What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  At least he would live.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Mother of fu—” Ronan groaned, words failing him.

  He blinked awake, his sore eyelids cracking open, even though it was still mostly dark.

  Christ, he was going to murder Niall. He simply didn’t recover the way he used to after a heavy night on the piss. Last night must have been a gem. Ronan licked his dry lips and growled at the foul taste in his mouth. Pieces of the previous evening came back to him in blotches. Strangely, there were none of Niall. Only of a woman. A beautiful, sensual siren of a woman in a green dress. Bare, sweaty, interlaced bodies. Soft, feminine moans.

  He closed his eyes with a huge yawn. He hadn’t recalled being this in his cups since his salad days as a young buck at Maclaren. Though strangely, his body felt refreshed, as if it had desperately needed such a deep sleep and had finally received one. A sharp ache in his shoulders made his slow mind aware that his arms were thrown above his head. He tugged them down, but they did not budge.

  What in hell?

  He yanked harder, but for some extraordinary reason, his arms were tied at the wrists. Turning his neck, his eyes took in the sheer white stockings that connected both his wrists to the bedposts. Stockings?

  He pulled again and cursed. Silk was so fragile, but when gathered together as it was, it could be stronger than rope. A sweet scent filled his nostrils, along with the renewed images of a woman. With a frown, he kicked off the sheets and sighed. Of course he had to be naked.

  Groaning, Ronan licked his lips and swallowed past the sawdust in his throat, trying to piece together the events of the past evening. The stubborn memories came back in fragments. He’d returned home to find Grace in his study, and then Imogen had arrived only to disappear in his chamber, where she’d proceeded to… Jesus. His cock twitched in visceral recollection.

  Imogen.

  The recollections came faster, then, accompanied by sound, taste, touch, and smell. Imogen had been here. They’d made love. Wild, passionate, frantic love. And then she’d offered him a drink. Whisky. After that, he remembered no more. Had she poured him more than one glass? No, she hadn’t, but his brain was decidedly fuzzy. A finger of whisky would not affect him so.

  But that wasn’t everything. Something else niggled at him. It was somewhere he had to be. Something important he had to do. In the wee hours of the morning? It was still dark, though dawn would be approaching soon. His mind snagged.

  Hell, the bloody duel.

  He was going to wring her little neck after he put her delectable little bottom over his knee. The little hoyden had fed him a sleeping tisane. No doubt so he would miss his appointment with Calder. And the fool had gone herself, if he had to guess, because she was no longer here in his bed while he was tied to it. Those were her stockings.

  “Vickers!” He bellowed so loudly that the rafters in his bedchamber shook. “Where the hell are ye? VICKERS!”

  The door to his chamber pushed open, followed by the light from a candle, as his sleepy valet walked in. “Keep your pants on, Your Grace.”

  The man came to a complete stop, his eyes widening comically and his jaw dropping to the floor at the sight of his master nude and bound to the bedposts.

  “If ye can find my pants, I would appreciate it,” Ronan muttered. “And loosen these, will ye?”

  To his credit, Vickers kept a straight face as his eyes went to Ronan’s bound hands. “Where’s Lady Imogen?”

  “If I kenned where she went, I wouldnae need ye, would I?”

  Vickers made a tsking noise that grated on Ronan’s nerves. Time was of the essence, if his illustrious little ex-fiancée had indeed gone to talk Calder out of the duel. Facing that madman alone was foolish in itself, and a prick of fear trickled through him at the thought of her riding in the dark to meet the man. He frowned. How would she know where the duel was, anyway? He hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d only hoped to keep him asleep so he wouldn’t make the rendezvous.

  He scowled at Vickers, who was staring in fascination at the knots. “Hurry up, man. What the bloody hell are ye looking at?”

  “I’m thinking I’m in love, that’s what.”

  “I dunnae fancy men, Vickers,” he growled.

  “Not you! Lady Imogen.” He worked the first knot loose, and Ronan rolled his shoulder, pushing the valet out of the way in his haste to undo the second tie. “Anyone who can tie a knot like a sailor and leave a man twice her size strung up in bed has my undying devotion.”

