Haven would be safe, and she would be, too.
A giddy swell of something new and unfamiliar bubbled up inside of her. She turned away from Rory, who was still watching her reflection in the mirror closely. The girl was far too sharp. She’d see the emotion on Imogen’s face for what it was: hope. Before this betrothal business ever happened, Imogen had pinned all her hopes and dreams, her entire future, onto Haven. She’d had fleeting moments when she’d imagined a different past that would have led her into marriage and motherhood, but she’d always shoved them aside. Now, however, anything seemed possible. Imogen was entering entirely new territory, and it both scared and invigorated her.
She’d given up on sleep around dawn and had sat down at her writing desk to pen a letter to Emma, informing her of everything that had happened. She’d written at length about Ronan and how he had turned out to be the complete opposite of what she’d expected. How the brute they’d met in Edinburgh had transformed into a man who made her feel cherished, whose size and fierce strength, once intimidating, now made her feel safe.
She’d read over the letter and imagined Emma at her desk at Haven, sitting back and having a good laugh at the flowery, impractical language. Imogen wouldn’t have blamed her—on second read, the prose sounded too sickly sweet. She’d shaken her head and burned the letter in the hearth. A second draft was shorter, more to the point, and simply told her friend that she was getting married after all and that things would be sorted out upon her arrival home.
Wherever home would now be. The specifics of marrying Ronan and joining their lives were still behind a thick wall that Imogen had not yet wanted to tear down. She’d rather linger in the warm wonder of Ronan’s change of heart for a while. And her own.
“I miss my breeches,” Rory grumped, once more dragging Imogen’s mind from her reverie. Perhaps the girl was right—she did feel rather half-daft today.
Madame Despain, pinning and tucking the green cloth around Rory’s frame, startled at the comment. “Breeches?”
“Aye, they’re a hell of a lot—” Rory caught herself, though not before Madame Despain gasped in surprise and dropped a pin that she’d been holding between her lips. “I mean, they’re much more comfortable than dresses. And easier to run in.”
“A young lady should not be running at all,” the modiste put in.
Rory shook her head. “Where I’m from, a girl’s got to ken how to run.”
The light feeling Imogen had been drifting around with all morning and most of the afternoon faded. “You no longer have to worry about running from anything or anyone,” she said.
The girl met Imogen’s eyes and held her stare, as if waiting for some disappointment to befall her. Rory was going to be cautious for quite some time. Imogen understood. She’d struggled with that same feeling for years, and it had only intensified since the evening before. She wanted to allow herself to be happy, but what if it didn’t last? What if Silas followed through with his threat out of desperation, exposed her, and Ronan changed his mind? Men were finicky about such things, prized as a bride’s virginity was.
That caution she had practiced so well for more than a decade was probably the reason why she hadn’t sent Emma the first letter. Burning it had been safer.
“What’s wrong, Lady Im?” Rory asked as Madame Despain went back to pinning.
She realized she was no longer smiling and pasted one back on. “Nothing at all. I just want you to like your dress.”
Rory took a glance into the mirror and grimaced at the rough mockup of her future gown. “I suppose I’ll like it when it’s finished.”
That was about all the enthusiasm she was going to receive from her young ward. Checking the clock, she saw she didn’t have much time to get ready. She and Aisla were to meet at Gunter’s in an hour. Ronan’s sister-in-law had sent a note inviting her earlier that morning, and Imogen wondered if she had spoken to Ronan since the night before and was desperate for details. Aisla had been the one to convince Ronan to make a decision, after all. She would just have to remember the burned letter to Emma and attempt not to sound like a starry-eyed idiot whenever she mentioned Ronan by name.
She left Madame Despain and Rory to their task and met Hilda in her room, where her afternoon dress was ready and waiting for her.
“Oh, would you please stop that,” Imogen said as she saw her maid’s sly expression. It was a smug I-thought-so kind of look, and she’d been wearing it ever since Imogen had told her about the duke’s declaration that he was not going to break the engagement.
“I can’t. I’m too happy for you,” Hilda replied.
“Nothing has changed. I’m engaged just as much as I was before,” she said. As she dressed, Hilda remained quiet, but she could still see the amused quirk of the maid’s lips. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re too reticent. Smile, my lady. I know you want to.”
“It just…it feels too good to be true.” There. It was out. And instantly, she felt just as young and vulnerable as Rory.
Hilda gripped her shoulders. “Take a chance, my lady. That duke of yours has shoulders broad enough to carry any burden. Trust someone for once.”
She bit back the argument that she did trust people. Some people. But Hilda didn’t mean Emma or her parents or even her. She meant a man. The Highlander duke who had captivated Imogen’s every thought for weeks. Who had infuriated her and shocked her and made her feel things she had never felt before. Wicked and wonderful things.
“We shall see,” she murmured.
When she was finished, she went downstairs to gather her reticule and her cloak. Imogen was planning to go on foot to Gunter’s, a mere two blocks away. It was a lovely day, and she didn’t mind walking. She quite missed walking, as she’d done in Edinburgh, though it was much more crowded in London…full of people and horses and carriages jostling for space. She heard the loud rattle of tack and carriage wheels pull up beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw it was a hackney cab, the varnish on the dull black paint peeling in spots. She ignored it, thinking it would move on.
