Page 89 of What a Scot Wants
His jaw hardened. “It’s done.”
She gritted her teeth, rolling her hands into fists. Of course he wouldn’t listen. He’d challenged Calder, and his cursed honor would never allow him to renege. No, the duel would happen, whether she begged and pleaded against it or not. Imogen could see it in his eyes and in the stubborn set of that jaw. Could she convince Calder to refuse the challenge? No, he would relish the chance to kill the man he’d viewed as his competition while defending his honor. She wanted to spit. The man had no honor. Whereas Ronan… Her eyes slid to the man standing a few feet away, his blue-gray stare glued to her as if he were trying to memorize every part of her.
God. She had to do something!
Perhaps she could come up with some way to keep him from it. Incapacitate him, perhaps. Hilda had all manner of sleeping potions. Ones brewed to help her sleep after the kidnapping, others made to deter overzealous suitors. A single drop into their drinks and they would fall into a nice, happy sleep. She’d only had to use it once before, in Edinburgh. Imogen bit her lip. Ronan would be furious if he knew. But he would be safe—though not showing up for the duel would be viewed as a dishonorable act, and he was a man who valued honor.
“Would you like to stay for a drink?” she blurted.
His stare narrowed, shrewd eyes meeting hers. “It’s midafternoon. I ken what ye’re trying to do, Imogen.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Imogen asked and then blushed at the husky sound of her own voice.
She loosed a breath, feigning innocence, and sauntered closer. She didn’t miss the way his body tensed. So did hers, for that matter. The brutally scorching kiss they’d shared wasn’t far from her mind. Faint color brushed his cheekbones as though he remembered it viscerally as well.
She could seduce him, too, she supposed. Then again, how would she keep a man in her bed for an entire afternoon, evening,andnight? Imogen wasn’t that much of a woman of the world, nor was she confident in her seductress abilities within the bedchamber. No matter how much she’d overheard in passing at Haven. Inside the bedroom, she was a virtual novice. She couldn’t help the flush of heat that pressed into her cheeks.
“Offering me alcohol,” he said. “Getting me to change my mind about the betrothal.”
Oh, right.That’s exactly what she was thinking about…not setting the bedsheets on fire. Imogen grasped onto the line of conversation, trying to redirect her unvirtuous thoughts. “I meant tea, if you must know. And I won’t allow you to lose everything you hold dear because of me, no matter your skewed notions of honor. So choose. The betrothal or the duel. You can’t have both.”
The idea was a stroke of genius. Not that she would give him the chance to choose either one. She just needed him to accept a drink so she could drug him. Like a sly criminal.Like Silas did to me.She felt a twinge of guilt in her bones but shrugged it off. This wasn’t the same thing at all. She had no plans to harm Ronan. She wanted toprotecthim.
He’d forgive her. Eventually. Maybe.
Still, she went to the door and spoke with the footman there, instructing him to send for tea. Then her eyes went to Hilda, who sat quietly on a settee, knitting in her lap. She touched her small finger to her lip, watching the maid’s eyes widen. It was their signal.
“Are you certain?” her maid mouthed.
Imogen gave an infinitesimal nod and turned back to the man standing in the room. “We’ll discuss it over tea.”
“Christ, ye are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” he muttered.
“Not true,” she said, counting off on her fingers. “Sorcha. Aisla. Your mother, perhaps.”
“I’m cursed, apparently.”
She stepped daringly closer, pushing him, herding him to where she wanted. “Ronan, if you claim to love me…”
As soon as she said it, Imogen knew it was a terrible mistake. He’d admitted it, but not so she could use it as a tool or throw it back into his face as a form of control.Stupid.
Shutters descended over those cool stormy blue eyes, and he shook his large body as though he’d been in a stupor. He scrubbed a hand over his face, his expression almost pained. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked from the salon. The only other sound to follow was the front door slamming in his wake.
Damnation.
There was nothing to be done for it. She’d have to go to his residence. Sighing, Imogen set off toward the stairs to find Hilda, who would no doubt be lacing a cup of tea with the sleeping draught as instructed earlier. She was passing through the foyer when a rap on the front door stopped her. Triumph bubbled in her chest as she opened it, thinking it was Ronan.
“Change your mind?” she chirped.
But it wasn’t the duke who stood there. It was Silas. Before she could stop him and slam the door in his face, he slipped past her into the foyer. Imogen glanced around. Burns and the usual footmen stood at their positions, but Silas was a known guest. None of the servants would have cause to know how dangerous he was. Or would they?
Imogen drew a breath and squared her shoulders, refusing to cower or show any fear. “What do you want? You have no business here.”
Pale glittering eyes met hers, sweeping her body and making her shudder with loathing. “To make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
She faltered. “What can you possibly offer me?”
“Marry me, Gennie, and I will not kill your Highlander tomorrow. You know my skill and that I do not miss. Give me what’s mine, and everyone will get what they want.”
