“Where are ye going?”
“To set things right.”
Niall squeezed his shoulders as if in understanding. “Good luck.”
Ronan almost chuckled. He’d need more than luck to see Imogen and let her go. He’d need a miracle not to throw her over his arm and spirit her away into the wilds of the Highlands where no one would ever find them. They could live in a cottage off the land. Instead of a duke, he could be a husband, a lover, a father. All worthy things.
Ronan shoved the dreams away and took his leave. Since he’d walked to Niall’s residence, he flagged down a hackney and gave directions for Kincaid Manor. He didn’t even know if Imogen would want to see him, but he had to take the chance that she would.
Upon arrival, he announced himself to the butler, though the man knew him by now, and was ushered to a light-filled salon adjacent to the one he’d been in earlier when his fiancée had laid herself bare. He was glad for it. He didn’t think he could bear to be in that room without recalling the aching vulnerability and pain that had been etched on her face.
Ronan sat on the edge of a delicate sixteenth-century chair that his frame dwarfed, then stood up, walking to the window. Then he checked his watch and strode to the other end of the room, mindlessly noting the painted figurines in the cabinet. He was restless. Anxious. Would she refuse to see him? Was she even at home? Ronan frowned. He would not have been offered admittance if she weren’t.
“Your Grace?” Her soft voice made his heart hitch. “What are you doing here?”
He drank her in, taking in her pale, beautiful face and the fact that she was dressed in a lovely muslin gown, though she’d stripped off her gloves. He had the sudden urge to press his lips to those elegant hands. “Are yer parents at home?”
“No, they’re still at luncheon. I…” She trailed off, her voice a rasp. Ronan frowned. He had hoped to announce his intentions to her parents as well, but their absence would not preclude him from saying what he’d come to say. “I felt ill and decided to return home,” she explained. “It was…too soon. The gossip… Well, I’m certain you can imagine what that was like.”
“Tell me,” he said, longing to take her into his arms but knowing she would not welcome it. Even now, she was so guarded with him. He saw it so clearly. That cool reserve—it wasn’t just part of her personality. It was the sum of her armor.
She walked to the sideboard and poured herself a brandy. “I’m officially a fallen woman.” A spare chuckle rose into the air when she downed the glass and refilled it. “And apparently also the subject of an illegal duel, no less.”
Ronan’s eyebrows rose. News in the ton did travel fast.
“That’s all anyone could talk about, and my ill-timed arrival only made it worse. I’m a fucking pariah.” She turned toward him, regarding him over the rim of her glass, looking vulnerable yet equally fierce. Or perhaps it was her brash choice of words that made her seem so feral. He wanted to kiss that saucy mouth. Hear her whisper that word in other ways. “Is it true about the duel?”
Ronan gave a noncommittal shrug.
“I’m sorry ye had to deal with that,” he said instead. “The gossip will blow over eventually, when the ton has something else to salivate upon.”
Inscrutable green eyes met his. “If it’s true, you can’t duel him. He’s not honorable, and he won’t delope. You have to call it off.”
“Why?”
“Silas is an excellent marksman,” she said in a dispassionate tone. “My father taught him to hunt. He never misses.”
The slight waver in her voice made him pause, despite her stoic expression. Was she worried for him? “Dunnae fash, lass. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, ye’ll be free of that man for good.”
“And if he shoots you in the heart?” The waver had become a distinct wobble.
He exhaled. “Then we both die, and ye’ll be free of us both.”
Imogen slammed the glass down and approached him, fire in her eyes. “This is madness, Ronan. Call it off.”
“Nae.”
She jabbed at his chest, and it was all he could do not to snatch her into his arms and seal his lips to hers. Kiss her and devour her until he couldn’t breathe. Until she was gasping for air. But he forced himself to stand still. To inhale her fresh wildflower scent, feel the heat coming off her body, and not move a muscle.
Green eyes clashed with his. “You bloody, daft fool.”
And then she kissed him.
