What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  His legs went to stone. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  “I was to meet her at Gunter’s two hours ago. When she didn’t arrive, I went to Kincaid Manor but was told she had left long before. She should have arrived in time.”

  “What of their driver?” Ronan asked, his pulse slowing even as his mind started to pick up speed.

  “No driver. Imogen went on foot. Gunter’s is only a few blocks from Kincaid Manor,” Aisla replied. “No one has seen her. Ronan, I’m worried. It’s not like her.”

  “Could she have thought ye were meeting elsewhere?” he asked, trying to think of all possibilities before jumping to the next one: that something untoward had happened.

  “She’s not an idiot,” Aisla scoffed. “We’ve only ever met at Gunter’s.”

  He nodded, making his decision. “Vickers, get a man from Bow Street here. And send for the police as well.”

  “The police, Your Grace?” Vickers repeated, alarmed.

  Ronan considered a moment as he exited the sitting room. It might be premature. But Imogen wouldn’t have left Aisla with no word if all was well. “I want everyone looking for her.”

  “Ronan, wait.” Aisla followed him down the stairs to the foyer. “Where are you going?”

  He took his jacket and hat from the butler, the pit of his stomach a brewing storm of anger, worry, and suspicion. “To speak to someone who might ken something.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll explain later.” There wasn’t time to tell her everything about Silas Calder. “Where is Niall?”

  “At the boxing club. Gentleman Jackson’s, I believe. Why?”

  “I need him here. Stay. Tell the Runner and the policemen what ye ken, and that I’ll return shortly.”

  And before Aisla could ask another question, Ronan rushed through the front door, slamming it closed behind him. He caught a hackney on the street, too impatient to wait for his own carriage to be prepared and brought around to the front of Dunrannoch House.

  That bastard Calder had something to do with this.

  He’d been furious the night before at Imogen’s home, forced to retreat with his fortune-hunting tail between his legs. And from what Ronan had learned from Imogen about their past, he suspected the man was more than a little obsessed with her. And that he was not the sort to give up easily.

  Ronan was now grateful he’d left Kincaid Manor only minutes after Calder the night before and that he’d had the foresight to direct his driver to follow Calder’s hackney. At the time, he’d only wanted to make sure the man actually returned home, rather than circle back to Kincaid Manor. He gave the hackney driver the address now and sat back as the carriage clattered toward Piccadilly.

  Calder might have intercepted Imogen on the street earlier, perhaps even convinced her to take a stroll with him so he could attempt to change her mind. He might have lured her into his carriage and delayed her with a drive around Town. Imogen’s disgust with him and her shame in encouraging him when she’d been younger could have very well led her into a trap of manipulation on his part.

  Ronan clenched his hands into fists, and time seemed to drag. When at last the driver whistled and pulled the horses to a stop, he all but leaped from the carriage, stormed up to Calder’s residence, and pounded on the front door. A sleepy-eyed woman let him in, pointing up to the suite of rooms. Ronan hadn’t reached the top of the stairs when he growled Calder’s name.

  Calder answered the door to his apartments himself.

  “Your Grace, this is a surprise,” he drawled, his demeanor placid despite the high color on his skin. As if he’d just come in from outdoors.

  “Where is Lady Imogen?” Ronan demanded.

  “Imogen? Why would you think she would be here?” Calder eyed him.

  “I have nae time for this, Calder. Imogen went for a walk and never arrived at her destination. Last night, she skewered ye by turning down yer proposal. After she fought off yer unwanted attentions at the Langlevit ball. Ye ken why I’m here, so answer my bloody question.”

  The man stared at him, unruffled. “She hardly skewered me. I was acting as a friend, offering her a way out of an undesirable betrothal. We do have a long history, you know, her family and me. Her decision in no way affects me as you suggest.”

  “The fact that ye’re bothering to lie to me right now makes me wonder what else ye’re lying about.”

  Calder’s mouth twisted, a deliberate expression of insult on his face. It was leagues different than the uncut fury Ronan had seen the evening before.

  “It nearly sounds as if you are accusing me of something untoward, Your Grace.”

