What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  But admiration was not a reason to marry. Neither was intense attraction.

  If anything, Imogen’s dedication to Haven was a reason neither of them were well-suited. Her work was in Edinburgh. She’d never come to Maclaren. She’d never feel the same passion for Ronan’s clan or her role as lady as she did for the charity she’d dedicated her life to. It was ironic, really. He’d been searching for a woman of stalwart conviction to be his lady. Now he was betrothed to a woman who would fight tooth and nail for what she believed in…only it wasn’t in Maclaren, but Haven.

  Dinner concluded, an awkward cloud still hanging over the table, even though his betrothed seemed to be having the time of her life, her laughter needling him every time the musical sound broke the air. The only thing that helped dull the edge was the constantly refilled glass of wine at his place setting. He was in such a foul mood by the time after-dinner drinks were served he would have growled had anyone attempted to speak to him.

  When he and Imogen finally took their leave for the evening, his temper was spitting.

  “Well?” he muttered. “Get it out, whatever it is ye wish to say.”

  That maddening mask of hers was firmly in place as she settled herself in the seat opposite him in the carriage. “I have nothing to say.”

  “Ye seemed to be enjoying yerself.”

  “As did you,” she replied archly. “Did you expect me to sit there alone and not converse with anyone?”

  A small part of him had hoped for that, but he should have known better. Imogen was used to putting urchins and unwed mothers at ease. It stood to reason that she’d have lords and ladies eating out of her hands. Especially the lords. His frothing temper boiled over as he recalled the Marquess of Firth’s rapt attention and his roving gaze.

  “Did ye enjoy conversing with Lord Firth?” he asked through his teeth. His emphasis on the word conversing was not in the least bit subtle, and her gaze snapped to his.

  “What are you implying, Your Grace? That I was betraying the empty promises of our betrothal?” Her tone was scathing. “I was no more conversing with him than you were with Lady Reid. So if you wish to assign blame somewhere, look to yourself. Might I point out that you were the one who accepted the lady’s invitation in the first place.”

  His breath exhaled in an angry burst, and he was well aware that he was losing hold of himself in spectacular fashion. “She’s an old friend. Lord Firth is no’. Ye invited his attentions.”

  Hot color stained her cheeks. “How dare you, you arrogant man!”

  “I dare because I am yer fiancé,” he snarled, closing the narrow distance between the coach seats.

  She leaned forward to meet him. “Then act like it.”

  Uncowed, her eyes glittered with anger, her alabaster skin flushed with beautiful color, and the scent of her rose to curl around him. Time slowed, the tension of the dinner underscoring and heightening every emotion shuttling between them. Her lips parted, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to wet them, and Ronan didn’t hesitate. He breached the remaining gap and sealed his mouth to hers.

  He expected her to resist or to pull away. But Imogen did neither. Instead, her hands clutched at his nape, winding into his hair, urging him forward so fiercely that his teeth ground into hers. With a groan, Ronan reached for those curving hips that had tempted him from the start of the evening and plucked her off the opposite seat into his lap. He teased her mouth wider and deepened the kiss, gorging himself on the feel and taste of her. Christ, he could never get enough of kissing this woman.

  Trailing open-mouthed kisses down her throat, the scent of her hot, silken skin drugging him, he tugged at that teasing, lace-covered bodice, letting one finger dip in between the creamy globes of her bosom. The soft squeeze made his head spin and his already-stiff cock harden. Replacing his finger with his lips, he went slowly, allowing her the option to pull away, but she threw her head back and moaned when he eased the fabric downward. Her breasts spilled free, and, with an uncontrolled growl, Ronan closed his mouth over one taut nipple. She tasted exactly as he thought she would, like heaven.

  “God, Imogen, ye’re perfect,” he groaned, turning his attention to her other breast and then climbing her neck to seek her mouth again. “I want ye. All of ye. The real ye.”

  Imogen broke free of his lips then, her eyes wild and unreadable. But she didn’t heave off of him. She sat there with her bee-stung lips and pert, rosy-tipped breasts and just stared at him as though she was trying to see inside of his fracturing soul. And he was fractured.