Ronan’s arms banded around her, and his mouth moved on hers with swift, violent hunger. Teeth grazed and tongues slashed. He slanted his head and tugged down her jaw. She opened for him, kissing him wildly until he could taste the salt of her tears between them. They fought and dueled, gorged and consumed, each giving no quarter, until it was no longer a kiss but a battle with no victors.
Imogen pulled away gasping, her fingers knotted into his coat. “Don’t do this. Please. I’m begging you, Ronan. I couldn’t…couldn’t bear it if…” She clamped her mouth shut as if her thoughts were unutterable.
“It’s the only way.” He cleared his throat and stepped out of her reach, her hands falling away and his heart pounding a ferocious tempo in his chest. “There’s one more thing. To stave off the rumors, I forfeit on the agreement, but ye will be the one to call off the engagement in public. If I do it, people will believe it’s because of recent events, and I dunnae want ye affected further.”
Imogen blinked, her eyes going wide with shock. “You don’t want to marry me?”
Quite the opposite.
“This is for the best,” he said. “It’s what ye want, so I’ve called off the betrothal. My solicitor has already been informed, and everything as agreed will be transferred.”
The silence stretched between them, interminable and heavy.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
“Ye ken why, Imogen. I want ye to be happy. I want ye to have everything ye ever wanted.”
His eyes stung, the unfamiliar feeling stunning him into silence for a moment. Or maybe it was because of the intimate words pushing to his lips with a life of their own, words he’d never spoken to a woman. He didn’t care. They had to be said.
“And because I love ye.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The room around Imogen turned hazy, and all she could see was Ronan’s fervent, anguished eyes. They cut through her, tore through all her walls, flaying her heart wide.
“You…” Her tongue had ceased to work.
“Love ye. Aye. I do, Imogen. And that’s why I’ll no’ marry ye. All of this”—he waved an arm—“marriage…a husband…what ye want to do with yer life should be yer choice. No’ some agreement between our parents. Ye speak about what I deserve, but it’s about what ye deserve, too. I promised that I’d never let another man hurt ye, and that includes me.”
She shook her head, on the verge of tears. Though she didn’t know if they were forming because of the shocking offering Ronan had just made to be the one to call off the betrothal, because he was going to risk his life defending her honor in a duel, or because he no longer wished to marry her. She supposed the tears could be a response to all three.
“But the Maclaren distillery. Your source of income, and your clan’s sustenance. You can’t give them up. Your clan needs them, don’t they?” He’d been fighting for them this whole time. They were his life, just as Haven had been hers. Had been? She frowned. Since when was Haven not her whole life? As she stared at the lionhearted man before her, Imogen knew her answer: since Ronan. Not in the beginning, no. But now, after all they’d been through together, she realized he’d made a place for himself in her life. In her heart.
“I will no’ leave ye without yer inheritance. Without protection. Without the life ye’ve made for yerself. Things will turn out just fine for me. Ye dunnae need to be concerned with that.”
“Will they?” she asked, disbelieving. “No. Ronan, I’m the one who is calling off the wedding, not you.”
He bobbed his head in a nod. “Aye, that’s how I intend for it to appear.”
“No, not just appear,” she said, her voice rising. “On paper. Officially. I cried off first, remember?”
The man’s jaw dropped, and he actually laughed at her, a huge smile breaking across his face as he clutched at his stomach, making her catch her breath at the sheer handsomeness of him. God, he had dimples. Right there, peeking through the dark scruff over his cheeks. How had she never noticed? Probably because he never smiled. Not like this. Laughing at her.
“Pray tell, what’s so funny?” she snapped.
“Ye turn everything into a competition, dunnae ye?” he mumbled, mirth in his eyes. “Even this.”
“I don’t want you to lose everything, you dolt.”
“I stand to lose nothing, Imogen,” he said, sobering. “Nothing that cannae be rebuilt. Ye’ve lost enough. Let me do this for ye.”
