Page 12 of What a Scot Wants
Ronan’s lips quirked. Was that a hint of sarcasm? Before he could reply, the lady swept through the front door and toward his carriage.
Outside, Ronan heard his driver’s strangled cough, likely having gasped a bit too much air at the sight of a creature coming toward him like an engorged ball of flame. The driver had the steps lowered, but when she attempted to enter the slim door to the carriage, the wide side flounces of her skirts stoppered her like a cork in a long-necked bottle.
“My lady?” the driver said, coughing again. “Perhaps if ye were to turn—”
“Like this?” she said, turning completely around until she faced Ronan and attempting to enter the carriage backside first. Again, her skirts clogged the doorway. Ronan felt the mirth bubble up in his throat.
“Nae, my lady, I meant if ye were to turn—” The driver was interrupted again.
“No, no, I think this is working, just let me wiggle…” She rolled her hips, the bodice of her sherbet gown gripping a pair of breasts that quivered with the motion.
Whether it was intentional or not—though he suspected it wasn’t—Ronan stared at her, at the fierce look of concentration upon her face and the heat-inducing bounce of her breasts as she squeezed her way into the carriage. For a few lust-filled heartbeats, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to strangle her, burst out laughing, or feel his way around her generous curves again.
“There!” she exclaimed, and then promptly fell backward inside the carriage. Ronan leaped in, stepping on her skirts as he helped her up and into the seat, her falsetto giggle deafening his ears. “Oh my! That was exciting!”
He gritted his teeth, wishing to God he could get the image of her flushed, quivering décolletage out of his mind. He forced himself to regain control of the situation. “Ye nearly fell onto my sword.”
The carriage jolted forward, and her giggles cut off. “Your what?”
Ronan reached for the claymore, sheathed in a leather back brace, and slipped it over his head and shoulder. He heard the air whooshing from her lungs.
“You’re not carrying that into a ball,” she said, her voice low; shocked, it seemed, into her other husky tone. The one he’d heard outside her window.
He grinned. “I must protect my future lady wife.”
“At a ball inEdinburgh?”
“There are enemies everywhere, my sweet. As the wife of a duke, ye’ll be in constant danger from those who seek to harm me. But dunnae fash, ye’ll be surrounded by men with swords at all hours of the day and night.” He stroked the sword lovingly. “Sometimes, I even keep it abed.”
It was pure nonsense, of course. She wouldn’t be in any danger. Maclaren was allied well, any feuds long in the past. Butshedidn’t know that.
Eyes wide with shock or horror or some combination of the two, she patted down the voluminous skirts of her dress, but they were so abundant they reached across the slim opening between their two benches and overflowed onto his lap. Ronan tried to push them away, but the frothy material refused to retreat. He gave up after a few moments.
“You actually sleep with that thing?”
He grinned widely at her. “Perhaps I’ll forego it for our wedding night.” The carriage went silent. The words had come off his tongue without thought, but discussing the wedding night presented a perfect opportunity, and so Ronan plunged onward. “Because I have to say, my bonny lass, my mind willnae be on swords.” He arched an eyebrow at the flounces of her dress. “Or clothing.”
The single lamp inside the carriage shadowed her face, but a burst of heat glinted in her eyes. She worried her plump lower lip for less than a second, and yet the combination was enough to send a bolt of lust ripping through him. Ronan went rigid in his seat.
Holy hell, what was wrong with him? He wanted to push her away, not bring her close. And yet, the sight of her lip between her teeth and the mention of swords and sex had sparked his blood.
“I won’t be thinking of swords, either,” she said, that strident voice shaky. But her next words came out perfectly acute, determination underscoring them. “Though clothing is another matter, as I’ll be thinking mostly of my trousseau and if I have everything a bride needs.”
For the next several minutes as the carriage wended its way through the city streets toward Montgomery Manor, his determined opponent regained lost ground as she chattered on like a demented magpie about the items that were to be included in her trousseau. From gloves to stockings to hats to handkerchiefs. And by the time they emerged from the carriage, once again her ghastly orange gown getting caught in the doorway, Ronan wanted to leap back inside and order the driver back to his home.
Like last night.
The cunning woman was trying to drive him away just as diligently as he was attempting to do to her, he was certain of it. And so far she was a formidable opponent—how she could keep up that voice and be seen in public in so hideous a gown only pointed to her resolve. Then again, as Ronan walked into Brandt and Sorcha’s home with Lady Imogen on his arm, the wide-eyed looks they received were not just for her.
“What in hell are ye wearing, yeamadan?” his sister Sorcha hissed, coming forward to embrace her brother after he’d entered the main hall.
“Ye dunnae recognize Grandfather’s great kilt?” he asked.
She pulled back and scowled at him, but her expression of doubt transformed into full alarm when she took in Lady Imogen.
“May I introduce my sister, Lady Glenross, and her husband, Lord Glenross, the duke. This is Lady Imogen Kinley, my fiancée,” he said, his arm becoming tangled in a wayward ruffle of orange tulle.
“Lady Imogen,” Sorcha said, her surprise well-masked, eyes avoiding the ghastly gown. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. She’d taken to slipping back into her brogue over the years she’d been married to Brandt and living at Montgomery, but here in Edinburgh she usually sounded more English. Unless, of course, she was faced with her older brother’s brogue-inducing clothing choices.
