What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  How had the nattering, pink-loving, rosebud-adoring, nitwitted Imogen Kinley he’d known turned into such a siren? It hadn’t just been the dress, though that had been eye-opening. It’d been her manner. Her maddening scent. The plumpness of her lips. Her greedy, grasping moans. The silken feel of her soft flesh against his fingers that made his mouth water with the desire to taste her.

  On cue, his cock lurched awake. Ronan groaned. Sporting an erection in the middle of White’s was enough to get him thrown out on his ear. Hurriedly, he sat in an armchair near a potted fern and tugged the latest newssheets off a nearby table into his lap.

  Nothing would satiate it, nothing but her. But she’d deemed their interlude an error in judgment. Perhaps it had been, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t plagued with dozens of fantasies of sliding into the depths of her slick, ready body.

  At night, during the day, it didn’t matter—the visions inundated him.

  “Are you well, Dunrannoch?” Riverley asked with a smirk. “You look like you’ve eaten the wrong end of an oyster.”

  Ronan scowled. “There’s a wrong end?”

  “There’s no right end, I’ll tell you that,” his brother-in-law said with an exaggerated shudder. “Can’t abide the things.”

  “Ye’re French, Riverley. Dunnae yer people like peculiar foods?”

  “Said by a Scotsman who eats haggis—sheep entrails cooked in stomach lining.”

  He grinned. “Puts hair on a man’s chest.”

  “Your sister isn’t complaining.” He shot Ronan a suggestive wink. “About hair, or anything else for that matter.”

  There was nothing like the thought of his sister lying with this annoying prick to take away his unwelcome erection. He supposed he should be grateful. Julien waved a server over for a glass of cognac for himself and a whisky for Ronan.

  “Speaking of women, how is your betrothal going?”

  “Well enough.” Ronan suppressed a groan, and Julien’s eyebrows shot skyward.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to make the goddess of spring run away weeping already? I was so looking forward to your engagement party. I’ve already commissioned my tailor to sew a marvelous petal-pink waistcoat for the occasion.”

  He didn’t know why he’d agreed to dine with the aggravating man, but Imogen had started to avoid him again the past two days, taking her meals in her rooms. And the truth was, Ronan had needed to clear his own head. He’d needed to see a familiar face, even if it was only extended family, to remind him of what was important.

  Maclaren. His clan’s future. His family.

  An evening with his brother-in-law had seemed like a small price to pay, though now he was regretting the overture, given the man’s delight in tormenting him.

  “She hasnae run anywhere,” he growled. “No’ yet.”

  Julien’s eyes brightened with interest. “Wait a moment. Are you saying that you mean to run her off?”

  “I dunnae want to marry, Jules,” Ronan said. “Ye ken that. And Lady Imogen and myself, we arenae suited.”

  You were well suited two nights ago, a voice reminded him. It was followed by an image of Imogen, head thrown back, eyes closed, her full lower lip caught between her teeth as his fingers moved between her legs.

  He huffed a shallow breath as his nether regions twitched and tamped down the sudden fire in his blood. Christ, he had to do something.

  “Truly? Because that look on your face says otherwise.” The smirk Julien was known for appeared, and Ronan had the urge to smash his fist into his brother-in-law’s smug mouth. For the fifth time, he cursed himself for not staying at home. Julien was too sharp by half.

  “Aye. Truly. Anyone else would suit better.”

  His bluster didn’t work. “Should we be visiting the upstairs rooms at North’s gaming hell?” Julien asked slyly. “What’s it called? The Cock and the Crown?”

  The idea made Ronan pause for one second. If he visited a woman there, his discomfort might be eased. He instantly discarded the thought. Even under a sham betrothal, he would not play Imogen false. She did not deserve it. No woman did, and he was not that kind of man. Honor meant something to him.

  “Nae. We’ll adjourn to the dining room,” he said, draining his glass of whisky and standing after making sure his lower half was presentable. He eyed the marquess hopefully. “Unless, of course, ye have other plans.”

  Julien grinned. “Oh no, dear bràthair, I’ve cleared my schedule just for you.”

  Hell, now his sister was teaching the insufferable man Gaelic.