  Fractured because physically, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman in his life. His body and his brain swung in opposite directions, and for once in his rigid life, Ronan wanted to heed the former. But the stakes were already in play—neither of them wanted to give in to the other—and intimacy would complicate the game.

  The same indecision warred in her green eyes. Indecision and the same conflicted desires that tore through him. She wanted him as well, but at what cost? She had much to lose, too. After an interminable length of time, when Imogen fixed her bodice and eased off of him to return to her seat as though she’d gotten the answers she sought, Ronan didn’t stop her, though every nerve in his straining body protested otherwise.

  “What are you doing?” he rasped.

  Imogen shrugged and stared outside, her beautiful face in profile. “What one of us has to.”

  She was right—it was for the best.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Imogen sipped her cold tea in the morning room as for the fifteenth time she attempted to read the letter she’d received from Emma. Her gaze slipped to Rory sitting opposite at the table, diligently focused on demolishing a second plate of jam and biscuits, and she smiled to herself before staring at the letter.

  She couldn’t concentrate, not for lack of trying. Her body was on edge, and her brain was filled to the brim with tiresome thoughts of a certain rugged Highlander who made her feel like tearing her clothes off in one breath and kicking him in the shin at another. Her dreams hadn’t offered much reprieve, either, and she’d spent the night in a state of utter restlessness.

  Imogen couldn’t fathom it.

  She’d never let any man get under her skin so thoroughly.

  At the dinner, she’d wanted to mark her territory like a snarling she-wolf, but she’d had to settle for getting to know a handful of strangers while she’d seethed on the inside.

  Lord Firth had been interested in Haven and seemed to be of the mind to make a sizeable donation. That said, Imogen wasn’t naive. She’d seen the way the marquess had looked at her, but instead of nipping it in the bud as she normally would have, she’d welcomed the flirtation. Welcomed the distraction.

  Her pricked pride had been at fault. She’d wanted Ronan to notice, wanted him to react. Wanted to needle him with the same provocation. When what she should have been doing was encouraging him to attract Lady Reid’s attentions. Lady Reid, as odious as she was, was the answer to her prayers.

  That was what she was after, wasn’t it? Freedom from the unwanted betrothal? Have him choose another woman better suited for the task? Even if Ronan was using the woman as a tactic to get her to cry off, Lady Reid was the solution to her problem: if she got her hooks into him, as she clearly wanted, Ronan would be the one forced to cry off. It wouldn’t take much to orchestrate a compromising situation, which would please Grace to no end, and Ronan was too honorable of a man to walk away from his responsibilities. Imogen would go back to her life and Haven with her inheritance intact.

  Then why did the thought of Ronan in any kind of compromising situation with Grace make Imogen’s chest ache and jealousy pour through her like acid?

  God, she was so confused. Her head wanted one thing, and her body…well, her body craved another. And even those hot, needy feelings were new to her. New and undesired. The memory of Ronan’s lips on her mouth and breasts made her squirm in her seat as a rush of heat surged between her thighs. Completely
undesired.

  Shoving the indecent images from her head with a suffocated groan, Imogen focused on the letter. Emma had reported that everything at Haven was running smoothly. They’d had one more woman come for help, gentry this time, the daughter of a vicar from a neighboring town. Imogen did not know the woman, but Emma assured her that all usual measures for her safety and privacy were being taken. Imogen understood only too well how gossip could destroy a person, even after Society had deemed a woman well and truly ruined.

  Part of what she did at Haven was support women who had been taken advantage of and let them know that they were still worthy of being happy…still worthy of living healthy, hopeful lives.

  It was a wonder that she didn’t take her own advice to heart.

  You’re not important here, the women are, she reminded herself with a scowl.

  Emma had also inquired about Rory after Imogen had written to say that the girl was with her. Rory, for her part, was adjusting well. The staff adored the cheeky little brat, and she was a hard worker when she put her mind to it. All in all, the adventure seemed to have done the girl some good. Imogen hoped that when they returned to Scotland Rory would choose to remain at Haven instead of going back to the streets and men like Stormie. She was treading a fine line with Rory—push her too hard and she’d lose her.

