Chapter Fifteen

A shot of fire released from the burner, the contraption set in the center of the wicker basket. The loud noise ate up Imogen’s reply, but Ronan could still read her lips perfectly.

“You think we should what?”

He’d expected—and counted on—nothing short of absolute shock, and Imogen delivered.

It was a gamble. A serious one. But the answer to his problems had struck with all the subtlety of a war horn the night they’d returned from Lady Reid’s disastrous gathering. If he could make Imogen believe that he had changed his mind, if he convinced her that he wanted this marriage and no longer wished to end the betrothal, it would give her little choice but to retreat. Or submit. Ronan didn’t believe she would accept him, though.

But there had been something more than just rational thought behind her withdrawal from his lap the other evening in the carriage and from the kiss that had set both of them on fire. No, what Ronan had seen on Imogen’s expression had been well-masked fear. He knew the look, mostly from his time training men at Maclaren. Often, the ones who were the most frightened were also the ones who maintained cool and distant exteriors. As if nothing could touch them.

Imogen had retreated from their intimate, nearly out-of-control coupling in his carriage with an easy shrug of her shoulders because of something deeper than prudent, judicious reasoning.

She was afraid—of what, he couldn’t determine. Maybe it was the increasingly undeniable passion she felt for him. Maybe she was afraid of intimacy itself. She had, after all, spent her adult life alone, refusing suitors left and right. Surely not all of them had been awful. Or it could be a fear of men in general. Silas Calder and Imogen’s reaction to the man came to mind.

After learning what he had from Riverley about Calder being a fortune hunter and the Paxton girl he’d dallied with, Ronan had developed a suspicion. One that he couldn’t confirm without asking Imogen about it. Now was not the time, however. He had a plan for this afternoon, and bringing up Calder wasn’t part of it.

The balloon had started to lower toward the rolling field below, but the burst of hot air had sent it higher into the atmosphere. Imogen stumbled a little toward the high lip of the basket. Ronan caught her elbow.

“Marry me, Imogen. For real, with no more games.”

The words were surprisingly easy to get out. He’d considered what he’d say scores of times over the last day, but he’d wondered if his mouth would seal over and refuse to open when it came time. Hell, he’d been going after his goal to make Imogen cry off all wrong, and the tryst in the carriage had proven it. If he kept pushing, kept trying to get closer, he was willing to wager that she would keep retreating.

The lips he’d ravished in the carriage—and at the opera and at Haven—gaped. He wanted to take her fuller bottom lip and tuck it between his teeth. He could have. The pilot, currently working the burner’s valve, was graciously giving them his back. But Ronan had carefully planned this outing, and he would stick to the script, so to speak.

“I…are you actually proposing to me? You do realize, my dear addled Duke, that we are already engaged and have been for some weeks.”

He used his hand on her arm to pull himself closer. Close enough to smell her honeyed skin. “Aye. I am. No’ as part of some agreement made by our families.”

“We both know this isn’t what either of us wants.”

“Perhaps no’ at first,” he said, his fingers drifting to her wrist and delving under the kid glove she wore. She jumped at the sweep of his fingertips against her soft, warm skin. “But the more I’m with ye, Imogen, the more I see something we both do want.”

Two vertical lines pressed into the skin between her brows. She shook her head. “There is nothing we both want other than freedom from this betrothal, without any repercussions, financial or otherwise.”

“Dunnae lie to yerself. Ye feel this as keenly as I.”

In Edinburgh, when they’d first met, Ronan had played the act of perverse, uncouth Highlander and had reveled in Imogen’s horror. However, now that she knew he wasn’t at all what he’d pretended to be, she didn’t seem to know how to react to his advances. These were not put on. There was something between them. He let her see it all now, plain on his face, and, as he’d calculated, he felt her pulling away.

“I don’t feel anything, and neither do you,” she replied with a complete lack of conviction.

Ronan smirked. “Ye’ve felt what I want a few times now, lass. And whether ye want to admit it or no’, I’ve felt the evidence on ye as well.”

The memory of his hand under her skirt and between her thighs at the opera, her warm, wet clasp as he pushed inside her, stroking her to a shattering release, made his groin grow tight. He didn’t have to put on the strained voice when he spoke next.

“I ken what desire looks like. What it feels like. Ye want me as much as I want ye.”

Imogen’s eyes flared, and she turned away, facing the long drop to the earth below. She sucked in a breath, as if remembering where they were, and whipped back around. Ronan kept his place, his arms reaching to brace her against the wall of the basket.