Her hands shook at the sincerity in his voice. He meant it, every word. He’d give it all up so she wouldn’t have to. The sacrifice was too big. Imogen couldn’t accept it. Especially since she was the one who couldn’t marry. This was because of her and her ghosts and all the wounds that couldn’t ever heal over.
She opened her mouth, and Ronan stepped toward her but then seemed to rethink the closeness after the kiss that had happened before and held back. “Dunnae argue, it’s already done. I needed to ken yer future was secure.”
Because he loves me.
Imogen stalked toward the hearth, turning her back to him. The bullheaded man! Why did he have to be so honorable? Why did he have to love her? A jagged pain seared her, flecked with the smallest traces of wonderment. This man loved her. Even with all her broken pieces. And yet she could not have him. She could not let herself have him.
“I’ve asked Niall to be my second tomorrow,” Ronan said after a minute of silence. It reminded her of the more immediate crisis—the duel.
“I don’t want you to do this.”
His jaw hardened. “It’s done.”
She gritted her teeth, rolling her hands into fists. Of course he wouldn’t listen. He’d challenged Calder, and his cursed honor would never allow him to renege. No, the duel would happen, whether she begged and pleaded against it or not. Imogen could see it in his eyes and in the stubborn set of that jaw. Could she convince Calder to refuse the challenge? No, he would relish the chance to kill the man he’d viewed as his competition while defending his honor. She wanted to spit. The man had no honor. Whereas Ronan… Her eyes slid to the man standing a few feet away, his blue-gray stare glued to her as if he were trying to memorize every part of her.
God. She had to do something!
Perhaps she could come up with some way to keep him from it. Incapacitate him, perhaps. Hilda had all manner of sleeping potions. Ones brewed to help her sleep after the kidnapping, others made to deter overzealous suitors. A single drop into their drinks and they would fall into a nice, happy sleep. She’d only had to use it once before, in Edinburgh. Imogen bit her lip. Ronan would be furious if he knew. But he would be safe—though not showing up for the duel would be viewed as a dishonorable act, and he was a man who valued honor.
“Would you like to stay for a drink?” she blurted.
His stare narrowed, shrewd eyes meeting hers. “It’s midafternoon. I ken what ye’re trying to do, Imogen.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Imogen asked and then blushed at the husky sound of her own voice.
She loosed a breath, feigning innocence, and sauntered closer. She didn’t miss the way his body tensed. So did hers, for that matter. The brutally scorching kiss they’d shared wasn’t far from her mind. Faint color brushed his cheekbones as though he remembered it viscerally as well.
She could seduce him, too, she supposed. Then again, how would she keep a man in her bed for an entire afternoon, evening, and night? Imogen wasn’t that much of a woman of the world, nor was she confident in her seductress abilities within the bedchamber. No matter how much she’d overheard in passing at Haven. Inside the bedroom, she was a virtual novice. She couldn’t help the flush of heat that pressed into her cheeks.
“Offering me alcohol,” he said. “Getting me to change my mind about the betrothal.”
Oh, right. That’s exactly what she was thinking about…not setting the bedsheets on fire. Imogen grasped onto the line of conversation, trying to redirect her unvirtuous thoughts. “I meant tea, if you must know. And I won’t allow you to lose everything you hold dear because of me, no matter your skewed notions of honor. So choose. The betrothal or the duel. You can’t have both.”
The idea was a stroke of genius. Not that she would give him the chance to choose either one. She just needed him to accept a drink so she could drug him. Like a sly criminal. Like Silas did to me. She felt a twinge of guilt in her bones but shrugged it off. This wasn’t the same thing at all. She had no plans to harm Ronan. She wanted to protect him.
He’d forgive her. Eventually. Maybe.
Still, she went to the door and spoke with the footman there, instructing him to send for tea. Then her eyes went to Hilda, who sat quietly on a settee, knitting in her lap. She touched her small finger to her lip, watching the maid’s eyes widen. It was their signal.
“Are you certain?” her maid mouthed.
Imogen gave an infinitesimal nod and turned back to the man standing in the room. “We’ll discuss it over tea.”
“Christ, ye are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he muttered.
