What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  She gave him a hard look. “Isn’t it?”

  “Nae.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t your intent.” Aisla lowered her voice. “However, it’s exactly what you’ve achieved. People are talking, and this game of yours needs to stop.”

  “Niall told ye.”

  She shook her head, still looking exasperated. “He didn’t have to. Perhaps if you’d chosen someone other than Lady Reid to flirt with, you would have successfully chased off Lady Imogen, but you chose poorly. Grace is a snake, Ronan, who’s only after your title and fortune.”

  “How is that any worse than only marrying to fulfill a bloody codicil?”

  Aisla stopped walking and made a grating noise in her throat. “You sound like a child, Ronan Maclaren! A spoiled boy, not a duke. Not a laird. Where is my brother-in-law? The one who would do anything to keep Maclaren strong? The one who would fight tooth and nail to keep everyone safe and secure.” She speared him with a pitying glance. “The man of honor who would have rather fallen on his own sword than utter a single lie.”

  He frowned at her, his fingers curling into fists as something heavy and hot settled into his bones. “I’m no’ a liar.”

  She only propped one brow in argument. He considered how he’d strung along Grace, the games he’d been playing with Imogen, and backed down. Very well, then. He hadn’t been honorable, and accepting it stung.

  “You’re forgetting who you are,” Aisla went on. “And your anger over what you think is an injustice is blinding you.”

  “Blinding me to what?” Ronan asked.

  “To the fact that Imogen needs help,” Aisla answered.

  Ronan stared at her, concern briefly overruling his anger. “What makes ye say that? Help with what?”

  She grimaced but shook her head. “I don’t know exactly. But something is wrong. She’s…different than before, when I met her in Edinburgh.”

  His mind brought up the image of Silas Calder first. The man hadn’t been in Edinburgh. No, he had shown up in London. And if Ronan looked back, he could pinpoint that was when the changes in her persona had become apparent, not just on the surface but deeper. Then again, he didn’t know which Imogen he was going to get from day to day, and as far as he knew, she only had one goal…to thwart him from this engagement.

  “The dissolution of this agreement is the only thing that can help Imogen. It’s what we both need. Imogen and I…we dunnae do well when others try to force our hands.”

  Aisla smirked. “Imagine that. The two of you have something in common. And I’d wager my firstborn that that alone outweighs anything you have in common with Lady Reid.”

  “I’m no’ going to marry Grace. Nor am I going to marry Imogen.”

  She would never let things get that far.

  “Then do what you must,” Aisla said, taking his arm again and moving slowly along the row. “Break the betrothal and get on with things.”

  He looked sideways at her. “Ye ken what would happen if I cry off.”

  “Maclaren Distillery would fall under new management, yes.”

  The words were cold. Unfeeling and hollow. He stopped and stared at her. “New management?”

  “It’s what you do there, isn’t it? You manage the production, the workers, the business accounts, the problems and the improvements.” She ticked each one off on her gloved fingers. “Lord Kincaid would place someone competent in charge of those tasks, I’m sure. The family business would not fall to pieces, as you seem to think.”

  “Do ye hear yerself, lass? Family business. My business. Maclaren Distillery has been my bloody life, Aisla. What would my clanspeople think if I gave it up? They’ll think I’ve abandoned them.”

  She snorted. “Come now. They would not want to see their laird forced into anything, either. And then you would not have to marry someone who is so untenable. So much so that you would lower yourself to act the fool and to make her one as well.”

  Ronan blinked in stunned surprise and waited for his breath to come back to him. He couldn’t believe Aisla was actually suggesting he forfeit the distillery. And she seemed to have it all sorted out, too. But it was something else she said that his temper reacted to.

  “Imogen is no’ untenable, and she’s nae fool.”

  Aisla shrugged, though something like triumph flashed in her eyes. “Well, she certainly isn’t right for you. Not if you’re going to such destructive lengths to avoid taking her as a wife.”

  “It’s no’ because of Imogen herself. It’s about integrity, and pride, and feeling as if I’ve been betrayed by my own kin, forced into a marriage that wasnae of my own choosing.”

