What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  She sucked in a breath, aware of how dangerously near he was. “I’m warning you. Stay back.”

  Imogen tried to push between the edge of the piano and the table of instruments, but her skirt snagged on something, stopping her. Silas pounced, coming around the piano and grabbing her arm. They struggled, Imogen flailing in the enclosed space, ripping her skirt on whatever had caught it, her nails scratching out at his face.

  “Don’t fight this,” he said, breathless as he captured both her arms and pinned them behind her back. He shoved her against the display table of instruments, rattling them.

  “Leave me alone!” she screamed, uncaring if anyone outside the music room could hear. She wrenched her arms, fighting against his surprising strength. He’d been powerful before, too, though at the Golden Antler she’d been dizzy and weak with laudanum. This time, however, she was no compromised, shaken seventeen-year-old.

  Imogen stomped his foot and kicked his shin, bringing up her knee but missing her intended target as he released her to dart to the side. One arm now free, she reached behind her for the nearest instrument—a brass bell—and swung it at him. It glanced off his chin before he swatted it from her grip with an unhinged growl.

  The bell clanged to the carpet just as the door flew open and cracked against the wall, and Ronan surged into the room. “I’d think twice about that if I were ye.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The sight of Imogen’s torn gown and ashen face nearly made Ronan lose all control. He’d heard the muffled feminine scream over the sounds from the ballroom and had bolted down the corridor, smashing into room after room until he’d found the source of it. Seen her…relatively unharmed. And then him, leering and threatening with a demented expression that had made Ronan’s blood burn. Relief had been eclipsed by pure, unmitigated rage.

  “Ronan, Your Grace, don’t.”

  The soft plea held him at bay. Barely.

  It was only by some miracle that he was standing in one place and not grinding that filthy excuse for a man into the carpet, because every single instinct inside of him was pleading for it. He spared a glance to a trembling Imogen and felt his rising fury nearly boil over. Apart from the ripped skirt, she did not seem hurt, but he knew appearances could be deceiving. Especially with her.

  She hadn’t been forthcoming about Calder or what he had wanted. Though it was abundantly clear now, watching him back away, gripping his rapidly purpling chin…it had been something she hadn’t been willing to give.

  Was the man still angling for a fortune?

  Ronan gave him a foul look, eyeing the fallen bell and Calder’s swelling jaw. Anger bubbled in his veins, leaked down to his closed fists, and whispered in his ears. But he also knew this wasn’t the time or the place…and that was only because of the beseeching look on Imogen’s face for him not to make a scene.

  He forced a taunting grin to his face. “That looks like it hurt.”

  “What do you want?” Calder growled.

  “Now, now, is that any way to address yer betters?”

  Calder snarled. “You think you’re more worthy than I, simply because of your title?” He barked a laugh. “You truly have bought into the illusion, haven’t you?”

  Illusion? Ronan flattened his lips and stared the man down.

  “What do ye mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” he spat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Your Grace.”

  Ronan smiled. “That’s more like it.”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed, his eyes flashing with suffocated ire at Ronan’s tone, but he wisely kept quiet. Calder’s eyes darted to Imogen, and Ronan tensed, flooded by an instinctive urge to defend what was his. And Imogen was his. If in name only, for the moment—but he planned to change that.

  He crossed the room to stand in between them.

  “Do ye want to tell me what’s really going on here, Calder?” he asked, his voice sounding unnaturally calm. He sounded like a stranger even to his own ears. A calm, rational, non-murderous stranger, when in truth he was the opposite, holding on to his wits by a thread. If Imogen wouldn’t tell him what this man was to her, maybe the cur himself would elucidate.

  “You were interrupting a private moment, Dunrannoch,” Calder said. “Between me and an old friend. Ask her and she’ll tell you that we were catching up on the past few years. Weren’t we, Gennie?” He shot her a fulminating look.

  Ronan heard Imogen’s intake of breath and then her slow exhale. “Yes, he’s right. We were catching up. And now I’d like to return to the ball.”

