What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  The door opened, and Sorcha swept inside, followed by Lady Kincaid and Ronan’s mother, the duchess. Well…soon to be the Dowager Duchess of Dunrannoch, once the hour was through. The older woman didn’t seem at all unhappy, though. In fact, out of the handful of them in the apartment, it was Lady Dunrannoch who beamed the brightest.

  The duchess had had a good old laugh over the rumors of Ronan’s supposed illegitimacy. Apparently, she and Imogen’s mother used to have a game where they sent each other the most outrageous letters, to see who could get the other to visit first. Lady Dunrannoch had won that year, with a panicked Lady Kincaid riding at breakneck speed to Maclaren with a wild-haired, half-asleep, and utterly confused vicar in tow. The two women had collapsed in undignified giggles at the memory.

  The current duchess surveyed the group. “Excellent! You’re all ready! The guests have gathered at the abbey, and I don’t see any reason to delay. Oh, this weather!” she exclaimed, looking thoroughly scandalized by the threat of rain. “And on Ronan’s wedding day. Of all my children, he always has to be the most difficult.”

  Aisla raised a brow at Imogen, who bit back a grin. “They say rain is good luck,” Imogen put in with a wink toward her future sister-in-law. Another ripple of happiness took her somewhere closer to giddy. Ronan’s family was so large, so vast, and so far they had been welcoming and warm. She couldn’t wait to meet his other siblings, their families and his friends… In truth, going to Maclaren made her shiver with anticipation more than it made her sad.

  Haven would not just survive—it would thrive, just as Imogen and Emma had always dreamed. For Imogen, marriage had always spelled disaster for Haven. Her husband would be given her dowry under the law, and her life’s work would eventually fold and shutter. But not this marriage, and Ronan had seen to it. He’d given Imogen the greatest wedding gift imaginable: her dowry to be dispensed as she deemed necessary.

  “I dunnae need it, nor do I want it,” he’d told her the week before when working through the solicitor’s papers. “Haven is yer love and passion, and so it’s mine as well. Do what ye planned to before. I’ll no’ stop ye. Ever.”

  His promise that Haven would never lack for anything had come on the heels of an unexpected and more-than-generous contribution from none other than Lady Reid. She had surprised Imogen further with an accompanying note, briefly congratulating her on her upcoming wedding and saying that she hoped they could become acquaintances in time. Imogen had responded in kind, impressed by Grace’s goodwill.

  “Rory? Are you ready?” she asked once Hilda had pinned a last dark curl away from her narrow face.

  “Aye. I mean, yes, Lady Im. And you look like a right rum-mort, too.”

  “Rum-mort?”

  Rory grinned. “A queen.”

  Imogen’s gown had been completed just days before, and she had fallen in love with it immediately. It was simple, yet elegant, cut of creamy satin and a lighter white lace overlay. Unlike some of her previous fashion choices that ran the gamut from frivolous to practically nonexistent, this dress embodied who she was…at least who she wanted to be. It sported small capped sleeves and a modest bodice strewn with seed pearls that tapered to a V at her waist before falling in graceful, voluminous folds to the floor. A lace train with delicate embroidery hung from her coiffure all the way to the hem of the gown. White elbow-length gloves with pearl buttons and silver slippers completed the ensemble.

  “I don’t think anyone has ever paid me a finer compliment,” she replied, holding out her hand. Rory took it, and they left the apartment, leading the other ladies through the grand corridors toward the front of the palace. The Comte had made himself scarce after an initial greeting, and now it almost felt as if the whole of the palace was theirs and theirs alone.

  Outside, the early September air was humid and dense, and there was barely a breeze at all as she and Rory and the other women met with a handful of very handsome gentleman. And one gaming hell owner.

  “Mr. McClintock, it’s good to see you,” Imogen said as Hilda ran one last hand over her skirts and nodded her approval. She then joined McClintock at his side.

  “Lady Imogen, it’s a fine day, is it not?”

  She peered at the sky dubiously.

  But McClintock waved his hand. “Ye’ve dealt with worse stuff than this. Good on ye, lass. My felicitations.”

  The man made a bow and led Hilda toward the ruins. He was absolutely correct: she had dealt with worse stuff than rain and had turned out just fine. She smiled at McClintock’s straightforward words and turned to meet her future brother-in-law.

  “Ye look lovely, my lady,” Niall said as he reached for Aisla’s arm. He and Brandt Montgomery, who claimed Sorcha’s hand and reverently kissed the ridge of her knuckles, wore full dress kilts in their clan colors. The other men gathered to receive the ladies and lead them to the abbey wore formal breeches and swallowtail coats.

