Page 2 of What a Scot Wants
“It also cannae lose the distillery,” he growled.
“And it won’t—if you see to your duty as duke and laird.”
Devil take him, the woman was a battle-ax. Resolute and intractable. But she was right, as had his father been when alive. Clan alliances were integral to the strength and growth of a family’s holdings and power. His brothers and sisters had all wed for those very ends, and beyond his sister Makenna’s first marriage to a brutal laird—something neither Ronan nor any other Maclarens had known about until after the man’s death—they had all married out of affection, if not alliance.
Ronan felt something tighten inside his chest. He’d thought himself in love once, long ago. But such folly was a double-edged sword—pleasure on one side, pain and suffering on the other. It had nearly destroyed him, and he hadn’t trusted another woman since. He glanced at the duchess. Perhaps itwashis own fault for waiting so long, but no one had ever appealed enough for him to propose marriage. And now, a veritable stranger was being foisted upon him. He felt cornered by duty and circumstance, and he did not like it.
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Say I sign this contract,” he said, refusing to look in his mother’s eyes. “What if the lady”—what was her name; Imogen or somesuch?—“refuses the match?”
“Lord Kincaid has already agreed. He did so when your father presented the offer.”
Ronan bit back his scowl. “So for clarity, if I refuse to sign the marriage contract, or if I break the signed contract, I forfeit our entire livelihood and the future of our clan.”
Stevenson glanced to Lady Dunrannoch, who gave an imperceptible nod that Ronan didn’t miss. “Correct.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “And if Lady Imogen decides she will not marry you, she, too, will forfeit something of equal import,” he went on, tapping his case. “It’s all here in writing.”
“It seems Father thought of everything,” Ronan said.
“He was thinking only of your future. Of Maclaren’s future,” the duchess replied.
Ronan met his mother’s gaze. Again, the sick swell of betrayal roiled in his stomach. He felt manipulated. Bent to someone else’s will. He knew it was only to benefit Maclaren and the ducal line, but he resented it more than he dared put into words. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do his duty. He was a Maclaren, and that came before everything.
He would not allow the distillery to fall into the hands of some outsider. It galled him beyond measure that either of his parents would see it so, just to see him wedlocked. He’d worked too damn hard for the last twenty years to build the distillery up from a single still in a ruined crofter’s cottage to a successful enterprise that employed nearly all of his clan.
They depended upon him. Trusted him.Him, not some citified fop from Edinburgh who’d never stepped foot on Maclaren lands.
“I willnae break the contract,” he said, a familiar resolve settling within him. One made of grim determination and steel will. Maclaren and its people would be secure. And his honor would remain intact.
But as his mother nodded, the barest hint of regret in her expression, Ronan thought of this Lady Imogen, his future bride. The beginnings of an idea spun into existence. His honor would not fall into question and the distillery would remain in Maclaren hands ifshewere to cry off from the betrothal. She would pay a steep forfeit for rejecting him, but he’d be free of this marriage of convenience.
In fact, he’d just have to make certain of it.
…
Edinburgh, Scotland
Lady Imogen Kinley’s eyes fluttered closed, tears pricking the backs of them.
Though she’d witnessed it a handful of times, the miracle of birth never ceased to amaze her. Humble her. She gazed at the infant wrapped in blue swaddling and marveled at his wrinkled, perfect, pink face. She cooed at the baby, soothing him with a finger and breathing in his sweet scent.
The child’s mother lay in the middle of the bed. Mary was little more than a child herself. A scullery maid in a lord’s household, she’d been turned out on her ear, no matter that the lord in question had committed the wrongdoing in the first place. Imogen scowled. Men in their world simply did not get punished.
She’d opened the doors to Haven, a sizeable terrace house in Edinburgh, when she’d come into the first portion of her inheritance on her twenty-fifth birthday, and had invested heavily in turning the place into a home for women just like Mary. Women like her beloved governess, Belinda, who’d faced a similar malfeasance from a man. When Belinda had died in childbirth, the shelter house had become Imogen’s life’s work. Her heart twisted at the thought of what had befallen the young governess…and the scoundrel behind it.
Silas Calder—a man they had all trusted. A manshehad trusted.
Her fingers curled into her palms as she shoved the dark memory away. Silas had fooled them all, and while Imogen had narrowly escaped his clutches, Belinda had not been so fortunate.
At least one good thing had come out of it. Haven had saved the lives of dozens of women caught in similar struggles. Over the years, Imogen’s education about what men were capable of had taken a sharp turn, and nothing could shock her anymore. And while Haven had expanded to offer other services like lodging and basic schooling, most of their efforts like finding homes for orphans or securing new placements were still funded primarily by Imogen’s own money. Which was dwindling.
No matter. She would come into the final portion of her dowry in one year, on her thirtieth birthday. They would have to make do and stretch every guinea as far as it would go until then.
Imogen savored the squirming feel of the bundle in her arms and the innocent look on his face. What a gift it was to not have a care in the world beyond satisfying hunger and being warm and comforted. With some reluctance, she handed the baby back to Emma, overseer of the shelter, part-time midwife, and her longtime friend. Marriage and motherhood were not in Imogen’s plans.Thiswas her place. These women, her family.
She would never marry if she could help it.
“He’s beautiful,” she said to his mother.
“Thank ye, milady,” Mary said again. “I would be on the streets if it wasnae fer ye.”