  Once they were settled in the opulent dining room, their meals were served. Ronan opted for the roasted pheasant while Julien went with tender beef in wine sauce. He eyed his brother-in-law as he nodded to several men he knew and narrowed his eyes in contemplation. Perhaps this dinner would not be a complete loss. The Duke of Bradburne and the Earl of Langlevit hadn’t known much about Silas Calder. Julien had lived on the Continent, and France wasn’t that far from Italy. Ronan had nothing to lose.

  “Have ye heard of a man called Silas Calder?” Ronan asked.

  Julien’s fork stopped in midair, his normally pleasant-faced mien turning dark. “Why do you ask?”

  “I ran into him at Bradburne’s ball,” Ronan said. “I didnae like him. I see from the look on yer face that ye dunnae think much of him, either. Neither did the Earl of Langlevit.”

  Julien set his silverware down and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I only know him from some business dealings. He’s used my fleet for shipments from Africa and India, but I cut off business with him. Apparently, the man is known for cheating his partners, and I did not want to be caught up in anything illegal.”

  A chill fell on Ronan’s shoulders. “Illegal?”

  “Smuggling.” Julien hesitated. “He’s a fortune hunter, and a clever one, because he’s never been caught. Fancies himself a gentleman. Tried his hand at an English heiress once.”

  The chill on Ronan’s shoulders turned to ice. “Go on.”

  “He used to live in London, but he was chased out of England nearly ten years ago by Lord Paxton,” Julien said, taking a long draught of his wine.

  Ronan took a sip of his, knowing he would need strength for what he sensed was to come. Eleven years ago Imogen would have been eighteen. According to Stevenson’s notes, she’d been engaged to the bounder a year earlier.

  “How so?” Ronan asked.

  “It was a foul business that was quickly covered up and neatly swept away. Apparently, he’d compromised Paxton’s daughter, hoping to get a marriage and a step-up out of it. The chit was fifteen years old at the time.”

  Disgust filled Ronan’s stomach. Fifteen. No more than a child. His food turning sour, he nodded for Julien to continue.

  “That’s not the worst of it,” he said. “I’m guessing Silas Calder only returned to London because the Marquess of Paxton recently died. Under highly suspicious circumstances, mind you. He was attacked by vandals at Vauxhall.”

  Ronan blinked. Had Calder returned to London to court Paxton’s daughter now that the father was out of the picture?

  “Where is the marquess’s daughter now? Is she here?”

  Julien’s eyes met his, and the sadness in his green eyes nearly floored Ronan. “No. Unable to endure the scandal, she threw herself into the Thames several weeks after Paxton ran Calder out of London.”

  Ronan’s gut twisted with sorrow even as the feeling of unease settled more deeply into his bones. His instincts were rarely wrong. Silas Calder was trouble.

  …

  Imogen scrubbed at her bleary eyes, once more cursing her insomnia. It wasn’t only because of Ronan, though her mind had spent far too much time dwelling on his carnal skills. No, her fears were caught up in the return of her previous fiancé.

  What was she going to do?

  Imogen wasn’t sure that she had sufficiently dissuaded Silas. When they’d left the opera, she’d felt him watching her from afar. Even with Ronan at her side,
she hadn’t been able to suppress her shudder. He had to know that she would never accept him, even with his threat of exposure. She just had to work harder to convince him that she wasn’t marriage material. Imogen blinked. He’d claimed he’d been cheated of what he deserved. His fortune. Did he just want money? Everything she owned was earmarked for Haven. Perhaps she could sell some jewels, if that was what it took.

  “Are you feeling better, my lady?” Hilda asked, taking her breakfast tray away and bringing her another cool cloth for the megrim she was supposed to have.

  Imogen sighed, sparing a glance to her closest confidante and friend. “A bit. Oh, Hilda, it’s such a mess.” She drew a breath. “Silas is here.”

  The maid hissed, her face darkening with rage at the name. Hilda had been the one to care for Imogen when McClintock had returned her home so many years ago. Hilda was also the one who had told Imogen the truth of Belinda and opened her eyes to the kind of deceiver Silas was. And continued to be. Imogen kept herself composed, not letting any emotion cross her face, and Hilda calmed after a few deep breaths.

