Page 87 of What a Scot Wants
Ronan scrubbed a hand through his hair and then strode around the desk to pull his brother into a hug. “Thank ye,bràthair.I’ll send ye the details of the duel.”
“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 thetondid 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 thetonhas 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.