  Ronan shoved off the bed. “Good, maybe ye will save her when I find her.”

  He reached for his discarded clothing and dressed quickly in a shirt and tartan. “Get my horse.”

  “What do you mean to do?”

  “None of yer sodding business, Vickers, but I have a dawn appointment,” Ronan growled. “If ye value yer position or yer life, ye’ll do as I say.”

  “Very well, but I’m coming with you.”

  Ronan grunted his agreement, and soon they were on the way to Regent’s Park. They’d had to take his sodding coach because his bloody horse was missing.

  He couldn’t believe that the thieving, scheming wench had stolen Zeus. He hoped that at least the horse would have put up a fight, but he knew that, like him, the beast probably hadn’t had a sliver of hope against her. With the horse gone, the realization had settled within him just what Imogen might have intended to do. Somehow she’d found out the assignment and meant to face Calder herself.

  Watching the sky and the approach of dawn, dread gripped his heart in its dark, cold grasp, and as the first rays of dawn crept across the darkened sky and they careened through a sleepy London, Ronan could only hope that he wasn’t too late.

  …

  Imogen’s heart was in her throat when she pulled Zeus to a breathless stop. She’d dismissed her coach upon arriving at Dunrannoch House earlier that evening, and she hadn’t remembered that she might need transportation.

  Luckily, Zeus hadn’t put up much of a fuss and had allowed her to climb on him. It wasn’t until she was nearly to Regent’s Park—having made a stealthy return stop at Kincaid Manor, where Hilda was waiting, to change into a dark riding habit, write a message to be delivered to the Duke of Bradburne, and gather Hilda’s pistol as a backup—that she realized that the horse must have scented his master’s smell on her, which would account for his unusual docility.

  But Zeus was fast, and she couldn’t have risked going to the mews to saddle Temperance and waking the grooms. No one, not even the sleepy-eyed stable boy, had stopped her at Dunrannoch House, which was perhaps a small mercy.

  The duke would be furious she’d stolen his horse, too.

  Along with the long list of her other unforgivable transgressions. She’d seduced him, lied to him, lain with him, sedated him, and stolen his horse. Purgatory was too good of a place for her. But she’d had no choice. She had to do this.

  Dismounting, she hiked her shoulders and made her way into the clearing. She glanced up at the sky. By her count, dawn was fast approaching. There were three men already there. Imogen swallowed a gasp. One was the horrible man who had tied her to the chair in the hovel in St Giles, the other was Silas, and the third was Ronan’s youngest brother, Niall.

  The last turned to her, his eyes going wide. He didn’t waste time in striding toward her. “Where’s Ronan?”

  Imogen met his blue gaze. “Indisposed, I’m afraid.”

  “Is he on his deathbed?” Niall asked, narrowing his eyes. “Because my brother would have to be on the verge of death to no’ appear for a challenge he issued.”

  “He’s abed, and I am here in his stead,” she said in a firm, implacable tone.

  “My lady,” Niall began, placing a hand on her arm. “We need to call this off if Ronan is ailing or unable to be here. This is nae place for—”

  The look in her eyes froze the words on his lips as she shook him off. “If you even think of vocalizing what I think you’re going to say, the next le
ad ball will be aimed at you. Now, if you value your hand, you will remove it from my person at once.”

  “Imogen.”

  “Niall.”

  He blew air through his teeth. “Lord, ye’re stubborn. And here I thought I was married to the Queen of Stubborn Women.”

  “Aisla has nothing on me,” she said and walked past him without giving him any further chance to prevent her from doing what she’d risked everything to do.

  Imogen slowed her pace when Silas and his second stared at her, both with matching expressions of shock. Silas smiled and sketched a bow. “I’d hope you would come to see me put a hole through your fiancé, but he has yet to arrive.”

  “He’s not coming. I’m here to duel in his place.”

  The second gaped. “You’re a woman.”

  Imogen glanced down at the plain black riding habit she wore. “My gender doesn’t affect my ability to aim.”

  “This is not allowed,” he shot back.

