Page 51 of What a Scot Wants
“It’s hard to expect anything from a person ye dunnae ken very well,” he replied.
The table fell quiet, Lady Reid silenced at last. She smiled thinly at him before turning to Lord Granger at her right and inquiring how he liked the beef bourguignon.
Ronan took a deep sip of his wine, frustrated. What in hell was he doing defending Imogen and Haven?
It had been instinct. Unruly and impulsive and damned stupid. If he’d wanted to push her away, he would have joined Grace in her calculating assault. Perhaps even by saying that no wife of his would be involved in such an organization. But his bloody impulse had betrayed him. It was because in his heart, Ronan knew her involvement at Haven was not a diversion or pastime. It was a labor of love and something most ladies of her station would not understand in the least. It was something that some would fear or criticize. It set Imogen apart from the rest, and he could only admire her for it.
But admiration was not a reason to marry. Neither was intense attraction.
If anything, Imogen’s dedication to Haven was a reason neither of them were well-suited. Her work was in Edinburgh. She’d never come to Maclaren. She’d never feel the same passion for Ronan’s clan or her role as lady as she did for the charity she’d dedicated her life to. It was ironic, really. He’d been searching for a woman of stalwart conviction to be his lady. Now he was betrothed to a woman who would fight tooth and nail for what she believed in…only it wasn’t in Maclaren, but Haven.
Dinner concluded, an awkward cloud still hanging over the table, even though his betrothed seemed to be having the time of her life, her laughter needling him every time the musical sound broke the air. The only thing that helped dull the edge was the constantly refilled glass of wine at his place setting. He was in such a foul mood by the time after-dinner drinks were served he would have growled had anyone attempted to speak to him.
When he and Imogen finally took their leave for the evening, his temper was spitting.
“Well?” he muttered. “Get it out, whatever it is ye wish to say.”
That maddening mask of hers was firmly in place as she settled herself in the seat opposite him in the carriage. “I have nothing to say.”
“Ye seemed to be enjoying yerself.”
“As did you,” she replied archly. “Did you expect me to sit there alone and not converse with anyone?”
A small part of himhadhoped for that, but he should have known better. Imogen was used to putting urchins and unwed mothers at ease. It stood to reason that she’d have lords and ladies eating out of her hands. Especially the lords. His frothing temper boiled over as he recalled the Marquess of Firth’s rapt attention and his roving gaze.
“Did ye enjoy conversing with Lord Firth?” he asked through his teeth. His emphasis on the word conversing was not in the least bit subtle, and her gaze snapped to his.
“What are you implying, Your Grace? That I was betraying the empty promises of our betrothal?” Her tone was scathing. “I was no moreconversingwith him than you were with Lady Reid. So if you wish to assign blame somewhere, look to yourself. Might I point out that you were the one who accepted the lady’s invitation in the first place.”
His breath exhaled in an angry burst, and he was well aware that he was losing hold of himself in spectacular fashion. “She’s an old friend. Lord Firth is no’. Ye invited his attentions.”
Hot color stained her cheeks. “How dare you, you arrogant man!”
“I dare because I am yer fiancé,” he snarled, closing the narrow distance between the coach seats.
She leaned forward to meet him. “Then act like it.”
Uncowed, her eyes glittered with anger, her alabaster skin flushed with beautiful color, and the scent of her rose to curl around him. Time slowed, the tension of the dinner underscoring and heightening every emotion shuttling between them. Her lips parted, the tip of a pink tongue darting out to wet them, and Ronan didn’t hesitate. He breached the remaining gap and sealed his mouth to hers.
He expected her to resist or to pull away. But Imogen did neither. Instead, her hands clutched at his nape, winding into his hair, urging him forward so fiercely that his teeth ground into hers. With a groan, Ronan reached for those curving hips that had tempted him from the start of the evening and plucked her off the opposite seat into his lap. He teased her mouth wider and deepened the kiss, gorging himself on the feel and taste of her. Christ, he could never get enough of kissing this woman.
Trailing open-mouthed kisses down her throat, the scent of her hot, silken skin drugging him, he tugged at that teasing, lace-covered bodice, letting one finger dip in between the creamy globes of her bosom. The soft squeeze made his head spin and his already-stiff cock harden. Replacing his finger with his lips, he went slowly, allowing her the option to pull away, but she threw her head back and moaned when he eased the fabric downward. Her breasts spilled free, and, with an uncontrolled growl, Ronan closed his mouth over one taut nipple. She tasted exactly as he thought she would, like heaven.
“God, Imogen, ye’re perfect,” he groaned, turning his attention to her other breast and then climbing her neck to seek her mouth again. “I want ye. All of ye. Therealye.”
Imogen broke free of his lips then, her eyes wild and unreadable. But she didn’t heave off of him. She sat there with her bee-stung lips and pert, rosy-tipped breasts and just stared at him as though she was trying to see inside of his fracturing soul. And hewasfractured.
Fractured because physically, he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted another woman in his life. His body and his brain swung in opposite directions, and for once in his rigid life, Ronan wanted to heed the former. But the stakes were already in play—neither of them wanted to give in to the other—and intimacy would complicate the game.
The same indecision warred in her green eyes. Indecision and the same conflicted desires that tore through him. She wanted him as well, but at what cost? She had much to lose, too. After an interminable length of time, when Imogen fixed her bodice and eased off of him to return to her seat as though she’d gotten the answers she sought, Ronan didn’t stop her, though every nerve in his straining body protested otherwise.
“What are you doing?” he rasped.
Imogen shrugged and stared outside, her beautiful face in profile. “What one of us has to.”
She was right—it was for the best.
Chapter Fourteen
