What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Finish what you started,” he said, watching her. “I saw the look on your Highlander’s face as he left here, as well as yours earlier when you left with your parents. Let him have a chance to live. His life and his future are in your hands. All you have to do is say yes.”

  “You were waiting outside my home?” she asked, horrified. “Did you follow me?”

  “For quite some time and with great patience, Gennie.”

  Like a spider waiting for a fly.

  Revulsion filled her, coating the back of her tongue with sour bile. Without a doubt in her mind, she knew she could not allow this man to get anywhere near Ronan or near his family. And while she could just marry Silas and end it that way, a part of her knew she could never do it. She’d rather die.

  “Why do you want me so much?” she whispered. “I’m nothing to you.”

  “I’ve come to realize I don’t like being deprived of what was mine.”

  She sucked in an agonized breath. “You weren’t deprived. You took what you wanted and left.”

  Left me in pieces.

  His laugh was cold. “Not of my own accord, I assure you. I was chased out of Edinburgh by McClintock at the point of a pistol. Several pistols, to be precise. He can be very convincing. And yes, dear Gennie, I was deprived. Cheated of a future owed to me…what I had worked for all those years, slavering behind your father, pretending to be the son he always wanted, ingratiating myself, and for what? To be run out of Edinburgh by McClintock and his band of brigands. All because of Belinda.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “A man has needs. She was willing.”

  “She wasn’t willing,” Imogen said. “Neither was I.”

  But Silas wasn’t listening; his eyes were wild and feverish. He looked utterly demented, as though possessed by some other spirit. Imogen shivered.

  “And until I saw you here in London, I hadn’t given you another thought. But then I realized just how much had been stolen from me. First you, then Beatrice. Then others. I could not understand why they all kept slipping through my fingers, but I realized when I saw you at that ball. You were the first mistake I had to fix. My second chance.”

  Imogen nearly backed away from his fervor.

  Silas stared at her with overbright eyes. “You should have been mine, Gennie.”

  “That’s not my name,” she said, her skin crawling with revulsion. “Lady Beatrice killed herself to get away from you.”

  “And my child,” he snarled.

  “You did it on purpose, like you were going to do with me, to entrap her. Charmed her, seduced her. You’re nothing but a parasite.”

  Rage snapped in his eyes, his mouth going hard. “Don’t speak to me like that.”

  But before Imogen could form any reply, demanding that he get out of her house, a small whirlwind bounded into the room, nearly crashing into the man. Imogen’s eyes went wide as Rory drew back from Silas with a laugh, her stare riveted on the tray of tea and cakes that had just been delivered and meant for the previous visitor.

  “Pardon me, sir,” she squealed. “Just in time for afternoon tea! I’m starving.”

  “Rory, would you give us a minute?” Imogen asked, keeping her tone even.

  But it was too late. Silas’s fingers slid around the girl’s wrist, and Imogen had to force herself not to throw her body at him and wrench his arm away, every protective instinct inside of her screaming with panic.

  “Who are you, then, poppet?” he crooned.

  “What’s it to ye?” Rory scowled, yanking her hand to no avail. “Let me go. Dunnae ye ken it’s rude to grab a lady? Back off, ye stinkin’ hog grubber!”

  He laughed. “A lady, are you?”

  Imogen’s skin crawled, fear for the girl tightening her throat. “Don’t, Silas. Please. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “I think I’ll hold on a minute longer,” he said, not relinquishing his punishing grip. Rory was a strong girl, but she was no match for the strength of a grown man. His eyes narrowed on her. “You’re one of Stormie’s, aren’t you? I recognize those odd yellow eyes of yours.”

  Blood thundered in Imogen’s ears. How could Silas have known that? How did he even know the flash man? Dread was quick to rise in her belly. “How do you know that name?” she asked.

  Silas shrugged. “I told you. A man has needs.” With that, he tightened his grasp on Rory, peering at her. “He’ll be missing you, that’s for sure, if he even knew the treasure he had in his grasp. Since when are you a girl?”

  “Don’t touch her!”