  His voice lifted slightly as though to carry down the narrow hallway, though there was no one else around but the two of them. Ronan was quite aware that that didn’t suggest the empty corridor was private, by any means. His eyes narrowed as Calder went on.

  “Perhaps the answer is something much more simple. Could the lady have spurned you? Are you quite certain she has not taken another way out of this betrothal that she has so clearly despised? Women do the most desperate things when they feel trapped.”

  The suggestion tracked down Ronan’s spine like a cold blade. Riverley’s tale of Lord Paxton’s daughter and how she’d thrown herself off a bridge into the Thames sprang to mind. His vision sharpened on the man.

  “Ye’ve made a mistake, Calder. I dunnae ken what yer game is, but I’ll discover what it is. I’ll find Imogen, and ye’ll be finished here in London. Ye’ll be finished everywhere. There willnae be a single place ye can hide this time.”

  Ronan gave him his back and stalked from the hallway, knowing he would get nothing more out of the bastard unless he wrapped his hands around the lying man’s throat and thrashed him. The method wasn’t completely off the table, of course, but there were other tactics to try first.

  He made his way back to Dunrannoch House, his impatience and unease mounting as the hackney he flagged traveled at an irritatingly slow speed. When he finally arrived home, Niall was there with Aisla, along with a man presumably from Bow Street and two uniformed policemen from the new Metropolitan force.

  “Where the hell have ye been?” Niall asked before Ronan could even remove his coat. “Have ye found Imogen?”

  “I want someone on Silas Calder’s tail,” he replied, his guts in a twist as he explained to them where he’d gone and why. He told them of Calder’s proposal and his past and current interest in Imogen. He left off some of the more personal details, the ones Imogen had been ashamed of, even though she had no reason to be. The man had preyed on her, seduced a shy and sheltered girl, and she’d held herself responsible. Which was probably just as Calder wanted it.

  Imogen was in trouble. She never would have gone off on her own like this, leaving everyone to worry over her. Calder’s suggestion that she’d scurried off, breaking the betrothal, didn’t fit, either. Ronan knew by now that she would never give up like that. And after last night, when they’d opened up to each other… No. She was brave. Stubborn and tenacious. She would not run. And unlike Calder’s foul suggestion, she also would not harm herself.

  “Your Grace, I am familiar with Silas Calder,” the Bow Street inquiry agent, a man named Thomson, said. “There was some bad business many years ago with a young lady here in London.”

  His eyes skipped to Aisla, and he said no more, likely thinking she might be too sensitive for such a topic.

  “What bad business?” she demanded.

  “Imogen wasnae the only young heiress he took a fancy to,” Ronan explained, unable to stomach the young woman’s tragic ending without feeling a jolt of fear for Imogen. No, she was strong… She’d never do anything like that, not without a fight. He took in a clipped breath. “He preyed on them. Lady Beatrice was particularly young and enamored of him until she found out the truth that he was nothing but a fortune-hunting thief. At the last, she took her own life.” He met his sister-in-law’s brimming eyes. “It is rumored she was with child. I wouldnae
put it past Calder to have left a trail of victims behind him on the Continent as well. It was how he financed his lifestyle. And now he has Imogen in his sights once more.”

  “I will follow his movements, Your Grace, and keep you apprised,” Thomson announced and then left. The two other police officers were given tasks as well—to interview the servants at Kincaid Manor and to find any and all of Imogen and Calder’s acquaintances and to question them thoroughly.

  It was nightfall by the time Dunrannoch House was quiet once more. Niall and Aisla had insisted they stay with him, but he’d waved them off, telling them to go back to their own home on Belgrave Square to be with their children. There was nothing more they could do.

  He’d poured a whisky and was staring at it, his mind partially frozen with terror. God, what was happening to her? Not knowing where she was, if she was safe or in danger, was driving him mad. Ronan left his whisky untouched and left for Kincaid Manor. He needed to do something, anything, other than sit and wait. Perhaps he could help the police question the staff. Someone had to have seen something.