  “That bloody snake of a man. I still think you should tell his lordship the truth.”

  Imogen exhaled. “You know I cannot.”

  She couldn’t risk the scandal, and she loved her parents too much to hurt them.

  “So which do I choose to chase away if I can only choose one?” Imogen asked with a sigh. “The snake or the bear?”

  “Why not both?” the maid asked.

  Imogen met her friend’s eyes. Hilda was more Machiavellian than anyone she knew. In fact, she’d been the one to come up with many of the ideas that Imogen had used to repel suitors. “How do you propose I do that?”

  “Court your duke’s seduction. Invite it while deterring Mr. Calder, and when the duke is truly smitten, it won’t take much to break his heart.”

  Imogen sucked in a breath. Break his heart. His sister and sister-in-law had confided all he’d endured in his past with the other woman who’d callously broken it. Could she become another Lady Reid? Imogen steeled herself. For her freedom and for Haven, yes, she could. She would have to.

  Slowly, she nodded at Hilda. “That could work.”

  “You seem hesitant, my lady,” Hilda said, peering at her, too sharp for her own good. “Unless, of course, your feelings have changed for His Grace.”

  “No, no, I must think of Haven.” She had to do this, if only for the girls who came to the shelter seeking safety and help. She nodded again, more determined this time. “Inform His Grace that I will be riding in Hyde Park if he would like to join me.”

  After performing her ablutions and dressing in her riding habit—a fitted, hunter green fabric that hugged her curves and heightened her eyes—she descended the staircase to the kitchens. Before her outing, she wanted to check in on Rory, who hadn’t escaped a furious tongue-lashing from Imogen. She’d felt sorry when tears had appeared in the girl’s eyes, but Imogen had needed to make a point about the dangers of what Rory had done.

  True to his word, Ronan had moved the girl inside. She helped as a chambermaid, and Hilda had taken her under her wing, though Imogen knew that the maid was fast losing patience. Having run wild in Edinburgh with her own ragtag crew, Rory was not the type who took direction easily. But Imogen had been clear—play by the rules or she would be packed off to Edinburgh. So far, the girl had grudgingly complied.

  Imogen found her peeling some potatoes, her mouth smeared with jam. She seemed to be more focused on eating than helping, but the cook didn’t look too unhappy about it. In fact, she seemed to be in an agreeable mood. “We need to put some meat on those bones,” she was saying, placing another helping of bread and jam beside the girl.

  “How are you doing, Rory?”

  “Lady Im,” Rory cried, jumping up, only to be held back by Cook.

  “Don’t be gettin’ any sticky fingers on her ladyship now.”

  “It’s all right,” Imogen said with a fond smile, rumpling the girl’s hair.

  Rory eyed her dress. “Are ye going for a ride? Can I come?”

  “Maybe next time. We have to make sure we get you a proper mount. Lord Kincaid will know just the one for you.”

  The girl’s eyes brightened. “Cor, that would be great.”

  Though Imogen was angry at the way Rory had snuck onto the carriage and travelled to London, she was glad that the girl was with her. She’d been worried about Stormie and what could have happened in Edinburgh once he discovered that Rory wasn’t a boy. At least here, Imogen could get an eye on her and keep her out of trouble.

  Snatching an apple for her horse, she headed back to see if Ronan had answered Hilda on whether he would be accompanying her. The first thing she saw in the foyer was a lavish bouquet of white lilies. She nearly stumbled. Silas had always sent them on her birthdays, and after the night at the Golden Antler an arrangement had appeared.

  With shaking hands, she approached. The thick card stock was marked with an SC, leaving no doubt of their sender’s identity. Trying not to breathe in their sickly sweet scent, Imogen glanced at the closest footman.

  “Deliver these to the nearest hospital or children’s orphanage.”

  “Yes, milady,” he said with a bow.

  “If any others arrive, instruct the staff to do the same.”

  Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned. Imogen was joined by a man descending the staircase, but it wasn’t the duke as she expected. It was his valet, Vickers. He bowed. “My lady, the duke has asked whether he needs to procure a mount for you. One suited to”—he cleared his throat, his face impassive—“old ladies.”