  What in everlasting hell?

  Ronan’s gaze swung to her in astonishment, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. He wanted to throttle her. For lying, for not trusting him, even now when the sordid tableau made it more than clear that Calder had taken inexcusable liberties. What did the bastard have over her? Where was Ronan’s fearless, dauntless bride-to-be, who hadn’t let him step one toe out of line and who’d held him over the fire at every turn?

  His anger sharpened, both at the man for continuing to threaten her and at Imogen for permitting him to.

  “Is that what ye call it,” he drawled mildly, addressing Calder, “when yer old friend doesnae want yer attentions and chooses to fight ye off with an ornamental bell? That doesnae seem right, does it?”

  “She got a little worked up,” Calder replied smoothly, almost as if he had somehow regained the upper hand, though Ronan couldn’t fathom how. “You know how she can be. Difficult to control. She has always been a handful, our Lady Imogen.”

  The way the man spoke made the hairs on Ronan’s nape rise. He didn’t know what existed between them, but whatever it was wasn’t any good. Not with the pinched look of horror on his betrothed’s face and the grasping, concupiscent look on Calder’s. He started forward, but fingers at his sleeve stopped him.

  “Ronan, please.”

  The whisper was faint, but he heard it.

  “Get the fuck out of here before I break yer jaw,” he said softly and clearly. “Be warned, Calder. If ye ever come near her again, if ye ever so much as look at her again, ye’ll regret it.”

  The man goggled at him. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Aye.”

  “You do not want to make an enemy of me, Dunrannoch,” Calder said, walking toward the door. “I have friends in high places in both Scotland and England.”

  Ronan laughed. “Is that why ye’ve been hiding out in Italy for so long? I’d say yer friends have deserted ye.”

  “Lord Kincaid would disagree,” he said with a smug look directed at Imogen that made Ronan’s gut clench with sudden premonition.

  “Then perhaps Lord Kincaid doesnae ken ye as well as he should.”

  Imogen’s tiny gasp at the sound of her father’s name had sealed Ronan’s suspicion. Had she done something that she didn’t want her father to know about? Did it have to do with Haven? Was Calder an investor who had given her money and was possibly holding it over her?

  Ronan gritted his teeth as Calder left. Speculating would do little good. Imogen needed to confide in him…and to get her to do that, he would have to earn her trust. Ronan was well aware of the predicament he was in because of their games. Trust was not something they shared.

  He turned to Imogen, who had collapsed weakly onto a chaise lounge as if all the pent-up energy keeping her standing had suddenly drained away. She put her head in her hands and struggled for breath, her slim shoulders rising and falling at an accelerated rate. He recognized the signs of delayed panic. His sister Sorcha used to wake up in much the same way when she’d had night terrors after the wolf attack, as if she was so frozen she couldn’t take in enough air. He’d spent many a night stroking her hair and comforting her.

  “Deep breaths, love,” Ronan said gently, crouching in front of Imogen. He didn’t touch her, even though he ached to. She would not welcome it. “Easy. Slow and even, like this.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. “With me. Breathe in, and now
out.”

  It took a few minutes but as he breathed with her, she started to match his pace. After a while, her erratic breathing had calmed considerably.

  “What was that?” he asked, sensing she would not answer but needing to ask anyway. “What happened between ye and Calder?”

  Huge green eyes met his, glimmering with unshed tears and banked emotion. Her face was ashen. “Not here.”

  “Do ye want to go back to Kincaid Manor?” he asked, knowing she’d likely be more comfortable there.

  “No, to your house.”

  He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll speak to Langlevit and see if we can leave through another entrance. Lock this door behind me and don’t open it until I return.”

  Ronan found the earl and quickly communicated that Imogen wasn’t feeling well and they needed to leave discreetly. Langlevit didn’t ask any questions and ushered them through a side door that led to the small courtyard, where Ronan’s coach was summoned posthaste, and they were on their way to his residence. They did not speak in the carriage, and until Ronan had her ensconced in his warm study with a tumbler of brandy in hand and sitting in front of the fire, he didn’t broach the subject. He intended to wait until she was ready, no matter how long it took.