  “I was always a lass,” Rory yelled at the same time, struggling harder. “Let me go, ye bleedin’ ugly clotheid.”

  “So much spirit,” he said. “I’m sure Stormie would welcome you back, at a steep price, of course. But first…a lesson.” He glanced down, and Imogen saw the moment his fingers twisted. Saw the contortion of Rory’s mouth when pain shot through her and a keening cry escaped her mouth. “Fight me, and I’ll snap your wrist like a twig.”

  “Rory, darling,” Imogen said. “Do as he says. Don’t struggle.”

  Defiant eyes met hers, but the girl must have seen something in her face, because she promptly went limp.

  “Good girl,” Silas said. “Obedience is a virtue.”

  “So’s no’ being an arsehole.” Too quick for the man, Rory slammed her heel down into his instep and jabbed her elbow into his stomach as hard as she could. Silas hunched over, and she yanked her hand from his grasp. She rushed to Imogen’s side.

  “That’s the toff whose man took ye,” she said, cradling her bruised wrist. “And been followin’ ye.”

  Imogen blinked. How did she know that? Rory’s statement also made Silas straighten, a calculating expression coming over his face. He replaced his hat and his gloves, looking like a cat with a bowlful of cream. “Never mind, Gennie. My offer is off the table. I have a better plan, after all. I’ll get rid of the Highlander, and then come back for you.” His smile filled her with dread. “Both of you. Stormie’ll be pleased.”

  “I’m no’ going anywhere with ye, ye soddin’ sheep sniffer,” Rory screamed.

  Silas’s face went dark with rage, and he lunged forward to grab the girl, but Imogen shoved Rory behind her and reached for a letter opener lying on the nearby desk.

  “Get out of my house!” Imogen snarled, brandishing the small weapon.

  “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” he taunted.

  Rory cackled, peeking around Imogen’s skirts. “I dunnae think it’s her ye have to fash about.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Calder.”

  The voice pierced the fog of rage in Imogen’s brain, and she turned to focus her fury-filled stare on Hilda…and the small pistol held unswervingly in her grip as she stood in the doorway, flanked by Burns and a footman.

  Hilda grinned and bared her teeth, making her round cheeks look quite sinister. “You heard what my lady said. Get out.”

  Imogen held her breath, but after a tense moment, Calder left.

  Her knees gave out, and she slid to the floor, taking Rory with her and fighting for breath. Within seconds, they were both gathered in Hilda’s plump arms. She dismissed the hovering servants with a glance, then sent Rory to the kitchen in Burns’s care to find some ice for her wrist.

  “Hilda, where on earth did you get that pistol?” Imogen asked when they were alone.

  “I’ve always had it, my lady,” the maid said, patting the pockets of her skirt. “Shane gave it to me years ago in case there was any trouble.”

  “Shane as in Shane McClintock?” Imogen repeated. A strange expression crossed Hilda’s face, one that almost looked like embarrassment as two spots of bright color landed on her cheeks. Imogen gaped in surprise. “Wait, you and McClintock? Since when?”

  “About a decade now. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  Imogen had never known. “Seems I have a lot to be grateful for. Thank you for looking out for me, Hilda.”

&n
bsp; “It’s my job, my lady.”

  But Imogen knew it went far beyond that. They were friends. She grasped the woman’s hand, accepting the comfort and strength she offered. Imogen replayed the events back in her head, the terror she’d felt when Silas had threatened Rory. He meant to send her back to Stormie and that hellhole of a flash den, and Imogen knew what that would mean for a girl like Rory. How many girls had she seen in the rookeries, broken and beaten both in body and in spirit? A meager few had crawled to Haven for a cot and a crust of bread, only to return to men like Stormie because they were too afraid of the consequences. No, she could not allow that.

  She had to be the one to stop Silas. To destroy him once and for all. For Rory’s sake. For her own.

  “What are you going to do?” Hilda asked as she rose to her feet.

  Imogen flattened her lips. “I’m going to finish this.”

