Page 23 of What a Scot Wants
This place meant something to her.
And Ronan suddenly knew what he had to do.
He felt both elated with the perfection of it and guilty as sin.Think of the future of Maclaren.The distillery had supported and given jobs to so many after the Clearances had turned whole families off their farms and lands. It was his people’s livelihood, the heart of their clan, and without it, everythinghehad built, everything he had bled and sacrificed for would hang in the balance. No, he couldn’t let sentiment get in the way.
This was war…and war had casualties.
The woman leading him on the brief tour reached a door and knocked. “Imogen?” She stepped inside. “We have a visitor. This is…well, I didnae get your name. Sir?”
Ronan entered the office, his eyes immediately landing on a crown of dark, lustrous hair. Imogen was seated at her desk, her face turned toward a scattering of papers fanned out past her elbows. When she glanced up, for a split second he saw an unguarded expression, one of worry, the small press of lines between her arched brows indicating some burden. But then the brief vulnerability fled as Imogen shot to her feet, eyes landing on him.
A flush bloomed on her cheekbones. It was nearly the shade of her practical, berry-red dress. Nothing at all like the ridiculous gowns she’d worn on every other occasion.
“You!What…how did you…” She set her jaw and might have even ground her heel, though he couldn’t see behind the apron of the desk. “What are you doing here, Your Grace?”
“Ye ken each other?” The woman who’d led him there whirled around and stared up at him. Her eyes flicked back to Imogen and then narrowed in sudden shock. “Wait,YerGrace?”
“One could say we are acquainted.” With some satisfaction, Ronan eyed his fiancée. “Do ye have a cold?” When Imogen looked blankly at him, his grin widened. “Yer voice is pitched lower than normal, which is a relief, actually. I quite value my eardrums.”
Her blush heightened as she cleared her throat with a round of weak-sounding coughs. “Yes, a cold. Of course. How thoughtful and gentlemanly of you to notice.” Her sarcasm was clear, but nothing could detract from his glee at having caught her out of character.
Imogen gathered the papers on her desk, her movements jerky. “As you might have guessed, Emma, this is the Duke of Dunrannoch.” She skewered him with a glare, almost choking on the completion of her sentence. “My betrothed.”
“Yer Grace,” the other woman greeted him and took her leave, though not before scowling at him.
“That was my overseer and midwife, Miss Emma Jobson,” Imogen said. “You shouldn’t have tricked her.”
“I didnae want special treatment,” he said, stepping farther into the office, taking it in with unabashed curiosity. Here, the space was different. There were paintings on the walls, potted plants, and trinkets, like a nautilus seashell and a small telescope on a tripod near the window.
Imogen made an impatient noise in her throat. “You haven’t answered my question.”
What was he doing here, yes. Before listening to her overseer, Emma, Ronan’s sole goal had been to invade her private space, turning up like a gnat to pester her. However, now his intentions had solidified. It was time to act.
“I’m off to London in two days. I’ve business to attend to there and it cannae be delayed.”
He saw the surprise—and no small amount of relief—in her clear green stare. “What a shame,” she murmured.
“Aye, I suppose ye would have liked to stay in Edinburgh for the Season.”
She went still and then stepped out from behind her desk. “Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Ye cannae expect me to leave my dear betrothed behind. We’ll go to London together. The arrangements have already been made.”
Her mouth opened and closed.
Swallowing his smile, Ronan stalked toward the desk, where one of her hands gripped the edge. “Just think of it, my wee lamb, the two of us setting London on its ear. Ye can have a room at my family’s home on Grosvenor Square.” He stepped closer. “It’s attached to my own.”
Shock poured through her expression. “Icannotgo to London with you. I have duties here. Responsibilities, the women. You’ve seen what I do.”
“Do ye reject me, then?”
“Why would I—”
She pulled back, understanding twisting the curve of her full lips into a wary scowl. His eyes caught on them, the same way they had the afternoon before while riding in Holyrood. Even as they flattened in anger, he felt an indecent urge to taste them.
“No, it’s not a rejection. I simply need to stay here. I have work to do at Haven. People who need me.”
He pressed forward until he stood less than a handspan away. She refused to give an inch; the heat of her body and her womanly scent rolled up against him. Ronan lowered his voice, his husky timbre not entirely put on. “Ye’re my betrothed.Ineed ye.”
