Page 98 of What a Scot Wants
He blinked awake, his sore eyelids cracking open, even though it was still mostly dark.
Christ, he was going to murder Niall. He simply didn’t recover the way he used to after a heavy night on the piss. Last night must have been a gem. Ronan licked his dry lips and growled at the foul taste in his mouth. Pieces of the previous evening came back to him in blotches. Strangely, there were none of Niall. Only of a woman. A beautiful, sensual siren of a woman in a green dress. Bare, sweaty, interlaced bodies. Soft, feminine moans.
He closed his eyes with a huge yawn. He hadn’t recalled being this in his cups since his salad days as a young buck at Maclaren. Though strangely, his body felt refreshed, as if it had desperately needed such a deep sleep and had finally received one. A sharp ache in his shoulders made his slow mind aware that his arms were thrown above his head. He tugged them down, but they did not budge.
What in hell?
He yanked harder, but for some extraordinary reason, his arms were tied at the wrists. Turning his neck, his eyes took in the sheer white stockings that connected both his wrists to the bedposts.Stockings?
He pulled again and cursed. Silk was so fragile, but when gathered together as it was, it could be stronger than rope. A sweet scent filled his nostrils, along with the renewed images of a woman. With a frown, he kicked off the sheets and sighed. Of course he had to be naked.
Groaning, Ronan licked his lips and swallowed past the sawdust in his throat, trying to piece together the events of the past evening. The stubborn memories came back in fragments. He’d returned home to find Grace in his study, and then Imogen had arrived only to disappear in his chamber, where she’d proceeded to…Jesus. His cock twitched in visceral recollection.
Imogen.
The recollections came faster, then, accompanied by sound, taste, touch, and smell. Imogen had been here. They’d made love. Wild, passionate, frantic love. And then she’d offered him a drink. Whisky. After that, he remembered no more. Had she poured him more than one glass? No, she hadn’t, but his brain was decidedly fuzzy. A finger of whisky would not affect him so.
But that wasn’t everything. Something else niggled at him. It was somewhere he had to be. Something important he had to do. In the wee hours of the morning? It was still dark, though dawn would be approaching soon. His mind snagged.
Hell, the bloody duel.
He was going to wring her little neck after he put her delectable little bottom over his knee. The little hoyden had fed him a sleeping tisane. No doubt so he would miss his appointment with Calder. And the fool had gone herself, if he had to guess, because she was no longer here in his bed while he was tied to it. Those wereherstockings.
“Vickers!” He bellowed so loudly that the rafters in his bedchamber shook. “Where the hell are ye? VICKERS!”
The door to his chamber pushed open, followed by the light from a candle, as his sleepy valet walked in. “Keep your pants on, Your Grace.”
The man came to a complete stop, his eyes widening comically and his jaw dropping to the floor at the sight of his master nude and bound to the bedposts.
“If ye can find my pants, I would appreciate it,” Ronan muttered. “And loosen these, will ye?”
To his credit, Vickers kept a straight face as his eyes went to Ronan’s bound hands. “Where’s Lady Imogen?”
“If I kenned where she went, I wouldnae need ye, would I?”
Vickers made atsking noise that grated on Ronan’s nerves. Time was of the essence, if his illustrious little ex-fiancée had indeed gone to talk Calder out of the duel. Facing that madman alone was foolish in itself, and a prick of fear trickled through him at the thought of her riding in the dark to meet the man. He frowned. How would she know where the duel was, anyway? He hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps she’d only hoped to keep him asleep so he wouldn’t make the rendezvous.
He scowled at Vickers, who was staring in fascination at the knots. “Hurry up, man. What the bloody hell are ye looking at?”
“I’m thinking I’m in love, that’s what.”
“I dunnae fancy men, Vickers,” he growled.
“Not you! Lady Imogen.” He worked the first knot loose, and Ronan rolled his shoulder, pushing the valet out of the way in his haste to undo the second tie. “Anyone who can tie a knot like a sailor and leave a man twice her size strung up in bed has my undying devotion.”
Ronan shoved off the bed. “Good, maybe ye will save her when I find her.”
He reached for his discarded clothing and dressed quickly in a shirt and tartan. “Get my horse.”
“What do you mean to do?”
“None of yer sodding business, Vickers, but I have a dawn appointment,” Ronan growled. “If ye value yer position or yer life, ye’ll do as I say.”
“Very well, but I’m coming with you.”
Ronan grunted his agreement, and soon they were on the way to Regent’s Park. They’d had to take his sodding coach because his bloody horse was missing.
He couldn’t believe that the thieving, scheming wench had stolen Zeus. He hoped that at least the horse would have put up a fight, but he knew that, like him, the beast probably hadn’t had a sliver of hope against her. With the horse gone, the realization had settled within him just what Imogen might have intended to do. Somehow she’d found out the assignment and meant to face Calder herself.
