Page 52 of What a Scot Wants
Imogen sipped her cold tea in the morning room as for the fifteenth time she attempted to read the letter she’d received from Emma. Her gaze slipped to Rory sitting opposite at the table, diligently focused on demolishing a second plate of jam and biscuits, and she smiled to herself before staring at the letter.
She couldn’t concentrate, not for lack of trying. Her body was on edge, and her brain was filled to the brim with tiresome thoughts of a certain rugged Highlander who made her feel like tearing her clothes off in one breath and kicking him in the shin at another. Her dreams hadn’t offered much reprieve, either, and she’d spent the night in a state of utter restlessness.
Imogen couldn’t fathom it.
She’d never let any man get under her skin so thoroughly.
At the dinner, she’d wanted to mark her territory like a snarling she-wolf, but she’d had to settle for getting to know a handful of strangers while she’d seethed on the inside.
Lord Firth had been interested in Haven and seemed to be of the mind to make a sizeable donation. That said, Imogen wasn’t naive. She’d seen the way the marquess had looked at her, but instead of nipping it in the bud as she normally would have, she’d welcomed the flirtation. Welcomed thedistraction.
Her pricked pride had been at fault. She’d wanted Ronan to notice, wanted him to react. Wanted to needle him with the same provocation. When what sheshouldhave been doing was encouraging him to attract Lady Reid’s attentions. Lady Reid, as odious as she was, was the answer to her prayers.
That was what she was after, wasn’t it? Freedom from the unwanted betrothal? Have him choose another woman better suited for the task? Even if Ronan was using the woman as a tactic to getherto cry off, Lady Reid was the solution to her problem: if she got her hooks into him, as she clearly wanted, Ronan would be the one forced to cry off. It wouldn’t take much to orchestrate a compromising situation, which would please Grace to no end, and Ronan was too honorable of a man to walk away from his responsibilities. Imogen would go back to her life and Haven with her inheritance intact.
Then why did the thought of Ronan in any kind ofcompromising situationwith Grace make Imogen’s chest ache and jealousy pour through her like acid?
God, she was so confused. Her head wanted one thing, and her body…well, her body craved another. And even those hot, needy feelings were new to her. New and undesired. The memory of Ronan’s lips on her mouth and breasts made her squirm in her seat as a rush of heat surged between her thighs.Completelyundesired.
Shoving the indecent images from her head with a suffocated groan, Imogen focused on the letter. Emma had reported that everything at Haven was running smoothly. They’d had one more woman come for help, gentry this time, the daughter of a vicar from a neighboring town. Imogen did not know the woman, but Emma assured her that all usual measures for her safety and privacy were being taken. Imogen understood only too well how gossip could destroy a person, even after Society had deemed a woman well and truly ruined.
Part of what she did at Haven was support women who had been taken advantage of and let them know that they were still worthy of being happy…still worthy of living healthy, hopeful lives.
It was a wonder that she didn’t take her own advice to heart.
You’re not important here, the women are, she reminded herself with a scowl.
Emma had also inquired about Rory after Imogen had written to say that the girl was with her. Rory, for her part, was adjusting well. The staff adored the cheeky little brat, and she was a hard worker when she put her mind to it. All in all, the adventure seemed to have done the girl some good. Imogen hoped that when they returned to Scotland Rory would choose to remain at Haven instead of going back to the streets and men like Stormie. She was treading a fine line with Rory—push her too hard and she’d lose her.
She glanced across the table at the girl, who was wiping her lips on her sleeve and patting her full stomach. “Cor, that was bloody good!”
“Language, Rory, and use your napkin next time.”
The girl grinned. “Why? My sleeve’s just as near.”
“Well, now it’s dirty,” Imogen pointed out.
“A little dirt never killed anyone.” Rory studied the smear of raspberry jam with an intense expression. “And I like dirt. It hides things.”
Imogen placed Emma’s letter down. “Hides things?”
“Do ye ken that people notice dirt before they notice anything else?” she said, a pair of hardened amber eyes, better suited to someone much older, meeting Imogen’s. “Like with a lord or lady on the streets—if a lass in a pretty dress with pink skin and roses in her cheeks comes up to them, they’ll ask if she’s lost and if she needs help. But if a lass is covered in dirt with ragged clothes, they’ll turn away with scorn on their faces.” She shot Imogen a wicked grin. “And then I rob them bloody blind.”
“Language, dear.”
“Sorry, Lady Im.”
The girl might be young, but she’d seen a lot on the streets of Edinburgh. Imogen mourned for Rory’s lost childhood. When she should have been playing with dolls, she’d been scrounging for food and stealing coin to stay alive. Imogen couldn’t save everyone, but perhaps this girl was different. Perhaps Rory had come to her for a reason. Like Imogen, she’d been forced to grow up before her time. Forced to take on a role that she hadn’t expected because she’d needed to survive. Life had forced both of them to become who they were—hard and hard-edged in different ways.
“Rory, would you like to live with me when we return to Edinburgh?” Imogen asked quietly.
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “At Haven?”
Imogen swallowed and drew a deep breath. “No, with me at my home.”
“As a ward, like?”
“Yes,” Imogen said, feeling more confident in her decision. It felt right.