  She propped her hand on her hip and blew out a breath. “If circumstances were different, would you have?”

  “Would I have what?”

  “Chosen Imogen yourself.”

  The question threw him.

  That was the reason for his original fury. For being forced into a betrothal with a stranger, a woman who was not even a Highlander but a selfish, vain, citified lady with a weak constitution who would likely sob over a muddy dress hem and perish after one wicked Highland winter. He sighed, recalling how certain he’d been that Lady Imogen Kinley would be the furthest thing from a suitable laird’s wife.

  But he’d been wrong about her. His every assumption had been struck down, one by one.

  She was the furthest thing from a delicate miss. She was intelligent and indomitable, and she cared for those who were not as fortunate as she. He’d been so caught up in preserving his hold on Maclaren Distillery and in emerging as the victor of his and Imogen’s battle of wills that he hadn’t stopped to consider all he’d learned about her and that she was no longer a stranger.

  The easy answer was that he would choose her now, just by virtue of who she was. The irony wasn’t lost on him…that he was fighting to rid himself of a woman he actually liked…whom he could conceive of as the future Duchess of Dunrannoch.

  “Yes, well, you’re right,” Aisla said, breaking into his thoughts. “You should be able to choose your future wife or, in this case, not choose her. So do it.”

  She rose onto the tips of her toes to kiss him on the cheek, and he scowled, though it turned into a grin. “I thought ye were angry with me.”

  “I am. But I also love you, my dear brother-in-law, and I truly do want you to be happy. What you’re doing with Grace is not the way. The brother I know would never let his honor come into question. Either honor your betrothal, honor her, or walk away.”

  Aisla left him then, retreating down the row the way they’d come. He watched her go, his mind as crowded as that damned garden. Honor a marriage that neither of them wanted? They’d each had their reasons why at the start of all this. How much could they have possibly changed in the past few weeks? And yet, with dawning surprise, Ronan realized many things had.

  Aisla was right. He had to decide one way or another…between his unconventional bride and an uncertain future or his own stubborn pride.

  …

  Lying in bed with her blankets and pillows rumpled around her head, Imogen sighed. She was at her wit’s end with the balls and the musicales and the endless soirees.

  Between managing Silas’s unswerving attentions—somehow the arrogant knave managed to show up wherever she was—and watching another woman drape herself all over Ronan, Imogen’s patience was taking a beating.

  In truth, the jealousy over the latter had taken her by surprise. She hadn’t expected to feel anything with respect to Grace except relief that she was drawing Ronan’s attentions, but the woman’s overt flirtation had been hard to stomach. Grace was beautiful, and she’d been Ronan’s first love. He had to have feelings for her, and regardless of whether she’d made a mistake by marrying another, clearly she hadn’t gotten over hers for him. No, Imogen wouldn’t stand in their way. Because Lady Reid was her way out.

  Then why on earth does the thought of her being Ronan’s wife make me so miserable?

  Imogen had no answers.
There was no place for the Highlander in her life. No matter how protective and strong or bloody handsome he was. Warmth gathered low in her belly. He’d claimed to want her in the hot air balloon. Ye light my blood on fire, Imogen.

  The memory of his words lit her on fire.

  “This is impossible,” she muttered.

  “What is impossible, my lady?” Hilda’s voice inquired.

  Imogen moved the pillow from her face. “Deterring the Highlander. Dealing with Silas. All of it. I wish I was back in Edinburgh with the girls at Haven and none of this had ever happened. What are the odds that this is all a dream and I’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal?”

  Hilda snorted. “Slim.”

  Imogen launched the pillow at her. “Some comfort you are.”

  “I’m simply realistic, my lady.” Hilda retrieved the pillow. “Now, come. We need to get you ready.”

  Her limbs were heavy and lethargic as she allowed Hilda to dress her for that night’s ball, which would take place at Lord and Lady Langlevit’s home in Mayfair. There was still another full week before her engagement ball. Seven days full of musicales, soirees, and more interminable balls. Imogen wasn’t sure how she was going to make it.