  She glanced across the table at the girl, who was wiping her lips on her sleeve and patting her full stomach. “Cor, that was bloody good!”

  “Language, Rory, and use your napkin next time.”

  The girl grinned. “Why? My sleeve’s just as near.”

  “Well, now it’s dirty,” Imogen pointed out.

  “A little dirt never killed anyone.” Rory studied the smear of raspberry jam with an intense expression. “And I like dirt. It hides things.”

  Imogen placed Emma’s letter down. “Hides things?”

  “Do ye ken that people notice dirt before they notice anything else?” she said, a pair of hardened amber eyes, better suited to someone much older, meeting Imogen’s. “Like with a lord or lady on the streets—if a lass in a pretty dress with pink skin and roses in her cheeks comes up to them, they’ll ask if she’s lost and if she needs help. But if a lass is covered in dirt with ragged clothes, they’ll turn away with scorn on their faces.” She shot Imogen a wicked grin. “And then I rob them bloody blind.”

  “Language, dear.”

  “Sorry, Lady Im.”

  The girl might be young, but she’d seen a lot on the streets of Edinburgh. Imogen mourned for Rory’s lost childhood. When she should have been playing with dolls, she’d been scrounging for food and stealing coin to stay alive. Imogen couldn’t save everyone, but perhaps this girl was different. Perhaps Rory had come to her for a reason. Like Imogen, she’d been forced to grow up before her time. Forced to take on a role that she hadn’t expected because she’d needed to survive. Life had forced both of them to become who they were—hard and hard-edged in different ways.

  “Rory, would you like to live with me when we return to Edinburgh?” Imogen asked quietly.

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “At Haven?”

  Imogen swallowed and drew a deep breath. “No, with me at my home.”

  “As a ward, like?”

  “Yes,” Imogen said, feeling more confident in her decision. It felt right.

  Suspicion warred with longing in Rory’s eyes. “And what of yer duke? What will he say?”

  “We won’t have to worry about him much longer.” At that, Rory shot her a strange look, as though Imogen was missing something important, but then she smiled shyly and nodded. “You’ll have to make some changes,” Imogen went on, her heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “No stealing, and you’ll have to learn to act like a young lady, which means no swearing, and you’ll have to use napkins when eating.”

  Rory scowled adorably. “Will I have to learn my letters?”

  “And your numbers,” Imogen said.

  The girl pursed her lips and frowned in thought. “Will there be biscuits?”

  Imogen laughed. “Yes, there will be lots of biscuits to reward good behavior. Do you understand, Rory? It won’t be easy, but you have to promise me you will try your best, no matter how hard it might be.”

  “I promise,” Rory said and spat a glob of saliva onto her palm. “Spit shake on it?”

  Thankfully, they were interrupted from the spit shaking by a footman who came to the door of the room, and Imogen tried not to react as Rory rubbed her saliva-covered hand on her pinafore.

  The footman bowed. “My lady, there’s been a delivery for you and a message from Lady Kincaid, who has arrived in London this morning. She will be here this afternoon for your outing to Bond Street.”

  Imogen stood with a sigh. Her mother had been due to arrive from Scotland for the impending engagement ball and to shop for a wedding trousseau. Imogen had hoped to have had a reason to deter her by now, but it was proving more difficult than she’d anticipated to make her wretched betrothed cry off. Then again, she’d had to deal with the appearance of Silas, which had shaken her plans.

  “Why don’t you go get ready for your lessons, Rory,” she said. The girl rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to protest, but Imogen smiled and patted her head. “Remember your promise.”

  After Rory scampered off, Imogen went to the foyer to retrieve the delivery. An anxious part of her was expecting more white lilies, but, to her relief, there were no flowers in sight. If any had been delivered, the staff had been efficient in carrying out her wishes and sending them to the nearest hospital or orphanage. What waited for her instead was a flat white box tied with silver ribbons.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Had Ronan sent her a gift?

