Page 22 of What a Scot Wants
“I’m putting ye back where ye belong,” he said. “On a horse that’s perfect for ye. Slow, dull, and boring.” He lowered his voice so only she would hear. “I suppose there’s more than a good chance ye’ll be like that in bed, too. Pity.”
Her eyes flashed. “You are a clod-brained cur.”
“Better a cur than a bore.”
“I am not a bore!”
Ronan only laughed and swung his horse around, leaving her fuming in his wake. The loss of her warm feminine figure only hit him when he was out of sight. He adjusted himself in the saddle and willed the tightness of his body to subside. That had been a near disaster, and not only because his cock was as hard as stone and demanding that he turn the horse around, but because his brain wanted him to turn back as well.
She was right—he was an idiot—because suddenly, he’d been enjoying himself.
He’d been duped before by a woman who had played him for a fool. Imogen wasn’t Grace, but the signs were there. She wasn’t to be trusted. And if he wanted to put Lady Imogen’s inheritance to good use for the sake of Maclaren, he needed to keep a level head and not be thinking with other, unruly parts of his body. Ronan groaned with the unhappy realization that said parts hadn’t calmed in the least.
He was in more trouble than he realized.
Chapter Six
Ronan raised his chin, looking up at the exterior of the terrace house. It was a fine address in New Town, the grand home itself pristinely kept. If not for the discreet nameplate bolted over the front door, inscribed withHaven, he would have imagined it to be the residence of some rich lord. Instead, it was a charity house run by his intriguing baggage of a fiancée.
Goading Imogen the afternoon before had been more entertaining than he’d expected, and throughout the evening and night he’d caught himself suppressing grins when he thought about that dreadful horse, one hoof in the grave, her stubborn huffs of indignation, and her saucy comments about his sword.
The woman had a stinging wit—one he wished he didn’t enjoy so much.
He’d had to suppress other, more troublesome thoughts throughout the night, too, mostly revolving around the feminine lines of her buttocks and hips as she’d ridden in his lap. Christ, taking her onto Zeus with him had been worth it, though. It had thrown her completely off balance, and now, as he walked toward the columned front door, Ronan felt buoyed. He grinned. She would never expect him here.
Inside, he was greeted by a clean, if spartan, foyer. To the right, he found a receiving room. There was no one seated behind the small desk, so he took the hallway leading toward the back of the house. The walls were whitewashed and unadorned, with rooms to either side. One door was open, and within the room, three women stood in a group. The moment their eyes fastened onto him, their alarm nearly bowled him over.
One unsmiling woman stepped forward, inspecting him from the top of his head to his boot tips. “May I help ye, sir?”
“Good afternoon,” he said. “This is the place called Haven?”
The reticence in the woman’s eyes increased. “Yes. What is yer business here? This is awomen’ssanctuary.”
“I’m no’ here to disturb anyone,” he said. “But if ye dunnae mind, I am a potential investor and would appreciate learning more about yer facility.”
The woman’s pinched lips eased, her brown eyes turning a shade more welcoming. “Of course, sir. I can take ye to see Haven’s proprietor. She should be in her office.”
Imogen. He braced himself, feeling strangely short of breath.
The woman turned on her heel and led him through the corridor without another word.
“How many do ye help at a time?” he asked, curious when he passed a door that was open a scant few inches. It quickly closed as he met the mistrustful eyes of the woman behind it.
“Lady Imogen can take up to twenty women at a time, though she is planning to expand and offer education opportunities and skill training,” the woman replied. “Perhaps a safer living situation for the women and their infants, until they are prepared to strike out on their own. It’s always disheartening to see the women we help return to the abuse they came from.”
The situation made him think of his sister Makenna. Ronan had been devastated to learn that she’d been abused by her former husband, before she’d gained a second chance at happiness with Riverley. Perhaps, if she’d had access to a place like this she wouldn’t have stayed with Graeme for so long. She might have had other options. Oddly, he felt a surge of warmth toward Imogen for her efforts.
“Why does she do it?” he asked as they climbed a back staircase.
“If she doesnae, who will? Lady Imogen sees a need others would rather ignore, and she isnae afraid to meet it head-on.”
The woman led him along a first-floor corridor with more unadorned walls and spotless marble floors. The place was clean and practical, yet it was also quiet and secure. He could see why the women felt safe in such a sanctuary.
“When was Haven established?” he asked, eyes taking in everything as they moved down another hallway.
“Four years ago. I’ve been with Lady Imogen from the beginning. And so ye ken, she isnae just a financial backer. She’s here seven days out of the week, up to her elbows in blood, sweat, and tears. I couldnae tear her away if I tried.”
Ronan felt a stroke of admiration. Most Society ladies didn’t get their hands dirty. Volunteering at charities meant raising funds within the upper classes and attending social meetings, not actuallyworking. He’d made the mistaken assumption after reviewing Stevenson’s report that that was what she’d done with her time, and even after talking to McClintock, he hadn’t realized what running her shelter entailed. This was no hobby; Imogen had truly built something here and dedicated herself to it.