  Imogen stared into the glass, and when she spoke, her voice hushed. “I’ve known Silas Calder since I was a girl. He was my father’s steward, but Silas quickly became more like the son my father never had. We were near the same age and became friends. But then…”

  “Something more,” Ronan supplied after she went silent a few moments. “I have heard the history, Imogen. I ken ye were engaged to Calder.”

  Surprise registered on her face but then ebbed. She would have known the gossip, even a decade old, would still make its way to Ronan’s ears.

  “How did it end?” he asked softly.

  “The official excuse was that he was summoned to London to care for an ailing aunt,” Imogen replied, lips pressed thin.

  “And the truth?”

  She hesitated, as if grappling with whether to tell him or not. But then she sighed and lifted her eyes to him. “He hurt my friend. My governess, Belinda. I was seventeen, and though I no longer required a governess, I asked her to stay on as my companion. She was so kind, so gentle and thoughtful, and…Silas took advantage of her. As well as others.”

  Ronan nodded, disgust flaring his nostrils. The man was a worm. He knew the type. They worked as upper servants for peers, and too much power went to their heads, especially when it came to female servants in their households. They often thought themselves lords of the manor, in lieu of their masters. Clearly, Silas had gone a little further by coveting marriage to the daughter of an earl. Ronan frowned. What had possessed Lord Kincaid to agree to such a match?

  “Belinda hid her increasing state well under loose dresses and baggy clothing,” Imogen went on. “I didn’t even know she was with child until her time came.”

  “You were with her?” he asked, trying to piece together what happened. Imogen shook her head, eyes dropping to the glass of brandy.

  “No. Things went…terribly wrong. She and the babe both died.”

  Ronan shook his head, his stomach in knots. Women and infants died in childbirth often. Too often. Whenever one of his sisters or sisters-in-law approached her time, it was an unspoken fear in the back of his mind. Losing her friend had to have been difficult, and learning that her betrothed had been the father, a crushing blow.

  “I’m sorry, Imogen.”

  “Thank you. The thing was, none of us knew his true character. Not me, not my parents. After I came of age, he made his intentions clear on what he wanted—that we belonged together. I believed him.”

  “Ye considered him yer friend?” Ronan asked.

  She shrugged slender shoulders. “He was, I suppose. He was interested in what I had to say. He was always there when I needed him, and we became more.”

  “Ye? His master’s daughter?”

  Her mouth quirked. “Silas was never treated like a servant. He always felt like a member of the family, and Papa thought of him as a son. He brought me gifts and sought out my company, even when he worked for my father. I taught him to dance; he took me riding. Practiced with me when I learned history and mathematics. When Silas was a boy, my father had seen to his education, you see. Papa considered the senior Mr. Calder to be a friend.” She drew a breath. “I had never taken the interest of anyone before. Even during my first Season, I was a wallflower. It was heady for me to be the focus of such attention.” Her voice took on a slight strain. “Perhaps I was simply foolish and lonely.”

  Or perhaps he was a self-serving bastard. Ronan kept his opinion to himself.

  “I didn’t have many friends, and most of the people who interested me were acquaintances of my parents. Adults, not children. At the time, it didn’t seem strange for Silas to take an interest in me. My parents always took care to include him, and we naturally seemed to pair up.”

  “Ye didnae have friends? Other young ladies?” he asked, the image of a young, precocious Imogen coming to mind that was at distinct odds with the Imogen he knew. It was strange. He’d never thought of her as a child, but if he had to imagine her, he would have thought she would have been covered in dirt with a mischievous grin on her face. More like Rory.

  “No. I was shy,” Imogen explained. “I was too…proper. Too grown-up. Too much of a hoity-toity toff, the other girls used to say. And they hated the fact that I had such a large dowry. They felt it detracted from them, you see.”