  “Tarbendale has the right of it, Lady Imogen,” Lord Bradburne said as he offered his arm to Lady Dunrannoch. “You are truly stunning.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. I’m so pleased you and Brynn made the journey north for our wedding.”

  “She would not have missed this for the world, and she’s been longing for a reason to return to Scotland,” he said with a wink before leading Ronan’s mother toward the abbey. Imogen could already hear the string music playing inside. The ruined abbey with its roofless nave allowed the musicians’ notes to carry.

  A rumble of distant thunder joined in and drew a curse to Rory’s young lips.

  “Sorry, Lady Im,” she quickly said.

  “I can’t argue your point,” Imogen replied as Lord Northridge stepped forward and extended his arm to both Rory and Lady Kincaid.

  “Best hurry,” North said before eyeing Rory skeptically. “Though, young lady, I’m not convinced your legs can keep stride with mine.”

  Imogen saw the teasing challenge in the earl’s eyes, as well as Rory falling for it. “Horse shite, I could beat ye any day of the week!” North burst into raucous laughter while Lady Kincaid gasped. Rory bit her lip, though she did not look repentant in the least.

  Imogen smiled at her, her heart full. “Just try not to curse in the abbey, all right? We don’t need any more questionable signs.”

  The girl grinned and took one of North’s elbows while Imogen’s mother accepted the other.

  Lord Langlevit came forward next. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I’ll see you in,” he said, his tone serious and deep as he addressed Emma.

  “I don’t mind at all,” she replied, then, with a happy, teary-eyed glance toward Imogen, moved away with the decorated war hero.

  “That leaves me, I suppose.” Lord Kincaid approached his daughter, looking as distinguished as he ever had. But there was a note in his tone, one that she had heard for many weeks now. Ever since she’d finally told her parents the truth about Silas. It wasn’t anything to do with her, Imogen knew, but with him. She took her father’s arm and hugged it as they moved toward the beautiful ruins of the abbey.

  “The very best of them all,” she said. He exhaled a doubt-filled huff, that ever-present regret in his eyes.

  “I don’t think that is the case, my dear.”

  He was disappointed in himself and felt responsible for trusting the man who’d harmed his young daughter, bringing him closer to Imogen all the while.

  “I really do have to insist, Papa, that you bring yourself up from this,” she said gently. “He manipulated all of us. I know that. I don’t blame you, and it hurts me that you blame yourself. I blamed myself, too, for the longest while. It was Ronan who made me see who the real villain was. They were his actions, not ours.”

  She leaned closer to him as more thunder rolled above, closer this time.

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t wish my eyes had been open sooner. I’d rather die than see you hurt,” he said, and with a pat to her hand, added, “I’m in awe of you, and I only want to make you as proud of me as I am of y
ou.”

  “You’ve already accomplished that,” she said, kissing his cheek as they came upon the entrance wall of the ruins. It was tall and imposing, the great arched window frame absent of any glass but just as stunning anyhow.

  Holyrood Abbey had a desolate kind of beauty and grace, and while Aisla and Lady Dunrannoch and the very sensible Emma had balked at having the ceremony outdoors in a ruin, suggesting instead one of the grander rooms inside the palace itself, Imogen and Ronan had agreed on the abbey. The roofless nave, arched aisle vaults, and empty window casements gave it an intractable quality—it had not given up over the many centuries it had stood. Perhaps Imogen and Ronan would have a little something in common with it.

  The musicians had set their chairs under the front wall’s massive window, and other seats had been set up off to the side of a pair of ruined columns, farther inside, the placement forming an aisle straight ahead. Rory and Imogen’s mother were just taking their seats, everyone else turning to see the bride enter.

  Her heart sputtered even as it seemed to inflate to a size too large to contain in her chest. As she and her father stepped forward past the first crumbled column, she saw Ronan’s head of dark hair, the loose curls brushed back from his forehead. He stood tall and stoic in front of their gathered guests, and Imogen couldn’t beat back the smile that spread across her lips. He was dressed like Niall and Brandt in full dress kilt, a blue Maclaren sash crosswise over his broad chest.

  He looked so handsome, and when he broke into a wide grin as she came toward him along the makeshift aisle, Imogen wanted to toss her bouquet to the side, hitch up her skirt, and run to him. She wanted his arms around her, and she nearly stopped breathing when she realized that after today, and every day for the rest of their lives, that was exactly where she would be. Right in his arms.

  She’d nearly made it halfway down the aisle when a loud crack of thunder shook the sky above them, the reverberations bouncing off the old stonework inside the abbey. On her next step, Imogen felt the first drop of rain on the bridge of her nose. She looked up—and it was as if a stretched-thin seam in the clouds above split apart.

