Page 68 of What a Scot Wants
Imogen peered at him in stunned shock, their waltz slowing, the other couples seeming to spin around them. “What did she say?”
“Nothing I should repeat in polite society.”
Imogen should have been relieved. But as they moved among the other dancers, his strong thighs brushing against hers, his firm arms and grip supporting her, his expression so earnest and vulnerable and expectant, she felt that same drip of panic that had attacked in the hot air balloon when Ronan had offered marriage.
He was telling her all of this because he wanted something from her. Acceptance? He wasn’t pushing her away but drawing her closer. Next, he’d ask about Silas again. What would he say if he knew the truth? He’d be disgusted. He’d wish to God he hadn’t broken things off with Lady Reid so prematurely.
The waltz ended, and Imogen pulled free from Ronan’s arms.
“Excuse me, I’m…going to find my parents.” She started away before he could reply or reach for her again.
Wanting to escape both him and the crowds, she continued out of the ballroom, down the hall toward the first empty room she could find. It wasn’t far from the commotion of the party, and as she peered inside, the quiet, cozy space drew her in. A hearth fire was lit, a pianoforte and harp by a pair of windows. There was a desk holding a variety of instruments, bells and stringed boards and even a violin. Imogen closed the door behind her, her agitation settling.
Imogen crossed the room to the harp. It was a beautiful design, and as she ran her fingertips over the taut strings their music filled the room.
“I thought you might find a way for us to speak, uninterrupted.”
Her fingers went flat against the strings. God, the man was relentless. Imogen slowly turned toward the door, where Silas had entered and was now closing them both inside.
“I did not lead you in here. You followed me, uninvited,” she said, her fingers gripping the tight harp strings. The wires bit into her skin.
“Hear me out, Gennie. You’ll be pleased,” he went on, coming forward.
How could she have thought she’d be safeanywherewith this sorry excuse for a man keeping such a hawk’s eye on her?
“You need to listen to me, Silas. There is nothing more you could say or do to win me over, nothing you can threaten me with or coerce me with, so why don’t you just go hunt for your next victim and leave me be.”
She felt terrible after saying it. She wouldn’t wish her or Belinda’s experiences on anyone. Silas needed to be stopped. But exposing him would mean exposing herself as well.
It would end her betrothal. But it would also end her reputation, her parents’ reputations, and quite possibly Haven itself.
“You were never this stubborn. In fact, I recall a time when you fell head over heels to please me.” Silas’s eyes flashed over with something like excitement as he approached. Imogen stepped behind the harp, toward the piano. “I can appreciate a challenge.”
She sucked in a breath, aware of how dangerously near he was. “I’m warning you. Stay back.”
Imogen tried to push between the edge of the piano and the table of instruments, but her skirt snagged on something, stopping her. Silas pounced, coming around the piano and grabbing her arm. They struggled, Imogen flailing in the enclosed space, ripping her skirt on whatever had caught it, her nails scratching out at his face.
“Don’t fight this,” he said, breathless as he captured both her arms and pinned them behind her back. He shoved her against the display table of instruments, rattling them.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed, uncaring if anyone outside the music room could hear. She wrenched her arms, fighting against his surprising strength. He’d been powerful before, too, though at the Golden Antler she’d been dizzy and weak with laudanum. This time, however, she was no compromised, shaken seventeen-year-old.
Imogen stomped his foot and kicked his shin, bringing up her knee but missing her intended target as he released her to dart to the side. One arm now free, she reached behind her for the nearest instrument—a brass bell—and swung it at him. It glanced off his chin before he swatted it from her grip with an unhinged growl.
The bell clanged to the carpet just as the door flew open and cracked against the wall, and Ronan surged into the room. “I’d think twice about that if I were ye.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sight of Imogen’s torn gown and ashen face nearly made Ronan lose all control. He’d heard the muffled feminine scream over the sounds from the ballroom and had bolted down the corridor, smashing into room after room until he’d found the source of it. Seenher…relatively unharmed. And thenhim, leering and threatening with a demented expression that had made Ronan’s blood burn. Relief had been eclipsed by pure, unmitigated rage.
“Ronan, Your Grace, don’t.”
The soft plea held him at bay. Barely.
It was only by some miracle that he was standing in one place and not grinding that filthy excuse for a man into the carpet, because every single instinct inside of him was pleading for it. He spared a glance to a trembling Imogen and felt his rising fury nearly boil over. Apart from the ripped skirt, she did not seem hurt, but he knew appearances could be deceiving. Especially with her.
She hadn’t been forthcoming about Calder or what he had wanted. Though it was abundantly clear now, watching him back away, gripping his rapidly purpling chin…it had been something she hadn’t been willing to give.
Was the man still angling for a fortune?