  Now that the idea had taken root in her brain, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was an excellent shot. McClintock had insisted that she learn to protect herself, and he’d taught her to shoot. She’d practiced faithfully on her parents’ estate.

  “And your duke?”

  “He’s not my duke.” A heated shiver passed through her. He loved her. Oh, God, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him. But she had to. Imogen glanced over at the abandoned tea tray before meeting her maid’s eyes. “You know what they say. There’s nothing that a good pot of tea won’t cure.”

  “I’m quite certain that His Grace won’t be in the mood for tea, my lady.”

  “Then I’ll have to think of something more convincing, won’t I?”

  A grin dawned on Hilda’s face. “In that case, might I suggest the emerald silk, my lady.”

  Imogen nodded, suppressing her blush and the wanton heat that rose in her body at the thought of what she was going to do and the thoroughly indecent gown in question.

  It was time to take the performance up a notch.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After another much-needed session at Gentleman Jackson’s, Ronan arrived back at Dunrannoch House and chucked off his cloak, coat, and hat before stalking down the hallway to his study, shouting for Vickers. He needed a bath. A bracing, ice-cold bath. If he was at Maclaren, he’d go to the freezing loch for an extended swim. Anything to offset the embers of arousal still churning through his veins and the images currently torturing his brain of debasing Imogen Kinley’s beautiful body all over that delicately furnished salon.

  That kiss.

  Hell, she’d tasted like desire and fury. And he’d wanted nothing more than to bend her over that dainty table and make those little moans of hers turn into screams. If he had stayed for bloody tea, he would have done it, too. Perhaps it was the threat of the imminent duel that made his blood course in his veins. Or perhaps it was just her.

  Ronan needed to cool his head and rest, if he planned to finish Calder off tomorrow. Knowing his opponent’s skill, being restless and off-kilter wouldn’t do him any favors. Food and sleep, in that order. But first he had to do something about this blasted erection. Boxing had barely scraped the surface of his frustration. A whisky would help take the edge off. Then an ice bath. He cupped the hard, heavy length through his trousers and slammed open his study door, only to find someone propped up in a chair behind his desk.

  A very naked someone, judging by the bare shoulders peeping from her sheer undergarments. Grace’s eyes descended to the hand at his crotch, and she smiled, licking her lips. “Looks like we had the same idea.”

  Ronan found his tongue. “How did ye get in here, Lady Reid?”

  “Are ye no’ happy to see me?” She pouted and dropped her gaze to his thighs. “Parts of ye seem like ye are.”

  “I told ye,” he said. “There’s nothing between us any longer. Now get up and get dressed. What ye’re doing is unseemly, even for ye.”

  Ronan was going to find whoever let her in here and strangle him. He’d never put it past Grace to be so bold as to find herself naked in a man’s home in the middle of Mayfair, so he shouldn’t be surprised. Was she trying to force a marriage? Catch another husband by getting herself in a compromising position? Hurriedly, he backed out of the room and almost crashed into a body behind him.

  “Vickers, where the hell have you been? And how did that bloody woman get—”

  He glanced over his shoulder and promptly forgot how to speak.

  “Not Vickers,” Imogen said. She peered around him, green eyes widening at the sight of the woman clad in a corset and chemise clambering out from behind the desk. She arched a brow, lips twitching. “You work fast, Your Grace.”

  “It’s no’ what it looks like,” he said, shock receding enough for his eyes to drink her in and notice the temptation of a dress she wore. It hugged her breasts and hips like a second skin. A woman in underclothes had hardly warranted a second look, but Imogen in emerald silk made his head spin. “Are ye going out?”

  “Staying in,” she replied.

  He frowned at her answer, given the elegant gown she wore, but Vickers chose that moment to stride down the corridor and come to a halt in front of the study door. The valet stifled a guffaw at the half-naked, red-faced woman struggling to fasten her dress.

  “I fail to see the humor in this, Vickers,” Ronan growled.

  Imogen made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “It is somewhat funny. Unless, of course, she is the real reason you’re calling off the betrothal.”