  Rain pattered down on the flagstones and gravel inside the abbey at first, but it quickly turned into a deluge.

  “Ballocks!” she shouted as another rumble of thunder, thankfully, ate up the word. Though Rory’s sharp ears had caught it.

  “No swearing in church, Lady Im!” the girl shouted as she jumped up and joined the other guests, all hurrying from their seats and scattering for shelter into the arched vaults along the left side of the abbey.

  Imogen slapped her bouquet against her leg with the sudden urge to cry.

  But instead, a hysterical giggle came forth.

  “Can you believe this?” she shouted as Ronan walked toward her, his smile still affixed, those reticent dimples of his on full display. His hair was soaked, the shoulders of his dress coat and sash darkening with the rain.

  He spread out his arms and threw back his head, opening his mouth to the pouring rain. Love and lust spiraled through her at the sight of him, so boyish and happy. She reached for his hand and tried to pull him toward the vaults. “Hurry, we’re getting drenched!”

  But he dug in his heels. “Nae, stay with me, mo gràidh. Right here, under the sky.”

  “What? Under the sky—are you mad?” she laughed, her dress now getting ridiculously wet. It would be ruined, most likely.

  “Aye, maybe I am. Mad in love. With ye.” He held her hand firmly in his. “I want to marry ye, Imogen. I dunnae care if it’s in the middle of a Scottish squall. I dunnae care if we’re drenched to the bloody bone. In fact, I think it’s better this way.”

  She shook her head, still smiling for some inexplicable reason. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Because this is life; we dunnae run from it, we face it.” He kissed the back of her hand, his lips warm and firm, his blue eyes never leaving hers. “And we’ll come out the other side of it together. I’m yers, and ye’re mine, in bad times and in good, Imogen. So stand here with me and take me as yer husband before we both catch our bloody death of cold.” His hungry gaze panned down her drenched and near-transparent gown. “And also because I’m desperate to peel that dress off ye.”

  Her face was wet now, and not just from the rain. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks even as she laughed. Imogen did as she’d longed to earlier and threw her arms around him, kissing him hard on the lips.

  “Call the vicar over,” she said, “so I can do that again. As your wife next time. Let’s get married, Your Grace.”

  And they did. Surrounded by their loved ones and all the rainy luck imaginable, they shouted their vows to the sky in the middle of a Scottish tempest, and it was perfect. Imogen would not have wanted it any other way.

  She and her Highlander duke could weather any storm together.

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  Acknowledgments

  What an awesome ride! Thank you for sticking with us through the Lords of Essex series, as well as the Tartans and Titans series. We had such a wonderful time writing these books and fell in love with these characters ourselves. Ending a series is always so bittersweet, but we hope you’ve enjoyed the journey.

  As always, we couldn’t have done this without you, dear reader! Thank you from the bottom of our hearts for reading, reviewing, and supporting our books! We are so thankful for our amazing editor, Erin Molta—it was such a pleasure working with you on this book! Thanks for taking us on. You really nailed what this book needed to be. A huge thank you to our publisher, Liz Pelletier, as well as all of the tireless and talented production, design, quality assurance, and publicity teams at Amara. Special thanks to Curtis Svehlak, Holly Bryant-Simpson, Riki Cleveland, Heather Riccio, Katie Clapsadl, Hannah Lindsey, Alethea Spiridon, and Erin Dameron-Hill. To our wonderful families, we love you so much!

  We feel so lucky to be part of the Entangled family and encourage you to check out more romantic reads at EntangledPublishing.com.

  Fondly,

  Amalie & Angie

  About the Author

  Amalie Howard’s love of romance developed after she started pilfering her grandmother’s novels in high school when she should have been studying. She has no regrets. A #1 Amazon bestseller and a national IPPY silver medalist, she is the coauthor of the Lords of Essex and Tartans & Titans historical romance series, as well as several award-winning young adult novels critically acclaimed by Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, VOYA, School Library Journal, and Booklist, including Waterfell, The Almost Girl, and Alpha Goddess, a Kid’s IndieNext pick. She currently resides in Colorado with her husband and three children. Visit her at www.amaliehoward.com.

  Angie Morgan lives in New Hampshire with her husband, their three daughters, a menagerie of pets, and an extensive collection of paperback romance novels. She’s the coauthor of the Lords of Essex and Tartans & Titans historical romance series, as well as several young adult books, including The Dispossessed series written under the name Page Morgan. Critically acclaimed by Booklist, Publisher’s Weekly, Kirkus, School Library Journal, VOYA, and The Bulletin, Angie’s novels have been an IndieNext selection, a Seventeen Magazine Summer Book Club Read, and a #1 Amazon bestseller. Visit her at www.AngieMorganBooks.com.

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