  She truly wished she could just go back to Edinburgh and seal herself inside Haven. She needed to feel grounded and not so unhinged.

  I think ye hide behind Haven. Ye use it as a shield.

  Ronan had accused her of this, and, considering her current longing, Imogen wondered if he’d seen something in her that she hadn’t. But Haven made her feel safe, just as it was intended to do for the women it provided shelter and care for. Managing the space gave her comfort. Not just the shelter, but the work itself; helping other women helped her. Ronan was wrong. She wasn’t using Haven to hide.

  Once ready, Imogen went to the foyer, only to learn that her betrothed had sent a message apologizing that he would be unable to escort her to the ball. The pang she felt just under her ribs infuriated her. Since when had she come to count on Ronan being there? On wanting him there? She felt herself sinking, unable to battle the gravid pressure settling around her shoulders as she stepped from the carriage and into the London home of Lord and Lady Langlevit. As she was announced and felt eyes pressing toward her, no doubt searching for her fiancé, Imogen half hoped Ronan was already present.

  She took a glass of champagne and saw her parents on the opposite end of the ballroom. Imogen stopped herself from making her way toward them. If Silas was here, he would likely be close by as well. She didn’t see him, but the place was a crush. Unlike Ronan’s towering frame, Silas’s was slighter, easier to blend into the crowds. He could be anywhere, waiting to strike like a snake.

  Imogen moved toward a cluster of chattering ladies, clearly discussing the latest on-dit if their furtive and entertained expressions said anything at all.

  “…only a matter of time, I’m sure,” one of the women said as she drew close enough to overhear.

  “Lady Reid has her sights on him,” another said.

  “That charity girl is no prize herself.”

  Imogen halted on the periphery of the group, none of the women having spotted her. Charity girl? They had to be speaking of her. The him, clearly, was Ronan.

  “He didn’t even bother to accompany his betrothed tonight. Perhaps another announcement is in the works.”

  The group of them twittered and leaned in closer, lowering their voices. Imogen walked away, the champagne she sipped unable to dissolve the stone lodged in her throat. Familiar faces swam before her, but her jaw felt like a brick that didn’t want to budge.

  Those women were right. Hadn’t Imogen been thinking it earlier? Lady Reid was the best solution. So why was she fretting over the gossip so damned much?

  Imogen had wedged herself into a remote corner of the ballroom when she heard Ronan’s name being announced. He’d come. The weightless sensation inside her chest only proved that she was in more danger than ever when it came to her contrary fiancé. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths to settle her scattered spirits.

  “You’re getting tired of your game, aren’t you?”

  Silas.

  Hell, Imogen hadn’t even seen him approaching, but now he stood before her, his rangy frame blocking her view of the ballroom entrance.

  “I’m under the weather.” It was all she could manage right then.

  “Or you are finally coming to see that I was right all along,” he said, his full lips stretching into a smug grin. “Be done with him already, Gennie.”

  Once upon a time, she lived for those smiles. Now, they only filled her with revulsion. Silas was like the apple from one of her favorite children’s stories: shiny, red and beautiful on the outside, but rotten and poisonous on the inside.

  “Go away.”

  “I know what you stand to lose,” he said, and Imogen snapped her eyes to his. “Oh yes, your father let slip the truth of your ‘betrothal’ over dinner. But I can help you, you know.”

  The man belonged in an asylum. She frowned. When had he had dinner with her father? Was he trying to work his way into her parents’ graces? Slither his way into their lives again? “I want your help as much as I do a case of gout.”

  “There is something you might be interested to know about your Highlander—or rather, something he would be willing to forfeit his precious distillery for in order to keep secret.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him and was filled with a sudden, inexplicable urge to protect her dratted fiancé from Silas and his opportunistic schemes, despite whatever secret he was suggesting. “You’re mistaken if you think I want anything from you.”

  “Mr. Calder.” Ronan’s deep voice resonated through Imogen. He had cut his way across the crowded ballroom swiftly.

