Page 92 of What a Scot Wants
“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 andMcClintock? 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.”
“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 herown.
“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. Helovedher. Oh, God, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him. But shehadto. 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?”