  Ronan opened his mouth to deny it. But then shut it. Would she accept that? That he’d chosen another woman over her? Was it truly that easy?

  “If that’s the case,” she went on, “then I accept your forfeit with all the terms as agreed. On one condition.”

  Ronan blinked. “What’s that?”

  She didn’t answer him but turned to his valet with a sweet smile. “Vickers, will you please see to it that Lady Reid is seen safely home and inform the rest of the servants that His Grace is not to be disturbed.”

  Vickers grinned. “As you wish, my lady.”

  With that, she turned and ascended the staircase. Ronan froze, staring at her, his eyes fastened to the hips currently making that green silk cling to a pair of long, slender legs. At the top of the landing, she shot him a look over her shoulder so full of promise that he nearly spent himself right then and there. “I’ll be in my old chamber.”

  He stood there, rooted to the ground, until Vickers poked him in the shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Duke?”

  Ronan scowled. “Ye do ken that we’re no’ betrothed any longer?”

  “Ye’re no’?” Grace piped up, her smile widening.

  He shook his head. “Nae. Grace, go home.”

  “Ye want me. I ken it,” she whined.

  “No, I dunnae.” He held her elbow, steering her to the foyer, where his butler had already summoned his carriage. “This is beneath ye, Grace. I can offer ye friendship, but nae more than that.” He glanced to the upper level where Imogen had disappeared. “My heart is…elsewhere.”

  For a moment, Grace paused, and Ronan braced himself for another round of protesting. But then she nodded, a sad smile sliding over her mouth as her eyes followed his. “I lost my chance, I ken it. Ye’re a good man, Ronan. I should have chosen ye.”

  He didn’t reply, and after Grace left he stood in the foyer, his heart racing, knowing that Imogen was only a few steps away.

  What did she want? Why was she here? She was dressed in a gown to slay the most valiant of intentions but had said she was staying in. Here, at Dunrannoch House? In her old chamber?

  Ronan shook off his questions and ascended the staircase. He knocked gently on her bedroom door, belatedly questioning why she’d chosen this room from the many others available. And now, as he entered her former room, found it darkened.

  “Imogen?”

  A slim line of light emanated from the door that led to his own bedchamber. Not once had he opened the joining door in the weeks Imogen had
lived at Dunrannoch, though he had stared at it many a night. Now, however, the door opened. Imogen’s figure filled the doorframe, backlit by the lights in his chamber.

  “In here, Your Grace,” she said. “I didn’t take into account that my room would not be prepared for me.”

  He swallowed hard and crossed the floor toward her near the threshold. How many late hours had he lain in bed on the other side, wanting that door to open? Longing to see Imogen standing there, waiting for him? And now, there she stood. Waiting.

  For ye, ye amadan.

  To talk, another voice interjected.

  He cooled his desires and closed the distance between them. Since she could not hope to thwart the duel, she no doubt wanted to talk about terms for the dissolution of the agreement. The truth was, he wasn’t of a mind to argue the finer points, but he wanted to see her. If things went badly at dawn, he would never have the chance again. If they went well, he would have to walk away from her for good.

  But now…now she was here.

  Ronan cleared his dry throat and halted a step away. He couldn’t help himself—he drank her in. Counted the diamond-tipped pins in her hair that secured the silky curls to her crown. Slipped into the unreadable green pools of her eyes, slid down the slope of her nose, and fixated on the pink pout of her lips. He traced the elegant lines of her jaw to her neck, watching that creamy, rose-tinted skin rise into the slopes of her breasts and disappear into folds of emerald silk that left precious little to the imagination.

  “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare, Your Grace?” she murmured.

  “Turns out I’m no’ very good at being a duke.”

  Her mouth parted on a whisper of a smile. “You aren’t?”

  “I’m a Highland barbarian, remember?” Her scent curled around him, each second making it harder to keep his desires at bay. For once, he was grateful he wasn’t wearing a kilt, though the placket of his trousers wouldn’t last much longer from the steady pressure of his flesh. “Or was it a boor?”