  Silas turned and all but scowled at him. “Good evening, Your Grace. So glad to see you could make it. Lady Imogen was looking rather abandoned.”

  “I couldnae leave her to the wolves, now could I?” Ronan’s reply wasn’t accompanied by a smile. His serious, brooding blue-gray eyes hunted Silas’s face a moment, his hand stealing around Imogen’s waist. She hated herself a little more for leaning into him, for breathing a little easier now that he stood close, but did it anyway.

  Silas made no reply but bowed and moved off.

  “Was he bothering ye?”

  Now that Silas was gone, Imogen tried to break from the hand that rested about her waist. “No.”

  “I’m no’ blind, Imogen.” Ronan’s fingers dug into her hip and held her to his side. “I ken ye have history with him.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Why are you late?” she shot back. “Where have you been? Wait, let me guess—Lady Reid’s?”

  It was an obvious attempt to deflect his questions, but after a moment of enduring a knowing glare, he scowled. “In fact, aye. I was.”

  The stone in her throat increased in size. I cannot let him see.

  “At this rate, you’ll be bringing her to our engagement ball.”

  “I’ll no’ be bringing her anywhere, no’ anymore.” Imogen had no ready quip for what seemed to be a brutally forthright reply and could only stare at him. “Come. Dance with me.”

  A slow waltz was already in progress, and couples were moving across the dance floor. They joined them, Imogen too curious about his statement to refuse.

  “I ended it tonight,” he said after a few turns.

  Imogen peered at him in stunned shock, their waltz slowing, the other couples seeming to spin around them. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing I should repeat in polite society.”

  Imogen should have been relieved. But as they moved among the other dancers, his strong thighs brushing against hers, his firm arms and grip supporting her, his expression so earnest and vulnerable and expectant, she felt that same drip of panic that had attacked in the hot air balloon when Ronan had offered marriage.

  He was telling her all of this because he wanted something from her. Acceptance?
He wasn’t pushing her away but drawing her closer. Next, he’d ask about Silas again. What would he say if he knew the truth? He’d be disgusted. He’d wish to God he hadn’t broken things off with Lady Reid so prematurely.

  The waltz ended, and Imogen pulled free from Ronan’s arms.

  “Excuse me, I’m…going to find my parents.” She started away before he could reply or reach for her again.

  Wanting to escape both him and the crowds, she continued out of the ballroom, down the hall toward the first empty room she could find. It wasn’t far from the commotion of the party, and as she peered inside, the quiet, cozy space drew her in. A hearth fire was lit, a pianoforte and harp by a pair of windows. There was a desk holding a variety of instruments, bells and stringed boards and even a violin. Imogen closed the door behind her, her agitation settling.

  Imogen crossed the room to the harp. It was a beautiful design, and as she ran her fingertips over the taut strings their music filled the room.

  “I thought you might find a way for us to speak, uninterrupted.”

  Her fingers went flat against the strings. God, the man was relentless. Imogen slowly turned toward the door, where Silas had entered and was now closing them both inside.

  “I did not lead you in here. You followed me, uninvited,” she said, her fingers gripping the tight harp strings. The wires bit into her skin.

  “Hear me out, Gennie. You’ll be pleased,” he went on, coming forward.

  How could she have thought she’d be safe anywhere with this sorry excuse for a man keeping such a hawk’s eye on her?

  “You need to listen to me, Silas. There is nothing more you could say or do to win me over, nothing you can threaten me with or coerce me with, so why don’t you just go hunt for your next victim and leave me be.”

  She felt terrible after saying it. She wouldn’t wish her or Belinda’s experiences on anyone. Silas needed to be stopped. But exposing him would mean exposing herself as well.

  It would end her betrothal. But it would also end her reputation, her parents’ reputations, and quite possibly Haven itself.

  “You were never this stubborn. In fact, I recall a time when you fell head over heels to please me.” Silas’s eyes flashed over with something like excitement as he approached. Imogen stepped behind the harp, toward the piano. “I can appreciate a challenge.”