Page 1 of What a Scot Wants
Chapter One
Maclaren Estate, Scotland, 1831
“I’m no’ marrying a bloody stranger!”
Ronan Maclaren, Duke of Dunrannoch and Maclaren laird, slammed the sheet of fine vellum onto the desk. He glared at his mother and solicitor gathered in the study at Maclaren.
“Father’s will said nothing of an arranged marriage.” His eyes shot to Mr. Stevenson, who sat to Lady Dunrannoch’s left, his leather case in his lap. The room was cold, the stone walls and floor absorbing the wintry Highland chill outside, and yet the man’s brow beaded with sweat.
“At his lordship’s express instruction, I was not to mention the additional codicil until two years after his death,” Stevenson said. “At that time, if you hadn’t secured a wife on your own, I was to present the rest of the terms and the…er…bridal agreement.”
Scowling at him, Ronan clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. “In which I’m betrothed to a lass I’ve never met, against my own will.”
It had nearly knocked him back on his arse when Stevenson had disclosed the new terms: An alliance between the Duke of Dunrannoch and the Earl of Kincaid was to be put into effect two years after the duke’s death, should Ronan fail to procure a wife for himself.
A few years before, the former duke had nearly succumbed to a wasting illness, but his health had made a miraculous rebound and he had continued to thrive. So when he had not awoken one morning two winters ago, the loss had cut the entire Maclaren family off at the knees. However, it seemed the wily Duke of Dunrannoch had been prepared for his own exit and had made some alterations to his will since his initial brush with death. Namely, an amendment stating that the heir to Maclaren must wed, which hadn’t troubled Ronan. Hehadto marry at some point. Though he was not aware that the marriage amendment had included a sodding ticking clock.
A clock that had just wound down and stopped entirely.
“She’s not exactly a stranger, dear. Lady Imogen is a lovely woman,” Ronan’s mother, Lady Dunrannoch, said. Only a slight tightness at the corner of her lips betrayed her expression of tranquil confidence.
But Ronan didn’t care if the woman was the loveliest rose in all of Scotland. According to the duke’s codicil, he now had no choice but to wed the Earl of Kincaid’s daughter—or he would forfeit his family’s distillery, Maclaren’s main livelihood and the business he’d poured his blood and sweat into for the last two decades.
Ronan bit back a hiss of frustration. His crafty devil of a father would not have decided upon this scheme alone, not something this precise.Thattook a woman’s touch. He pinned a hard stare on his mother, who met it with cool reserve.
“Ye had a hand in this. He wouldnae have done it without ye.”
Lady Dunrannoch canted her head. “Your father amended the will shortly after he began to feel well again. Your reluctance to marry was perfectly clear, as was the reality that he would not be duke forever. You must understand his reasoning—”
“As draconian as the previous ultimatum was, I did understand it,” he interjected coldly. “But this is nothing more than a marriage of convenience!”
“As are most marriages in the aristocracy,” the duchess replied.
“No’ mine!”
He brought his fist down onto the desk and shook the massive hunk of carved Scots pine. Stevenson startled, the leather case slipping from his lap to the floor. His mother, however, didn’t so much as flinch. She kept her chin level, though one eyebrow crept up in a manner that made his ears burn. He was a grown man of seven and thirty, and she could still make him feel the sting of her displeasure without a word.
“Are you telling me you wish to marry for love?” she asked.
Ronan grit his teeth. She was leading him into a trap; he could feel it. He was as far from a romantic sop than anyone he knew, but hell…the idea of wedding a woman he didn’t even know or esteem turned his stomach. He flattened his lips.
“I understand you’re upset, dear, but the Kinleys are a fine family of exceptional pedigree,” she said. “Lord Kincaid is an earl, and Lady Imogen is an acceptable match.”
“I am capable of choosing my own wife, damn it.”
“Then why haven’t you?” Her eyebrow lifted infinitesimally at his oath. “This is for your own good, my son.”
He knew his reputation—stringent and particular to a fault. The hushed whispers that no lady, no matter the alliance benefits, the size of the dowry, or even her own personal endowments, would ever be good enough for Ronan Maclaren, Duke of Dunrannoch. But the plain truth was he’d hoped to meet a woman who stirred his blood, or at the very least intrigued him. When he took a bride, he’d at least like to feelsomespark of affection for her.
He couldn’t stand still another moment. Ronan turned from the desk and went to one of the tall casement windows overlooking the keep’s inner courtyard. He’d been born and bred to be duke, a role he’d prepared for all his life and one he took seriously. His clan and his family had always come first.Always.
Right now, however, he felt under attack, and by his own kin. The betrayal cut into his chest like a dull and rusty dirk.
“You’ve had plenty of time to choose for yourself,” his mother went on, also standing. “I didn’t agree with your father when he asked Mr. Stevenson to draw up the betrothal agreement and the codicil surrounding it because I’dhopedthat you would take the first change to his will seriously.”
“I did—”
“You’ve turned away several sound matches,” she went on. “And Maclaren cannot have a bachelor duke.”
