Page 76 of What a Scot Wants
Imogen estimated that it was less than half an hour before the coach stopped. They were likely still in London, though a far step from Mayfair. Her suspicions were confirmed when the door was flung open and she was greeted by the stench of sweat, blood, and garbage. The cobblestones of the alley, as she was tugged down, were slick with black grease and God knew what else, and the houses were packed closely together. She wasn’t familiar with the districts, but if she had to fathom a guess, she would say it had to be St Giles or Whitechapel. Memorizing as many details as she could, including the scruffy faces of her captors—both thin and lanky, with dark beards and dark eyes—she squared her shoulders.
“Take your hands off me,” she commanded.
“Oy, shut it,” one of the men said, tightening his hold on her upper arm and exhaling his foul breath into her face. He yanked both hands behind her. The other man moved quickly forward to knot a piece of rope around her wrists and then went back to the driver’s seat. “Ya lucky that’s all I ’ave on ya, innit.”
She winced as his fingers returned to her arm and dug in, a cruel look twisting his face as he crooned.
“Nice bit o’ muslin like ya. Bet ya taste like spun sugar.”
Shuddering, Imogen sealed her lips, the nasty threat enough to keep her quiet. Antagonizing men like this when she was in her predicament might not be wise. She stared at the ground until he shoved her forward toward a house with a small blue door. Sidestepping a puddle of something rank, she walked into the room, once more taking in the details. A narrow cot lay at one end with a dirty mattress. A chair and a table stood at the other, and a small screen lay on its side to the right. Imogen fought back the tears burning at the backs of her eyes.
Good God, what lay in her future in this room?
Would she stillhavea future?
As if he could sense her sudden urge to flee, the man’s hand closed like a vise on her arm. Imogen knew she would have an ugly circle of bruises. He grinned, showing cracked and stained teeth. “Welcome home, luv.” He dragged a dirty finger down her cheek and then gripped her chin roughly. “Maybe we’ll get ta know each other better soon.”
He leaned in, mouth agape, and Imogen didn’t think. She just acted. Her knee shot up and caught the man square in the groin. He lurched backward with a keening sound, but Imogen felt no satisfaction, only fear as a shadow darkened the doorway.
“Now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll take care of him.”
She had to be dreaming. Silas entered the room and kicked the wailing man, the rage on his face compounding Imogen’s confusion. Was he here to rescue her? Lord, for once, she didn’t bemoan the man’s tendency to hunt and shadow her every step.
“Silas?” she whispered. “Oh, thank God you’re here. How did you find me? Those men were going to hurt me.”
He smiled, and the gloating look threw her. “No. They know better.”
Time slowed to a crawl as she took him in again, his awareness in the space. The triumphant expression in his eyes. The relaxed posture of his body.
Oh, God, no.
She should have known better, too. “You?”
“Did you think I would give up what’s mine so easily?” he drawled, removing his gloves and slapping his palm with them. “Your betrothal doesn’t matter. Willnotmatter when I’m through with you. You will be mine, just as you were before.”
This time, Imogen’s fear was insurmountable. She wasn’t in a music room, surrounded by her peers, where a scream would bring help running. She was in a hovel in the slums of London with a demented man. She refused to let her fright show, however.
“What do you intend to do?” she asked, chin high.
“Compromise you once again,” he said in a silky voice. “And this time, make sure the whole of Town knows about it.”
Bile erupted into her throat as he removed his coat and started rummaging in the pockets. What was he doing? Did he mean to harm her?
“My father will come looking for me,” she said. “By now, people will have reported that I was snatched off the street by a strange man, and the Runners will come looking. The duke will come looking.”
Silas glanced up. “No one will come looking, Gennie. A few hours from now, when an anonymous whisper in regards to your location reaches your father’s ears, he will search for you. Alas, I will have already found you, and, considering your appreciation for my heroic rescue, we will be discovereden déshabillé, as they say. We will have to marry to stave off the gossip, and Dunrannoch, to avoid the scandalous rumors of having had his own fiancée kidnapped to avoid wedlock, will agree to be the one to forfeit on the marriage contract.”
And Silas would have her hand in marriage, her dowry, and Ronan’s family distillery to boot. If she wasn’t in a complete state of shock, Imogen might have applauded.
“You have some imagination, Silas,” she said.
“No, Gennie. I have vision.”
He sounded too calm. Too sure. Would people believe that Ronan had been the one behind her kidnapping? He was a duke, after all. But Imogen was all too aware of the power of gossip and how quickly it could destroy a person. She’d heard too many tales from the handful of upper-crust women she’d helped at Haven.
To Imogen’s horror, she saw that Silas’s plan was not out of the realm of possibility. With the cultivation of a few well-placed rumors, Ronan—who had been so publicly awful in Edinburgh—could very well receive the blame for this ludicrous stunt. She of all people knew of the judgment of theton. Imogen felt her options dwindling.
“I will never marry you. And Dunrannoch will never forfeit.”
