turned.

  “Release me,” she bit out, her heart fluttering and her throat cinching tight. No. Not again. In the Bradburne ballroom she’d frozen with fear. She’d chastised herself the last few days, vowing that she wouldn’t react the same way if she crossed paths with him again.

  “Someone must stop you from humiliating yourself even further,” he replied. Gone was his placating, almost meek tone. The one he used to trick people into trusting him, thinking him harmless.

  With a small cry, Imogen wrested her elbow free. The alcove was anything but private, and once people began to return to their boxes they would easily be seen. Imogen pushed away the swell of worry and forced herself to focus.

  Breathe, damn it.

  The oath bolstered her. “I think the only person suffering from humiliation tonight is you, Silas,” she said.

  “What has gotten into you, Imogen?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with a flare of sickening desire.

  “Nothing that hasn’t been present for the last decade,” she replied with a shrug of one shoulder, her voice growing stronger. “I admit I was stunned to see you at Lord Bradburne’s home, but I’ve recovered. And I’ve moved on. I suggest you do the same.”

  “Not until I have an answer.”

  “Very well. My answer is no,” she said.

  He reached for her. Imogen resisted the instinct to skitter deeper into the recessed space and stood tall, holding her breath as the back of one finger traveled slowly down the side of one arm. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you? All this is to punish me for leaving.”

  He had to be deranged to truly believe that.

  “McClintock made you leave.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “That tosser will get what’s coming to him as well, meddling in affairs not his own. But first—”

  Before she could move, Silas stepped forward, one hand snaking to her throat as his mouth fell on hers. She kept her lips tightly shut, but images flashed in her brain—of welcoming his touch once, of trusting him, of wanting his kisses. Her skin crawled with revulsion, like it was covered in hundreds of roaches.

  Blindly, she shoved him away, her free arm coming up fast, her hand a blur as she cracked it across his face. Her whole palm went instantly numb, and Silas pitched to the side, releasing her in surprise. Imogen saw the opening out of the alcove and hurried forward.

  “There ye are, lass. I’ve been looking all over the bloody theater for ye.”

  Ronan came up off the last step of the stairwell, but Imogen’s lips couldn’t form a single word in reply. She was barely holding back the shivers threatening to break over her body. Ronan’s attention touched on the space behind her, and she knew what he was seeing before she turned around.

  Silas stood next to the alcove, but he dipped into a regal and unnecessary bow, obscuring his face. “Lady Imogen, it was a pleasure running into you again. Your Grace.”

  The sound of his voice made her stomach upend, and she put a hand to her lips. Oh God, he’d put his filthy mouth on her! He turned on his heel and walked away at a fast clip. It was only then Imogen noticed the streaming of her pulse and the bendy sensation of her knees. Fear and force of will had kept her upright, but now everything threatened to dissolve after the confrontation. Her legs, her brain, all of it.

  “Are ye planning to tell me what just happened?” Ronan asked.

  Blinking, Imogen heard voices from the stairwell. The corridors would be flooded within moments. She heaved for air as she quickly strode ahead, toward their box. Had she not been breathing that entire time? Her lungs felt shriveled in h
er chest and her throat bone dry. She had the frantic urge to scrub her lips and her mouth. Scour her entire body. In the box, she took the bottle of champagne that had been uncorked and set in ice before the first act and poured herself a glass. She gulped it greedily, uncaring of decorum, the bubbling bursts in her throat making her nose sting and eyes water.

  “What happened with Calder?” Ronan persisted as he closed the door behind him and stood at the back of the box.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, taking another gulp of champagne.

  “I dunnae believe ye.”

  “I don’t care what you believe. I’ll ask you to stay out of my business.”

  She balked at the idea of telling him about Silas. Yes, he would be appalled that she’d considered the hand of such a man, if he knew the full truth. He’d most definitely break the betrothal agreement to know she’d been touched by another.

