Page 32 of What a Scot Wants
A part of him thrilled at the unspoken gauntlet being tossed down. It was a fresh chessboard, and for some reason he was looking forward to their game with a surprising amount of relish. As the last few notes of the waltz faded, he guided her out of the hot ballroom onto the much cooler balcony, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman on the way out. Ronan handed her a glass and downed the other. It wasn’t quite as bracing as a whisky, but it would do.
She walked to the stone balustrade, sipping her drink and staring up at the foggy night sky. “There are no stars here,” she murmured, her usual shrillness absent. “Not like at home.”
Ronan agreed. Nothing could beat a Scottish night sky on a clear evening. “Ye should see it at Maclaren. It’s incredible.”
“What’s it like?” she asked, glancing at him. “Your home?”
He shrugged. “Beautiful, wide, rugged, untamed.”
Her mouth parted slightly, but she didn’t reply, only turned her half-lidded gaze back to the sky. “You came to know the duke and duchess through Sorcha being married to Lord Glenross?”
“Aye.”
“Sorcha said they were forced to the altar because of a public kiss.”
“Aye, though it was a better fate than what was arranged for her at that time. It’s a long story, but Sorcha wanted to get out of marriage to another man, a cruel man. An English marquess. She and Brandt went galloping through the Highlands with her scorned betrothed on her heels. He wanted her for her dowry, ye see.”
“Isn’t that what makes a woman valuable?”
Her voice held no inflection. “For some men.”
“Not you?”
“We’re no’ talking about me.”
She swallowed, then took a sip of her champagne. “Continue with the story. It sounds like such an adventure. Then what happened?”
“Brandt fought for my sister, and Lord Bradburne and his wife showed up to lend the Maclarens a hand with the marquess. And after that, I didnae want to kill the man who’d ruined my sister anymore.”
“You could not have,” Imogen said. “Sorcha loves him.”
“Aye, and he loves her.”
A soft sound escaped her lips, something that sounded like a bittersweet sigh. It was odd coming from her—a woman who had eschewed the possibility of love at all costs. “Are they all happily married, the rest of your siblings?”
“Yes, I suppose ye could say they’re all happily married.”
“Except for you,” she said softly.
“Except for me,” he agreed. “Hence, this betrothal.”
“I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “Why? It wasnae yer doing.”
The honesty and ease of the conversation were both troubling and heartwarming. Heartwarming because he hadn’t felt so comfortable with anyone in years, certainly, not if it wasn’t a member of his own family. And troubling because he didn’t want to encourage the thread of friendship between them. He didn’t want to know her or to feel lightened by her compassion. He did not want confiding in her to be easy, as if he’d done it all his life.
Speaking of confidences…
Ronan cleared his throat. “I didnae have a chance to tell ye. We had a stowaway from Edinburgh.” Green eyes met his in inquiry. “Ye ken an urchin of a lad named Rory?”
Her eyes goggled, and her mouth fell open. “Rory?Here?In London?”
“Dunnae fash,leannan. I gave the lad a bed in the stables.”
She shook her head wildly, her shrill voice now a screech. “He’snota lad. He’s a girl. Rory is agirl.”
Well, that changed things quite a bit. Ronan frowned. It was a hell of a disguise, but a lass couldn’t stay in the stables with the other grooms. “I’ll find her a place in the house, Imogen. She’ll be safe.”