“Not true,” she said, counting off on her fingers. “Sorcha. Aisla. Your mother, perhaps.”
“I’m cursed, apparently.”
She stepped daringly closer, pushing him, herding him to where she wanted. “Ronan, if you claim to love me…”
As soon as she said it, Imogen knew it was a terrible mistake. He’d admitted it, but not so she could use it as a tool or throw it back into his face as a form of control. Stupid.
Shutters descended over those cool stormy blue eyes, and he shook his large body as though he’d been in a stupor. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his expression almost pained. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked from the salon. The only other sound to follow was the front door slamming in his wake.
Damnation.
There was nothing to be done for it. She’d have to go to his residence. Sighing, Imogen set off toward the stairs to find Hilda, who would no doubt be lacing a cup of tea with the sleeping draught as instructed earlier. She was passing through the foyer when a rap on the front door stopped her. Triumph bubbled in her chest as she opened it, thinking it was Ronan.
“Change your mind?” she chirped.
But it wasn’t the duke who stood there. It was Silas. Before she could stop him and slam the door in his face, he slipped past her into the foyer. Imogen glanced around. Burns and the usual footmen stood at their positions, but Silas was a known guest. None of the servants would have cause to know how dangerous he was. Or would they?
Imogen drew a breath and squared her shoulders, refusing to cower or show any fear. “What do you want? You have no business here.”
Pale glittering eyes met hers, sweeping her body and making her shudder with loathing. “To make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
She faltered. “What can you possibly offer me?”
“Marry me, Gennie, and I will not kill your Highlander tomorrow. You know my skill and that I do not miss. Give me what’s mine, and everyone will get what they want.”
Her gaze flicked to the listening servants, who kept their eyes carefully averted, and despite the warnings in the pit of her stomach, she ushered him into the small room that Ronan had just vacated. Leaving the door wide open, she remained carefully out of his reach, watching as he removed his hat and gloves.
“That is not what I want,” she said.
“Yes, it is.” He lowered his voice to a whisper that only she could hear. “You don’t even know the man you’re engaged
to. I know his secret, you see. He’s illegitimate.”
Imogen couldn’t help it—she burst out into humorless laughter. “God, you’ll stop at nothing, won’t you?”
“It’s true, and I have proof from your own father’s desk.” He grinned widely. “A letter penned from Lady Dunrannoch to Lady Kincaid alluding to the fact that your precious duke would be born out of wedlock. So he’s a bastard and lower than me in the eyes of the ton.”
“That’s absurd,” she said, but the conviction in his voice threw her.
“Marry me and I’ll call off the duel and take that secret to the grave.”
Imogen blinked. “You’re insane.”
But her mind raced. Such information, if it was indeed true, would destroy Ronan. But she had to believe Silas was bluffing. Why wouldn’t he have used it before? And why bribe her rather than Ronan? Unless he didn’t actually have such a letter in his possession and he didn’t believe he could trick the duke into believing him.
“What is your answer?” he asked calmly.
She stared at him, her shoulders heaving. “Why did you accept the duel?”
“It was a means to an end.”
A murderous end. Silas’s skill was unmatched, and while she knew that Ronan would be a fearsome opponent, one simply did not survive a shot to the heart. Imogen’s mind raced. If she couldn’t get to Ronan with her prior plan, she’d have to find a way to stop it somehow. Alert the police? Or the Runners? The man she’d spoken with after she’d been kidnapped, Thomson, would be an option. Dueling was illegal, after all.
“Dawn appointments at Putney Heath don’t strike me as your usual fare, Silas.” She made her face blank. “I have it on good authority that you favor running like a rabbit with a fox on its heels.”
His face stayed cold. “We’ll see who the fox is at Regent’s in a few hours.”
Regent’s. That was almost too easy. Almost as if he’d known what she was doing and wanted her to know. Because telling her the location made it real. She could see the small park in her mind’s eye, see them counting off the paces, squaring off…firing. Dying. Bile rose into her throat. Silas would not miss.
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 27