Page 65 of What a Scot Wants
Aisla stopped walking and made a grating noise in her throat. “You sound like a child, Ronan Maclaren! A spoiled boy, not a duke. Not a laird. Where is my brother-in-law? The one who would do anything to keep Maclaren strong? The one who would fight tooth and nail to keep everyone safe and secure.” She speared him with a pitying glance. “The man of honor who would have rather fallen on his own sword than utter a single lie.”
He frowned at her, his fingers curling into fists as something heavy and hot settled into his bones. “I’m no’ a liar.”
She only propped one brow in argument. He considered how he’d strung along Grace, the games he’d been playing with Imogen, and backed down. Very well, then. He hadn’t been honorable, and accepting it stung.
“You’re forgetting who you are,” Aisla went on. “And your anger over what you think is an injustice is blinding you.”
“Blinding me to what?” Ronan asked.
“To the fact that Imogen needs help,” Aisla answered.
Ronan stared at her, concern briefly overruling his anger. “What makes ye say that? Help with what?”
She grimaced but shook her head. “I don’t know exactly. But something is wrong. She’s…different than before, when I met her in Edinburgh.”
His mind brought up the image of Silas Calder first. The man hadn’t been in Edinburgh. No, he had shown up in London. And if Ronan looked back, he could pinpoint that was when the changes in her persona had become apparent, not just on the surface but deeper. Then again, he didn’t know which Imogen he was going to get from day to day, and as far as he knew, she only had one goal…to thwarthimfrom this engagement.
“The dissolution of this agreement is the only thing that can help Imogen. It’s what we both need. Imogen and I…we dunnae do well when others try to force our hands.”
Aisla smirked. “Imagine that. The two of you have something in common. And I’d wager my firstborn that that alone outweighs anything you have in common withLady Reid.”
“I’m no’ going to marry Grace. Nor am I going to marry Imogen.”
She would never let things get that far.
“Then do what you must,” Aisla said, taking his arm again and moving slowly along the row. “Break the betrothal and get on with things.”
He looked sideways at her. “Ye ken what would happen ifIcry off.”
“Maclaren Distillery would fall under new management, yes.”
The words were cold. Unfeeling and hollow. He stopped and stared at her. “New management?”
“It’s what you do there, isn’t it? You manage the production, the workers, the business accounts, the problems and the improvements.” She ticked each one off on her gloved fingers. “Lord Kincaid would place someone competent in charge of those tasks, I’m sure. The family business would not fall to pieces, as you seem to think.”
“Do ye hear yerself, lass?Familybusiness.Mybusiness. Maclaren Distillery has been my bloody life, Aisla. What would my clanspeople think if I gave it up? They’ll think I’ve abandoned them.”
She snorted. “Come now. They would not want to see their laird forced into anything, either. And then you would not have to marry someone who is so untenable. So much so that you would lower yourself to act the fool and to make her one as well.”
Ronan blinked in stunned surprise and waited for his breath to come back to him. He couldn’t believe Aisla was actually suggesting he forfeit the distillery. And she seemed to have it all sorted out, too. But it was something else she said that his temper reacted to.
“Imogen is no’ untenable, and she’s nae fool.”
Aisla shrugged, though something like triumph flashed in her eyes. “Well, she certainly isn’t right for you. Not if you’re going to such destructive lengths to avoid taking her as a wife.”
“It’s no’ because of Imogen herself. It’s about integrity, and pride, and feeling as if I’ve been betrayed by my own kin, forced into a marriage that wasnae of my own choosing.”
She propped her hand on her hip and blew out a breath. “If circumstances were different, would you have?”
“Would I have what?”
“Chosen Imogen yourself.”
The question threw him.
Thatwas the reason for his original fury. For being forced into a betrothal with a stranger, a woman who was not even a Highlander but a selfish, vain, citified lady with a weak constitution who would likely sob over a muddy dress hem and perish after one wicked Highland winter. He sighed, recalling how certain he’d been that Lady Imogen Kinley would be the furthest thing from a suitable laird’s wife.
But he’d been wrong about her. His every assumption had been struck down, one by one.