But then the door sprang open, and a man leaped down onto the pavement directly in front of her. Imogen stumbled back, straight into another person. Hard hands clasped her shoulders and shoved her toward the open door of the cab.
“What— Stop!” she screamed, twisting and kicking as the man steering her lifted her up and all but tossed her inside, right onto the floor of the carriage. It all happened within seconds, her breath stoppered up in her lungs as panic flooded her, and then the carriage was moving along again, fast.
She tried the door, but the handle was stuck and, curiously, there were no windows. She shouted and railed, pounding on the sides of the carriage until her fists ached, but her voice was muffled by all the noise outside. Her mind racing, Imogen calmed her erratic breathing using the technique Ronan had taught her: in through her nose and out through her mouth. She needed to have a clear head and stay calm. Sometimes, when women came to Haven, they were so distraught that they couldn’t speak or remember anything that had happened. Imogen did not plan for that to be the case. She had to be able to recall every detail. Slowly, she settled herself.
One, it had only been a few minutes, so she guessed that they were still near Mayfair. She would keep track of the time as best she could. Two, her two abductors had looked like flash men, hired ruffians. She glanced around the carriage. There were a few lines of light around the door, but with no windows, the cab was little more than a pitch-black box. It smelled worn-down and musty, which went with her earlier assumption that a hackney for hire had stopped beside her. Three, she had her reticule, though in it there was only some coin and a few extra hairpins. Not nearly enough to defend herself, should it come to it.
Who were they? Did they plan to hurt her? Ransom her? Rape her? With a cry, she purged the ugly thoughts from her brain. It wouldn’t do any good to think on what could happen. Only what was happening. She loosened her shoulders and rolled
her limbs, trying not to freeze up. A year or so ago, Emma had insisted on protective measures for some of the women at Haven, which meant that she’d employed a teacher versed in pugilism for a few months. Imogen had attended a few of the classes. She knew how to jab a man in the throat or use the heel of her hand to break his nose, and she’d learned that a kick between the legs would render a male attacker useless.
It probably wouldn’t work on two or three men at once, but she would be prepared.
Imogen estimated that it was less than half an hour before the coach stopped. They were likely still in London, though a far step from Mayfair. Her suspicions were confirmed when the door was flung open and she was greeted by the stench of sweat, blood, and garbage. The cobblestones of the alley, as she was tugged down, were slick with black grease and God knew what else, and the houses were packed closely together. She wasn’t familiar with the districts, but if she had to fathom a guess, she would say it had to be St Giles or Whitechapel. Memorizing as many details as she could, including the scruffy faces of her captors—both thin and lanky, with dark beards and dark eyes—she squared her shoulders.
“Take your hands off me,” she commanded.
“Oy, shut it,” one of the men said, tightening his hold on her upper arm and exhaling his foul breath into her face. He yanked both hands behind her. The other man moved quickly forward to knot a piece of rope around her wrists and then went back to the driver’s seat. “Ya lucky that’s all I ’ave on ya, innit.”
She winced as his fingers returned to her arm and dug in, a cruel look twisting his face as he crooned.
“Nice bit o’ muslin like ya. Bet ya taste like spun sugar.”
Shuddering, Imogen sealed her lips, the nasty threat enough to keep her quiet. Antagonizing men like this when she was in her predicament might not be wise. She stared at the ground until he shoved her forward toward a house with a small blue door. Sidestepping a puddle of something rank, she walked into the room, once more taking in the details. A narrow cot lay at one end with a dirty mattress. A chair and a table stood at the other, and a small screen lay on its side to the right. Imogen fought back the tears burning at the backs of her eyes.
Good God, what lay in her future in this room?
Would she still have a future?
As if he could sense her sudden urge to flee, the man’s hand closed like a vise on her arm. Imogen knew she would have an ugly circle of bruises. He grinned, showing cracked and stained teeth. “Welcome home, luv.” He dragged a dirty finger down her cheek and then gripped her chin roughly. “Maybe we’ll get ta know each other better soon.”
He leaned in, mouth agape, and Imogen didn’t think. She just acted. Her knee shot up and caught the man square in the groin. He lurched backward with a keening sound, but Imogen felt no satisfaction, only fear as a shadow darkened the doorway.
“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll take care of him.”
She had to be dreaming. Silas entered the room and kicked the wailing man, the rage on his face compounding Imogen’s confusion. Was he here to rescue her? Lord, for once, she didn’t bemoan the man’s tendency to hunt and shadow her every step.
“Silas?” she whispered. “Oh, thank God you’re here. How did you find me? Those men were going to hurt me.”
He smiled, and the gloating look threw her. “No. They know better.”
Time slowed to a crawl as she took him in again, his awareness in the space. The triumphant expression in his eyes. The relaxed posture of his body.
Oh, God, no.
She should have known better, too. “You?”
“Did you think I would give up what’s mine so easily?” he drawled, removing his gloves and slapping his palm with them. “Your betrothal doesn’t matter. Will not matter when I’m through with you. You will be mine, just as you were before.”