  Why would he send you anything?

  Shaking her head, she unwrapped the ribbons and opened the box. Nestled in black velvet was a strand of pearls. Nothing extravagant, but of exceptional quality, given their luster. Imogen had received something similar from her parents when she was sixteen, one with a diamond butterfly clasp. The bottom fell out from beneath her feet as her hands went cold and numb.

  Imogen almost dropped the box but forced herself to pull the pearls from their velvet cradle. The sight of the familiar diamond butterfly clasp made her knees buckle. Good God, were these her pearls? They couldn’t be! She’d thought them lost ages ago, but Silas must have had them all along. Imogen didn’t have to look to see the card stock with the note tucked on the inside of the box.

  These are yours, as am I. -SC

  She flung the strand of pearls back into their setting, her breaths coming in harsh pants when a deep-seated, bone-shaking fury took hold of her. How dare he be so bold? How dare he steal her treasured pearls and then return them to her like some illustrious knight?

  The thought of him having these in his possession, touching them, caressing them, was enough to make her stomach heave. She leaned heavily on the sideboard, the box falling from her hands to the surface, black spots dancing in her brain.

  “My lady, are you well?” The voice came at her from a distance as she sank to the cool marble floor. “My lady? Get Mrs. Desmond, now!”

  Minutes passed, or hours, perhaps, before a sharp scent filled her nostrils. Imogen’s eyes snapped open to see the vial of smelling salts beneath her nose and the concerned faces of the housekeeper, Rory, and the rest of the staff surrounding her.

  “I’m fine,” she assured them. “Just an unexpected shock, that’s all.”

  After more assertions that she was well and they went back to work, she accepted a glass of water from the housekeeper and drank it thirstily.

  “Shocked from this?” Rory asked, peering into the box and eyeballing the pearls. “Cor, that’s nice, isnae it?”

  “Don’t touch that,” Imogen shrieked and knocked it out of her hands. “Throw it away.”

  Rory’s eyes were round. “Throw away pearls? Are ye daft, Lady Im? These would have cost a fortune.”

  “They’re paste.”

/>   The girl looked between her and the pearls dubiously. “They dunnae look like paste.”

  “They are worthless, trust me.”

  Her heart ached at the lie. The gift from her parents wasn’t worthless, but Silas had sullied them. Just like he’d sullied everything else in her past.

  Rising slowly, Imogen took the box between her thumb and forefinger and climbed the stairs to her chamber. She wanted to send the thing back to Silas, but she also did not want to provoke him into reacting. The other option was to throw it away, but Rory was right. The pearls were valuable, and Imogen had long learned the value of a pound. She would simply not respond to the gift or its sender and instead put the necklace to the best use.

  She handed the box to Hilda. “Hide this. See if you can find a buyer, what we can get for it, and then we’ll donate the money to children in need.”

  “Is that from him?” Hilda said, her mouth twisting when Imogen nodded. There was no need to explain. “A pox on that pig.”

  “The pox is too good for him,” Imogen said bitterly.

  “Well then, I pray he gets…he gets…cholera!”

  Imogen shrugged. “If only God would listen—though men like him seem to escape more often than they are punished, and women like Belinda are forced to pay the price for their crimes.”

  “He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Hilda swore.

  “If he does, it’s nearly eleven years late.”

  Imogen put the necklace and Silas from her mind and got ready for her afternoon with her mother. As much as she would have liked to postpone the shopping trip, she knew it would only invite more questions. And another part of her didn’t want Silas to win by making her cower and hide. Or worse.

  Because it could get worse.

  Imogen swallowed as she recalled the gossip surrounding the Marquess of Paxton’s daughter, Lady Beatrice. It’d been by chance that she’d learned of it, when she’d overheard her father speaking to her mother over a brandy one evening. She’d caught the name Silas on her way to her father’s study before dinner and had stopped to listen. Even at eighteen, the name had made her blood turn to ice and the dread rise up from where she’d buried it deep.