  Imogen couldn’t help it: she laughed, the sound echoing in the foyer. “Inform His Grace that while I’m thankful for his thoughtfulness, I have my own mount.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  She made her way to the mews and called for her horse to be saddled. Her usual mare, not so aptly named Temperance, was a fierce gray Andalusian with what seemed like boundless stamina. She snorted and pawed the ground, as though expressing her displeasure that Imogen had taken Pudding out on the previous ride. Imogen rubbed her nose, murmuring soft apologies. “You’re still my favorite girl. You know that.”

  Imogen was so busy stroking Temperance’s ego that she didn’t immediately notice that Ronan had come up behind her. She sucked in a breath at the sheer presence of him, forcing her brain to not think of when she’d been with him last.

  His eyes, more blue than gray today, met hers. “That’s the horse ye want to ride?”

  “Is there a problem, Your Grace?”

  “She’s a handful, I’ve heard,” he said as a groom walked his massive horse, Zeus, toward them.

  Imogen didn’t answer and climbed into the stirrup. Urging the mare into a trot, she rode sedately toward Hyde Park. Her blood coursed in her veins. Oh, she had missed this. She could sense that Temperance wanted to run, but until they reached Rotten Row, where it was safe to do so, Imogen held the mare at a tame canter.

  “Where’s Pudding?” Ronan asked, drawing alongside her. Temperance dutifully tried to take a mouthful out of the stallion’s hide. Ronan’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Did she just try to bite my horse?”

  Imogen grinned. “You said it yourself. She’s a handful. And Pudding’s having a nap back in Scotland.”

  “Yer horse needs training.”

  “Says any male ever challenged by a female.”

  It gave her great pleasure to see his mouth drop open, his eyes snapping to hers. She arched an eyebrow, aware of the game she was playing. Think charm and seduction, she told herself. Leaning slightly forward, she could feel his gaze drop to her bodice and the visible swells of her breasts. Unlike her previous riding habit, this one displayed her bosom to perfection.

  “Care to make a wager?”

  His eyes had darkened considerably. “Wager?”

  “A race, Your Grace. To the end of the Row. Winner gets…” She paused, tapping her chin.

 
“A kiss.”

  She laughed. “Too pedestrian. How about a favor of the winner’s choosing, to be claimed at any time?”

  “Agreed!”

  Imogen patted the mare, her blood surging as they took off. Temperance was no match for the massive stallion in size, but in speed, she was like the wind. They were neck and neck for most of the ride. She sensed, rather than saw, Ronan’s astonishment that she was even keeping pace with Zeus, but the truth was, she was holding the mare back. Born of champion racing bloodlines, the horse had been a gift from her father on her last birthday.

  Imogen glanced over her shoulder and met Ronan’s eyes. The admiration in them was clear, and for a second she allowed herself to bask in it. Then she grinned and stuck out her tongue. “See you at the finish, sluggard!”

  When the race was done, she hauled Temperance to a smart stop, her heart racing, and turned to see Ronan doing the same a few seconds later. He was windblown and bright-eyed, and he looked too delicious for words. Imogen looked away.

  “That was well done,” he told her. “Ye’re an extraordinary rider. I’ve never seen a better seat.” He made a tsking sound. “Ye were holding back, Lady Imogen, the last time we went for a ride.”

  Imogen patted the horse, hiding her blush of pleasure at his praise. “Thank you. I have an excellent steed.”

  “Considering ye won, I owe ye a favor.”

  “All in due time, Your Grace.”

  “Ronan,” he corrected softly.

  She canted her head. “Ronan.”

  Smiling, they shared a strange moment, one of complete accord. She had never felt that with another person, much less a man. That sense of completion, of quiet understanding. Going back the way they’d come, they walked the horses slowly so that they could cool down. Imogen had half expected to see Silas, but the man didn’t love horses, so it was a sure bet he wouldn’t be riding. Still, she couldn’t help being on the lookout for his head of pale hair.

  After a while, Ronan cleared his throat. “Tell me the truth, Imogen. Why havenae ye married?”

  Her first urge was to waspishly reply that a woman’s happiness wasn’t always wrapped up in a man, but her new strategy was to win over, not push away. “Perhaps I haven’t kissed the right frog,” she quipped with a laugh.