This time, Imogen’s fear was insurmountable. She wasn’t in a music room, surrounded by her peers, where a scream would bring help running. She was in a hovel in the slums of London with a demented man. She refused to let her fright show, however.
“What do you intend to do?” she asked, chin high.
“Compromise you once again,” he said in a silky voice. “And this time, make sure the whole of Town knows about it.”
Bile erupted into her throat as he removed his coat and started rummaging in the pockets. What was he doing? Did he mean to harm her?
“My father will come looking for me,” she said. “By now, people will have reported that I was snatched off the street by a strange man, and the Runners will come looking. The duke will come looking.”
Silas glanced up. “No one will come looking, Gennie. A few hours from now, when an anonymous whisper in regards to your location reaches your father’s ears, he will search for you. Alas, I will have already found you, and, considering your appreciation for my heroic rescue, we will be discovered en déshabillé, as they say. We will have to marry to stave off the gossip, and Dunrannoch, to avoid the scandalous rumors of having had his own fiancée kidnapped to avoid wedlock, will agree to be the one to forfeit on the marriage contract.”
And Silas would have her hand in marriage, her dowry, and Ronan’s family distillery to boot. If she wasn’t in a complete state of shock, Imogen might have applauded.
“You have some imagination, Silas,” she said.
“No, Gennie. I have vision.”
He sounded too calm. Too sure. Would people believe that Ronan had been the one behind her kidnapping? He was a duke, after all. But Imogen was all too aware of the power of gossip and how quickly it could destroy a person. She’d heard too many tales from the handful of upper-crust women she’d helped at Haven.
To Imogen’s horror, she saw that Silas’s plan was not out of the realm of possibility. With the cultivation of a few well-placed rumors, Ronan—who had been so publicly awful in Edinburgh—could very well receive the blame for this ludicrous stunt. She of all people knew of the judgment of the ton. Imogen felt her options dwindling.
“I will never marry you. And Dunrannoch will never forfeit.”
“We will see,” he said. “Now eat.”
He stalked forward with a brown paper bag, and the smell of the Cornish pasties inside made her eyes water. She hadn’t eaten today, and while she didn’t want to accept anything from Silas, if it was one thing she’d learned from the survivors at Haven, it was that she would need her strength…strength to fight or to flee.
Imogen might be a woman and considered of little value, but she was a fighter. A warrior. She’d battled for every scrap of her independence. She fought daily for the lives of others. She wouldn’t give up now.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I am no’ wearing that!”
Ronan scowled at the gaudy waistcoat that Riverley’s personal tailor had brought in from Paris. Though Julien was absent, at home with his wife who was about to birth her second child, Ronan wished the man was here so he could plant him a facer. As if he would ever wear such a garish thing. It was a jest, he knew, given when Julien had met Imogen. He grinned. Perhaps he should wear it. The pale pink fabric with the darker embroidered rosebuds would make her smile.
Monsieur Martin inspected the waistcoat that he’d held up for Ronan to see, frowning, as if he didn’t see what Ronan did. “But Lord Riverley wrote that this was your color of choice, Your Grace. That your engagement ball would be all pink.”
Ronan poured himself a whisky and swallowed it in one gulp. “Of course he did, that horse’s arse.”
The tailor lowered the pink waistcoat with a sudden look of understanding. The man likely knew his best client well enough to guess what Riverley had been up to.
“It’s finely done, Monsieur Martin, but I believe my fiancée has changed her mind about the colors for the ball.”
An odd pounding happened inside Ronan’s chest as he sat down in the chair before the hearth. Imogen had changed her mind about everything. She actually wanted to marry him, and, astoundingly, t
he idea didn’t strike him as terrible at all. In fact, the more he mulled it over, the lighter his limbs seemed to become. The faster his heart seemed to pump. Not in alarm, but with what he was very cautiously, very dubiously pinning down as excitement.
Excited. To marry. To marry Imogen.
Ronan stood from the chair and went for another finger of whisky. He’d spent the night so focused on controlling his anger in regard to Silas Calder and the man’s underhanded designs on Imogen that he hadn’t spent nearly enough time sorting through the fact that he had willfully pledged himself to her. He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking it, but he didn’t regret it in the least.
And that slightly scared him.
“Might I suggest a deep blue, Your Grace?”
He turned toward the tailor, distracted. “Blue?”
“For your new waistcoat.”
“Right. Aye. And send that other one up to Duncraigh, will ye? We both ken Riverley will wear it with pleasure.”
The tailor was taking Ronan’s measurements for the new design when Vickers entered the room.
“Your Grace, Lady Tarbendale is here to see you. She says it’s quite urgent.”
Vickers hadn’t stopped speaking before Aisla edged her way into the sitting room, her eyes bright and brows pinched.
“Aisla?” Ronan stepped away from the center of the room and Monsieur Martin’s tapes and toward her. “What is it? News from Maclaren? Or Duncraigh?”
The drawn expression on his sister-in-law’s face worried him. Makenna’s bairn was due, and he knew how perilous childbirth could be.
“No news from Scotland,” she assured him quickly. “It’s Imogen.”
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 23