  The second he stepped inside the foyer, Rory shouted from the top of the stairs.

  “Do ye have Lady Im back yet?” The young girl rushed down, wearing her old breeches. “I’m ready to go, Yer Grace.”

  “Go where?”

  “Out. Searching. We’ve got to find her,” Rory replied.

  Ronan blocked her from the front door with an arm. “We cannae search all of London. It’s no’ feasible. We need a better idea of where she might be.”

  “But she could be anywhere!” Rory said, the shake of her voice betraying her worry and fright. She was scared. The girl cared deeply for Imogen. Ronan put his hands on her small shoulders and squeezed gently.

  “I’m going to find her, Rory. I have an idea who’s involved, and there’s a Bow Street Runner watching him as we speak.”

  The girl shook off Ronan’s hands, and he realized he should have been more thoughtful than to touch her without asking. She’d been on her own on the streets of Edinburgh, protecting herself against men who would take advantage, who didn’t have an honorable bone in their bodies.

  “Ye can trust me, Rory. I’ll do whatever I must to bring back Imogen.”

  She peered up at him, doubtfully. “The man ye’re thinking of. He kens Lady Im?”

  Ronan nodded. “A family friend.”

  “He’s a toff,” she said, and Ronan didn’t bother to correct her. To her, anyone—peer, gentry, or working class—not of her world were wealthy targets to be stripped of their valuables. The girl’s eyes brightened. “Cor, proper toffs never do anything themselves, ye ken. The lads men always get good business running errands. If he’s done something to Lady Im—”

  “He hasn’t done it on his own,” Ronan finished, his spirits boosting as an idea came to him. “Rory, ye’re brilliant.”

  The girl broke into a grin. “I like it when other people get that.”

  He wanted to clap her on the shoulder or kiss her forehead, something to show his gratitude, but he held back. In time, perhaps. Ronan left Kincaid Manor, ordering his driver to Piccadilly. They pulled along the curb outside the back entrance to Calder’s building. There had been another unmarked carriage parked across the street from the front entrance. He’d seen Thomson inside, keeping an eye on Calder’s comings and goings. The man was still home, apparently, and he likely knew Ronan had hired someone to keep watch. Thomson was not overly clandestine, either.

  However, it wasn’t Calder that Ronan was waiting for.

  Several hours after sitting in silence, his driver keeping the horses calm, their patience was rewarded. A back door opened, and a lone figure emerged. The man was dressed in black, carrying a small bundle, and he moved swiftly, away from the square and out of Thomson’s line of sight. He crept much too stealthily for a servant.

  “Follow him, but don’t get too close,” Ronan said to his driver, who urged the horses forward. Ronan kept his eyes on the figure. The man signaled a hackney and disappeared inside. But the hackney was unusual, Ronan noted, with no windows at all.

  “Don’t lose them,” he said, his heartbeat increasing. He had nothing but his instinct, and it told him he was onto something. He was getting closer to Imogen.

  His driver maintained sight of the strange carriage for a good twenty minutes, each street they turned down taking them deeper into the slums of London. Ronan wasn’t familiar with these boroughs, but he knew the equivalent of them in Edinburgh. He suddenly wished he’d brought his pistol. At least he had his dirk, something he kept on his person at all times.

  Finally, the black, windowless carriage came to a stop, and the figure emerged. Ronan jumped from his carriage, signaling the driver to wait, and followed Calder’s man through the front door of a building that looked to be in shambles. The odors of excrement and mildew accosted him as he took the steps to the next floor, following the man’s footfalls. Ronan had his dirk in hand, his every sense on alert.

  He came to a third-floor corridor and heard a door shut a little ways down. Then some muffled voices. Ronan stayed against a wall, doubt beginning to trickle in. Could this simply be a random man’s home? There were likely a handful of bachelors living in Calder’s fine lodgings. This man might not have anything to do with Calder at all, and Ronan could very well be wasting his time here.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and the same man emerged. He no longer held the small bundle. He took care to lock the door before moving for the stairs again. Ronan pressed himself against the wall, remaining invisible to the man, whose steps descended the stairs at a rapid pace. Where he was going didn’t matter. Who was inside the room down the corridor did.

