Page 75 of What a Scot Wants
She’d read over the letter and imagined Emma at her desk at Haven, sitting back and having a good laugh at the flowery, impractical language. Imogen wouldn’t have blamed her—on second read, the prose sounded too sickly sweet. She’d shaken her head and burned the letter in the hearth. A second draft was shorter, more to the point, and simply told her friend that she was getting married after all and that things would be sorted out upon her arrival home.
Wherever home would now be. The specifics of marrying Ronan and joining their lives were still behind a thick wall that Imogen had not yet wanted to tear down. She’d rather linger in the warm wonder of Ronan’s change of heart for a while. And her own.
“I miss my breeches,” Rory grumped, once more dragging Imogen’s mind from her reverie. Perhaps the girl was right—she did feel rather half-daft today.
Madame Despain, pinning and tucking the green cloth around Rory’s frame, startled at the comment. “Breeches?”
“Aye, they’re a hell of a lot—” Rory caught herself, though not before Madame Despain gasped in surprise and dropped a pin that she’d been holding between her lips. “I mean, they’re much more comfortable than dresses. And easier to run in.”
“A young lady should not be running at all,” the modiste put in.
Rory shook her head. “Where I’m from, a girl’s got to ken how to run.”
The light feeling Imogen had been drifting around with all morning and most of the afternoon faded. “You no longer have to worry about running from anything or anyone,” she said.
The girl met Imogen’s eyes and held her stare, as if waiting for some disappointment to befall her. Rory was going to be cautious for quite some time. Imogen understood. She’d struggled with that same feeling for years, and it had only intensified since the evening before. She wanted to allow herself to be happy, but what if it didn’t last? What if Silas followed through with his threat out of desperation, exposed her, and Ronan changed his mind? Men were finicky about such things, prized as a bride’s virginity was.
That caution she had practiced so well for more than a decade was probably the reason why she hadn’t sent Emma the first letter. Burning it had been safer.
“What’s wrong, Lady Im?” Rory asked as Madame Despain went back to pinning.
She realized she was no longer smiling and pasted one back on. “Nothing at all. I just want you to like your dress.”
Rory took a glance into the mirror and grimaced at the rough mockup of her future gown. “I suppose I’ll like it when it’s finished.”
That was about all the enthusiasm she was going to receive from her young ward. Checking the clock, she saw she didn’t have much time to get ready. She and Aisla were to meet at Gunter’s in an hour. Ronan’s sister-in-law had sent a note inviting her earlier that morning, and Imogen wondered if she had spoken to Ronan since the night before and was desperate for details. Aisla had been the one to convince Ronan to make a decision, after all. She would just have to remember the burned letter to Emma and attempt not to sound like a starry-eyed idiot whenever she mentioned Ronan by name.
She left Madame Despain and Rory to their task and met Hilda in her room, where her afternoon dress was ready and waiting for her.
“Oh, would you please stop that,” Imogen said as she saw her maid’s sly expression. It was a smugI-thought-sokind of look, and she’d been wearing it ever since Imogen had told her about the duke’s declaration that he was not going to break the engagement.
“I can’t. I’m too happy for you,” Hilda replied.
“Nothing has changed. I’m engaged just as much as I was before,” she said. As she dressed, Hilda remained quiet, but she could still see the amused quirk of the maid’s lips. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re too reticent. Smile, my lady. I know you want to.”
“It just…it feels too good to be true.” There. It was out. And instantly, she felt just as young and vulnerable as Rory.
Hilda gripped her shoulders. “Take a chance, my lady. That duke of yours has shoulders broad enough to carry any burden. Trust someone for once.”
She bit back the argument that shedidtrust people. Some people. But Hilda didn’t mean Emma or her parents or even her. She meant a man. The Highlander duke who had captivated Imogen’s every thought for weeks. Who had infuriated her and shocked her and made her feel things she had never felt before. Wicked and wonderful things.
“We shall see,” she murmured.
When she was finished, she went downstairs to gather her reticule and her cloak. Imogen was planning to go on foot to Gunter’s, a mere two blocks away. It was a lovely day, and she didn’t mind walking. She quite missed walking, as she’d done in Edinburgh, though it was much more crowded in London…full of people and horses and carriages jostling for space. She heard the loud rattle of tack and carriage wheels pull up beside her. From the corner of her eye, she saw it was a hackney cab, the varnish on the dull black paint peeling in spots. She ignored it, thinking it would move on.
But then the door sprang open, and a man leaped down onto the pavement directly in front of her. Imogen stumbled back, straight into another person. Hard hands clasped her shoulders and shoved her toward the open door of the cab.
“What— Stop!” she screamed, twisting and kicking as the man steering her lifted her up and all but tossed her inside, right onto the floor of the carriage. It all happened within seconds, her breath stoppered up in her lungs as panic flooded her, and then the carriage was moving along again, fast.
She tried the door, but the handle was stuck and, curiously, there were no windows. She shouted and railed, pounding on the sides of the carriage until her fists ached, but her voice was muffled by all the noise outside. Her mind racing, Imogen calmed her erratic breathing using the technique Ronan had taught her: in through her nose and out through her mouth. She needed to have a clear head and stay calm. Sometimes, when women came to Haven, they were so distraught that they couldn’t speak or remember anything that had happened. Imogen did not plan for that to be the case. She had to be able to recall every detail. Slowly, she settled herself.
One, it had only been a few minutes, so she guessed that they were still near Mayfair. She would keep track of the time as best she could. Two, her two abductors had looked like flash men, hired ruffians. She glanced around the carriage. There were a few lines of light around the door, but with no windows, the cab was little more than a pitch-black box. It smelled worn-down and musty, which went with her earlier assumption that a hackney for hire had stopped beside her. Three, she had her reticule, though in it there was only some coin and a few extra hairpins. Not nearly enough to defend herself, should it come to it.
Who were they? Did they plan to hurt her? Ransom her? Rape her? With a cry, she purged the ugly thoughts from her brain. It wouldn’t do any good to think on what could happen. Only whatwashappening. She loosened her shoulders and rolled her limbs, trying not to freeze up. A year or so ago, Emma had insisted on protective measures for some of the women at Haven, which meant that she’d employed a teacher versed in pugilism for a few months. Imogen had attended a few of the classes. She knew how to jab a man in the throat or use the heel of her hand to break his nose, and she’d learned that a kick between the legs would render a male attacker useless.
It probably wouldn’t work on two or three men at once, but she would be prepared.