  She laughed. “Dueling is not allowed, but let’s not argue over trifles, seeing that you kidnapped the daughter of a peer, shall we?” Imogen lifted her gaze to Silas. “Unless, of course, your employer is afraid to be bested by a mere lass.”

  “Gennie,” Silas said.

  A snarl rose in her throat. “I told you. My name is Imogen. Now, pick your weapon and take your paces. Let’s get this over with, once and for all.”

  “I will not duel you.”

  “That is certainly your prerogative. You may delope if you like, but I am Lord Dunrannoch’s second, and I am here in his stead.” Her glance slid to Niall, who hadn’t said another word, though his eyes narrowed at the blatant lie that she was his second. She walked over to where he waited with the brace of pistols.

  He exhaled. “I cannae allow ye to do this. It’s no’…right.”

  Imogen bent over to calmly inspect one of the pistols in the box he held. “I don’t need your permission to do anything, Lord Tarbendale, but I understand you may try to stop me.” She drew a breath. “All I can ask is you trust that I need to do this. I have my reasons.”

  “Ronan will have my head.”

  She shrugged. “Ronan will understand, more than anyone, why I have to be the one to do this.” Eventually, she added in her head. After he’d drawn and quartered her.

  “Even so,” Niall said, and she could see the desperation etched on his face. “Please, I cannae…”

  “Have you ever been told you couldn’t do something, Niall?” She glanced down at his missing hand with a purposeful look. “That you were less than because of who you were? That you were treated differently because of your disability? And just once, you wanted to prove that you weren’t as weak as the naysayers and the bullies pegged you to be?” His blue eyes widened, and Imogen knew she had him when he gave a tiny nod. “Then let me do this. For Belinda, Lady Beatrice, myself.”

  “This is no’ a game,” he said.

  “My life has never been a game,” she whispered. “Not since that man came into it.”

  Niall closed his eyes, as if fighting an internal battle, and then nodded, gritting his teeth. “I’d be honored to be your second, Lady Imogen.”

  She shot him a grateful look. “Aisla is lucky to have a husband like you.”

  “And my brother needs a woman like ye in his life, so dunnae miss. I want ye for my sister-in-law.” He gave her a grin that was so like Ronan’s that she nearly wept.

  Raising his voice, after he’d finished inspecting the pistols, Niall addressed the two other men. “The lady is the duke’s second and has accepted her weapon. Proceed as agreed. Twenty paces, unless either of ye wish to tender an apology and negate the challenge.”

  “I tender no apology,” Imogen said.

  “Mr. Calder,” the other man sputtered. “Surely you don’t agree with this?”

  Silas lifted one shoulder, his pale eyes cool. “If she wants to act like a man, let her. A bullet in the leg will soon curtail any further aggravation. I suppose that lesson will be as effective as a whipping. Proceed. It’s all the same to me.”

  With a racing heart, Imogen turned and counted out the paces. She was well aware that should Silas choose, her life could end in a matter of moments, but she was betting that his pride wouldn’t allow him to simply shoot. He still wanted her for his own ends, which meant he needed her alive.

  On the twentieth step, she whirled, half expecting to hear a blast, but, as expected, Silas only stared at her with a sneering expression, his pistol pointed right at her. He wouldn’t do the honorable thing and shoot into the air. No, he would punish her, exactly as he said, but he wanted to toy with her first.

  Imogen’s eyes slid to the footman, who had somehow managed to palm another weapon that he had hidden in the folds of his cloak. They’d intended to fight dirty all along.

  “Go on,” Silas taunted, loud in the quiet of the morning, despite the distance between them. “I’ll give you the first shot.”

  She bared her teeth at him. “That’s generous, though shortsighted and quite stupid of you.” Imogen canted her head, watching him. “Did you know that Shane McClintock taught me how to shoot? He didn’t want me to be defenseless, you see.” Her voice hardened. “You had no right to do what you did. To me, to Belinda, to Beatrice, to nameless others. This is your reckoning.”

  “By you?” he scoffed. “Once more, I will relish showing you your place. You and that foul-mouthed ward of yours, when I return her to Stormie for a purse full of coin.”

  “You will not touch her!”

  Silas laughed. “As if you have any say in the matter, Gennie.”