  But her victory would be a short breath of air before drowning in shame. Her parents would learn the truth. Everyone would. They’d know what had befallen her, how foolish and trusting she’d been. Like poor Belinda. Just like so many of the girls she’d taken under her wing at Haven. Haven would also suffer, donations withdrawn or impeded when it became public that the founder was really no different from the fallen women she sought to help.

  Ronan crossed his arms where he stood in the back of the box, drenched in shadow. He wasn’t visible to the rest of the theatre. The house was starting to fill again, and soon other patrons would be using their opera glasses to spy on the occupants of other boxes. Appearing flushed or out of sorts at the edge of Ronan’s box would only inspire gossip.

  Imogen stepped away from the edge, swallowing more champagne, desperate to eradicate the remnants of Silas from her mouth. “Why are you just standing there? Say something.”

  “Ye wore that dress for him.”

  His discernment startled her, but only for a moment. He’d already proven himself intelligent and observant, and it made her anxious. What else would he see that she didn’t want him to?

  “Anything I wear is for myself. Tonight, I needed a weapon,” she said. “Something to showcase who I really am.”

  “This is the real Imogen?” he asked, his eyes drifting slowly down the front of her gown. They lingered on her hips, her breasts, and again she felt the aching swell of each nipple.

  Unlike the revolted disgust Silas’s presence inspired, Ronan’s nearness made her only want to move closer. Like a chilled body toward a furnace. Her legs wouldn’t stop moving toward him. She longed to feel the heat radiating from him. Use him to fight the panic spreading inside of her…the necrosis brought on by self-preservation. She raked at her lips. She would start with them.

  “Well…perhaps this is the Imogen I want to be. Confident. Bold.”

  A fighter. Just like this man.

  “Ye’re already those things,” Ronan replied.

  “Then I suppose this is the true me,” she said, finally close enough to touch the front of his silk waistcoat. His breathing hitched. Hers, too.

  “Is this what ye want?”

  What she wanted was to forget the man who had just touched her without permission. Who’d pressed his lying lips to hers. She wanted to push every ugly, destructive thought out of her head and replace them with pure, physical sensation. She didn’t want this with just anyone. She wanted it with Ronan. She needed it with him.

  “You told me at the opera, all I had to do was ask,” she whispered, lifting her eyes to his.

  His pupils dilated in the dim corner of the box, and they watched her now with hawk-like focus. “Are ye asking?”

  “There were other things, too,” Imogen went on, bolder as the chill in her heart receded. “Things you wanted to do to me.”

  Ronan’s eyes closed, and for a moment it looked like pain gripped him. He made a low groan in the base of his throat. “Say the words, Imogen.”

  “Kiss me.”

  Ronan’s mouth came down over hers before his hands could even wrap around her hips. He dragged her deeper into the corner of the box, shifting her so that her back was flush against the wall, his legs bracing the pair of hers. His tongue clashed against hers, the kiss more primal than the one they’d shared in her office at Haven. Probably because he hadn’t taken her by surprise. She’d asked for this, invited him in, and as she pushed her hands under the lapels of his tailcoat and gripped his broad, muscled shoulders, the heady boldness she’d felt earlier only strengthened.

  She moved her leg out from between his and cursed the tight hug of her skirts when she tried and failed to hitch her leg around one of his.

  “Allow me,” he said, breaking their kiss to reach down between them.

  Imogen gasped as Ronan yanked up her skirts, exposing her legs to the knee, but also giving her free movement to do exactly as she wanted. His gloved hand lifted her leg and guided it around his hip, and then a moment later he ripped off his opera gloves and tossed them to the floor. One hot, calloused palm gripped her thigh while the other cupped her nape. She was lost. She wanted to be lost. Entirely. Wholly.

  “Tell me which desire of mine ye want most,” he said, his lips brushing lightly over her lips, his tongue tracing the swell of her lower lip.

  “All of them?” she replied, trying to capture Ronan’s mouth for another searing kiss. His spicy, masculine taste had done what the champagne couldn’t. And she wanted more of it, more of his mouth on hers. But he shook his head.