  At her bitter tone, Ronan felt the urge to make her smile. “Ye? Shy? Proper? Are we talking about the same hoyden I’ve come to know? Surely ye jest.”

  She didn’t smile, but a smidge of humor sparked in her eyes. “I can see how you would be misled, given the various and admittedly hoydenish sides of me you’ve seen, but it’s the truth. I was an odd duck.” Imogen took a sip from her glass and licked her lips, her voice dimming to near-inaudible levels. “It was all my fault.”

  Ronan frowned. “What was yer fault?”

  “Attracting a man like Silas.”

  His fingers tightened on his own glass, but he let her speak. She was finally talking, finally trusting him enough to confide in him, and he didn’t want her to stop. “I should have seen through his lies, but I was so defiant, so proud to be going against Society norm by marrying a man beneath my station. So many people told me he was wrong for me, but I wouldn’t listen. I thought them all snobbish and arrogant.”

  “Ye were young and thought yerself in love,” he said gently. He knew what it felt like to be betrayed by someone you were ready to commit your life to. “If anyone should have kenned better, it was him. He took advantage of his position with yer father and his standing with ye. He’s a fortune hunter, a scoundrel of the worst sort.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “And when I discovered the truth, it was too late.”

  Ronan’s heart dropped to his toes at the look of dejection and pain on her expression. “But Lord Kincaid doesnae ken the truth, I take it.”

  Why, he wondered. To protect her dead governess’s reputation? Shutters descended, and Imogen’s eyes went blank. With a huff, she drained the rest of her brandy.

  “No. Silas left, and that was all I cared about at the time.” She drew a short breath. “And now he’s back.”

  Ronan poured her another brandy, his anger underscored by shared empathy, though it didn’t erase what had happened earlier and the scene he’d walked in on. Calder would pay for that one day. “Did he frighten ye tonight? Make unwelcome advances to ye?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  He smiled. “I ken that. But ye dunnae have to be strong every minute of every day, Imogen. Sometimes, ye can share the burden with someone else. Sometimes ye can just let go and ken that someone will catch ye if ye fall.”

  “Someone like you?”

  Her eyes met his, so much emotion churning in them. Anger, despair, sadness. A fragile s
himmer of hope. Ronan placed his glass down and knelt beside her chair. He put her tumbler aside and grasped her cold hand in his.

  “I can be. If ye’ll have me.”

  “Ronan, you don’t know what you’re asking,” she said in an agonized whisper, attempting to pull her fingers from his, but he held fast. “What you see is not who I am. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m…broken. I’m beyond repair for any man.”

  He grazed her cheekbone with his knuckles. “Because one good-for-nothing man took advantage of yer heart and broke it? Because of one humiliation? Nae, Imogen, ye’re no’ beyond repair. No’ for me.”

  “You can’t fix me, Ronan. Run now, while you have the chance.” Imogen’s lip wobbled as she swallowed hard and shook her head, tears leaking from her eyes. “If you want me to break off the betrothal, then fine, I will. I do. You’re free of it, of me.”

  Ronan lifted her hand to his lips, smiling against her smooth, soft skin. His decision felt right. In fact, nothing had ever felt so right. “Nae. I refuse.”

  “What are you refusing?” she asked.

  He grinned up at her. “If ye think I’ll let you get rid of me so easily, Lady Imogen, ye’ve sorely underestimated yer opponent.”

  “I thought that was the goal,” she said with a sniff. “To chase each other away.”

  “Well, lass, I’ve changed my mind.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “Why?”

  “Because I dunnae want to be free of ye.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Imogen felt the intense burn of that blue stare, felt it surround and envelop her. And she felt warmed. Protected. For once, she wanted to bask in it and pretend it was real. Pretend there were no Silas Calders and no Lady Reids, that there was only just the two of them…Ronan kneeling before her and kissing her hand like a suitor of old. Telling her he wanted her. Maybe it would become more, someday. But for now, she could bask in what it meant to be desired. She wondered what life would have been like if she’d met him as a girl.