  Imogen knew that he was trying to unsettle her, and it was working. She felt sick to her stomach.

  “You and Stormie will never get the chance to lay a finger on Rory, not if I can help it,” she said calmly. “And you’re wrong if you think I’m afraid to use my voice to stop men like you.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” he drawled. “That chit’s place is on her back. Yours, too, and once I’m your husband, you’ll see. You’ll finally be mine.”

  Something in his voice pricked at her when he said those last words, as their meaning settled into her brain. She recalled Ronan’s question when they’d been together in bed, the sharp pain she’d felt, the unfamiliarity of the act itself.

  Good God, had Silas been lying all along?

  “What do you mean, finally?”

  He blinked, his jaw tightening. “I’ve already had you.”

  “The thing is, Silas,” she said slowly, hope and joy filling her. “I don’t think you have. Because, you see, I forgot to apologize for my rumpled appearance earlier, having just come from my duke’s bed, where he availed himself of my virginity.”

  “You lying tart,” he growled.

  Her smile felt decidedly wolfish as she let the tip of her pistol drop and point toward the vicinity of his thighs. “I might have been only seventeen, but even I could tell when there was a distinct lack of…” She cleared her throat, her cheeks heating at the thought of Niall standing beside her. “Equipment.”

  “You would choose that illegitimate cur over me?”

  She felt Niall’s attention. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Oh,” Silas said. “Didn’t Gennie tell you? Your prized brother was born on the wrong side of the blanket. He’s no more a duke than I am.”

  With horror, Imogen glanced at Niall, watching the shock curl over his face. But then it broke, and Niall started laughing so hard he clutched at his stomach. “Now, that’s rich,” he said between guffaws.

  “It’s true,” Silas said. “I saw a letter to Kincaid.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Calder, what ye saw was a jest to bring Lady Kincaid to her dearest friend’s bedside. It’s a standing joke that my parents were joined hours before Ronan was born, but I assure ye, he is unquestionably a Maclaren.” He laughed. “And if ye thought to attack my family with that kind of slander, ye’re sorely mistaken.” His gaze slid to Imogen. “Maclarens pr
otect our own.”

  Silas’s face hardened as though he could feel his precious leverage slipping away. “No matter. You are mine, Gennie.”

  Buoyed by the look on Niall’s face, Imogen lifted her chin, her voice going hard. “I was never yours, and I will never be yours. You’re nothing but a liar, a thief, and a cheat. Even if Ronan was the bastard son of a bastard horseshit sweeper, I’d still choose him over you.”

  “Too bad he’ll never have you!” Silas’s face went purple with rage, and Imogen didn’t have time to blink or brace for injury as he lifted his weapon and fired, the blast deafening in the glade. The barest whisper of something hit her skirts, but there was no accompanying pain.

  He’d missed!

  Silas’s eyes bulged as he realized the same. “What are you waiting for, shoot her,” he ordered his hulking second.

  In a panic, Imogen’s stare darted to his second, but a loud click of a primed gun sounded in the silence.

  “Dunnae even think it,” Niall snarled, two weapons pointed at the man and his master. “Did ye think I wouldnae come prepared for yer dishonor?” He nodded to Imogen. “Take yer shot, my lady.”

  Imogen lifted steady fingers, feeling cool resolve shimmer through her. She took aim right at his crotch. Here was her chance to end the monster who had victimized her and others. Retribution for Belinda. A tear slipped down her cheek when her hand started to shake.

  It wasn’t because of the man whose life she held in her hands. It was because of the one she’d left behind…the one she’d betrayed. Killing Silas would solve nothing. The chains on her soul would only cinch tighter.

  “You can’t do it,” Silas sneered. “Can you? I was the first man you ever loved.”

  “You’re not a man, and I never loved you.” She lifted her pistol and shot it high into the air. “I plan to forget your existence while you rot in Newgate.”

  He cackled. “On what charges?”

  A loud voice interrupted them as Thomson emerged from the trees. “On the charges of conspiracy and kidnapping of a peer’s daughter.” The agent scowled. “And while we’re at it, charges of murder in the death of the Marquess of Paxton.”