  “Choose one.”

  Imogen’s brain could barely remember how to breathe as his palm rubbed the back of her thigh, under the lace of her silk drawers and over the curve of her buttock. His fingertips were perilously close to where she throbbed at the juncture of her legs. Imogen rolled her hips forward, wanting them closer. She’d never felt anything like it…nothing so consuming. So raw and aching. Her body had been a tool to feed and nourish, a useful tool. Not one dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. All centered at the heart of her…the warm, damp heart he’d wanted to touch.

  “I ken what ye want,” he said, his teeth nipping the lobe of her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “But I want ye to say it, lass.”

  “Touch me,” she said, though it was more of a whimper.

  “Where?”

  Imogen angled her face so that she was looking fully up at him, his expression intense and sharp and determined. A small, wicked grin curved her lips. “I believe you referred to it as my warm, damp heart.”

  Ronan went still, a handful of heartbeats passing between them as Imogen became utterly aware of a hard ridge pressing against her stomach. And then his hand moved, pushing into the crux of her. Imogen held her breath, her eyes locked with his, as one finger drew along her sex.

  “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he said, the intensity of his stare changing to something surprisingly tender.

  He glided into her, and Imogen tilted her hips. The pressure of his touch, of the slow and pulsating motion as he filled her and withdrew, then pushed forward again, wound through her like twisting rope. Her head fell back, and Ronan bent to kiss her, clasping her tongue, licking and thrusting in time to the rhythm of his hand.

  Imogen rocked against him, her leg clamped around his hip, uncaring if anyone in the opera house could see their wanton display, though she knew they were in the shadows and blocked by his big body. She couldn’t have told him to stop if a hundred opera glasses were focused on them. It was absurd. Irrational. But lust dulled her senses as thoroughly as it seemed to sharpen them; she couldn’t hear anything beyond the sharp intake and exhale of their breaths, but they were loud and consuming, and she was certain the rest of the theater could hear their gasps and small groans.

  Ronan’s scent filled her head and throat, and she sighed into his mouth as a second finger joined the first, the exquisite pressure somehow too much and at the same time not enough. More. Imogen felt need curl through her, both bliss and the unknown colliding around her, through her, tearing her apart.


  She reached for it, craving the chaos of what this man was doing to her. And then it broke over her, shedding through her like sunlight after a storm. Imogen went limp in Ronan’s arms, her leg suddenly heavy and unwieldy as he withdrew from her. He held her close, his arms a pair of iron beams around her.

  But then the noise began to filter in again: voices and singing. Stringed music from the orchestra pit spiraled into the box with them, and Ronan went still.

  As did she.

  The last handful of minutes replayed in her brain. Imogen didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. Relieved that her five senses were utterly drunk on Ronan, or terrified that her body now knew his touch. Intimately.

  Ronan’s lips coasted over Imogen’s forehead before setting down her leg and tugging her skirt into place again. His eyes, nearly black, caught the shine of a gas lamp as he moved a step away. “That was unexpected.”

  She exhaled. “This was—”

  “Dunnae say it,” he growled.

  “An error in judgment,” she finished.

  Avoiding his stare, she swallowed and stepped away just as the performance resumed. Residual shivers from her orgasm chased through her blood. It’d been an age since she’d let the demands of her body control her actions, and for good reason. And even then, it had been only a party of one.

  She still had a job to do. And now she’d just given her opponent a weapon to wield against her. A dangerous, unpredictable weapon. And she had no doubt Ronan would use it, if it meant keeping the livelihood of his clan and his estate safe.

  They were at war. And this had been just one move on the battlefield.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two days later, and Ronan was still in the painful clench of arousal.

  There had to be a new medical term for his fevered state. All he could think about was Imogen in that shimmering scrap of a gown, and every time he thought about the box at the opera house, which was too damned often, he felt a tightening in his trousers. He hadn’t felt so uncontrolled since he was a lad.