  Ronan knocked, feeling a fool. But if it was indeed an innocent stranger’s home, he’d feel an even bigger fool by barging in. He banged hard on the door. A guttural moan was all that came from within the apartment. And it sounded female.

  Heart clenching, he stepped back and planted his foot in the center of the door, ripping the lock from the frame. It bashed open, revealing a darkened room, the only light coming from a slim window. A woman sat tied to a chair, a gag between her lips, her muffled voice straining in a cry when she saw him.

  “Imogen,” Ronan breathed out, his legs feeling numb as he crossed the small room to reach her. With his dirk, he cut away the ropes that bound her hands and then removed the gag.

  “Ronan,” she rasped, throwing her arms around his neck as he next sliced through the ropes securing her ankles to the legs of the chair. “Oh, thank God you found me.”

  He picked her up, crushing her to him, unable to do anything more than feel her body, inhale the sweet scent of her hair, and savor the hot gusts of her breath in the crook of his neck.

  “Are ye injured?” he finally asked.

  “No, no, I’m fine now. Oh, thank God, Ronan,” she said again, still clinging to him. He peeled her away, needing to inspect her for himself.

  “Calder. He did this,” Ronan said, his eyes taking in her dress, her face, looking for any mark of injury. But except for her loose hair, torn from its pins, and her frightened eyes, she didn’t seem to be hurt.

  Imogen nodded. “He…he was going to make it look like someone had kidnapped me, and then stage a false rescue. And…since we’d been alone in this place…” She trailed off, her face stricken.

  “Ye’d be ruined. Ye’d have to marry him.” Ronan wished to God he’d throttled the bastard back at his house that afternoon. He would do it. One way or another, he was going to end him.

  “I just want to get out of here, Ronan,” she said, her hands cold as he took them in his and kissed them before scooping her up into his arms.

  “Ye’re safe, love,” he said, taking her from the dank and dirty room. “I promise ye, nae one will ever harm ye again.”

  She leaned into his embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin. “That’s an impossible promise to make, you know.”

  “No’ for me. I’ll move h
eaven and earth to find ye, Imogen. And mercy on the man who ever lays a finger on ye.” His eyes met hers, the soft wonder in them nearly silencing him. “Ye’re mine now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Two days later, Imogen eyed her bruised, dark purple wrists, wincing at the discolored streaks the rope had left behind. She’d injured herself trying to wriggle out of the tight bindings and had succeeded once, hitting one of her captors with a candlestick before she’d been even more tightly restrained. She was fairly certain she’d dealt the man quite a blow to the temple, and if he was one of Calder’s men, as Ronan had suspected, he would have a huge mark to show for it. Possibly a blackened eye.

  Unfortunately, no one matching such a description had been at Calder’s residence, and the Runners had come away empty-handed. Unless, of course, the man had been conveniently eliminated to avoid suspicion. Imogen knew Calder would cover his tracks any way he could. Silas himself had been interviewed by an agent called Thomson and had been cleared, to Imogen’s disgust. Despite her claims, he’d had a strong alibi for the entire six-hour duration of her abduction, insisting he’d had nothing to do with it.

  Since they could not find nor prove the identity of the footman to corroborate Ronan’s evidence, it had been Silas’s word against hers. And given that she was a woman, that meant that she didn’t have a leg to stand on.

  Ronan had been furious when he’d returned to Dunrannoch House to break the news that Silas would not be apprehended.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” she’d asked him, worried that suddenly he would change his mind and doubt her side of things.

  Ronan had scowled, his dark brows pulling together. “Of course I do. Ye said he was there, and I believe ye.”

  “You don’t believe what he said?” she’d asked in a small voice.

  He had looked at her as if she were addlepated. “Why would I? The man’s a slippery eel who’s had years of experience swindling and defrauding people. Besides, I trust ye more than I’ve ever trusted anyone.” He’d crouched then and taken her hands. “Imogen, I will always believe ye.”