“Think of the benefits, Imogen. If we were to leave off with these games and marry, we’d never have to stop. We’d never have to hold back from the things we want most.”

“The things I want most involve my life in Edinburgh. They involve Haven.”

“They include me as well. Say it. Admit it. Ye’re too stubborn of a woman to lie to either of us.”

The balloon’s silk caught an updraft of wind, and though the basket, large enough for at least a dozen more passengers, was on four long leading ropes staked to the ground below, they were all tossed to the side. Imogen yelped as Ronan set his feet apart and took her by the shoulders, steadying her. She shook his hands off.

“Fine. If you want me to admit it, then I will. I do…” Her eyes drifted past his shoulder to the balloon pilot, and she lowered her voice. “I want you. Physically. That is all. But I’m not going to marry you just so we can…we can…”

He leaned closer to her ear. “Fuck.”

Imogen didn’t shove him. She didn’t stomp his foot or slap him or call him a degenerate. She simply stared into his eyes, her own bright and questioning. For a moment, he worried if she had somehow stumbled onto his tactic. He’d already played the coarse ruffian, though, and she was too smart to think he’d fall back on it now.

Then again, he wasn’t really playing.

He didn’t want to marry. He was simply laying out the advantages if they chose to.

“You want to marry me so we can sleep together without any qualms?” she asked. “A marriage based on sex?”

He put his hands into his pockets and shrugged, allowing a little smirk to play at the corner of his mouth. “Marriages have been based on less exciting things in the past.”

A wash of color stung her cheeks as she set her jaw and well and truly glared. “I am not a harlot,” she whispered through gritted teeth.

“I wasnae calling ye one,” he replied, guilt lancing his stomach. “Ye’re no’ a harlot for wanting a man in yer bed, Imogen.”

“You assume too much. Just because I responded to your advances—”

“Responded? To my advances?” Ronan checked his voice and shadowed Imogen as she walked away, toward the corner of the basket. She crossed her arms and peered out over the city’s horizon beyond the trees. “Ye practically planted yerself in my arms at the opera, if I recall.”

Her shoulders tightened, and Ronan cursed himself. He wasn’t supposed to be antagonizing her. Fighting only seemed to put them on the same playing field, each of them battling for the upper hand. He needed Imogen to believe he truly wanted to marry her, and with any hope, she’d do as he suspected: run.

“Ye responded to me because ye feel the same need that I do. Ye light my blood on fire, Imogen.” He stood at her back, bent forward so his lips were at her ear. “When ye’re angry, when ye’re laughing, when ye’re just standing there, looking so damned beautiful.”

Ronan’s chest felt tight, his pulse hard in his throat. These words…where were they coming from? He hadn’t planned any of them. But they felt right. And better still, they weren’t lies. He didn’t want to lie to her.

“Stop, Ronan,” she said, touching her hat nervously.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to change my mind. I’ve spent the last several years helping steer women in the right direction, to know what they want and to not allow anyone to stand in their way. Haven is my purpose. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I gave it all up because of a fleeting attraction?”

He’d expected this response, and he let out a sigh of relief that he’d been right to wager on it. Still, he needed to push her.

“Haven is yer excuse, Imogen.”

She elbowed him in the stomach as she whipped around to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“I think ye hide behind Haven. Ye use it as a shield, the women, too, to no’ have to face whatever it is ye’ve been avoiding. It’s time to stop.”

Her green eyes dimmed, the accusation clearly knocking her feet out from underneath her. Ronan steeled himself against the remorse for having been the one to do it.

“You’re wrong,” she said, spinning away from him once again. “You don’t know the first thing about me. I love Haven. I love what I do there. I love who I am there.”

“I ken ye do. And I dunnae think ye should give it up, no’ completely. I wouldnae ask ye to. But I think it’s time ye made room in yer life for other things.”

She crossed her arms and scoffed. “Let me guess—like a husband?”

He set his palms on her hips, uncaring that the pilot might see. He waited for her to shove him and walk away again. When she didn’t, Ronan curved his grip inward and flattened his hands against her stomach.

God she felt so good tucked up against him, the soft, round swells of her arse pressed against his thighs. Stop, he ordered himself. He was getting carried away. The idea of taking Imogen to his bed had plagued him for too long, it seemed. He was almost starting to think that his new tactic might actually have an upside.

“Tell me ye havenae thought of it yerself.”

“Ronan…”

“Tell me the truth.” One of his palms covered the lap of her skirt, pressing against the space between her thighs. Turned as they were toward the corner of the basket, it was highly unlikely that the pilot could see what was happening. Not that Ronan cared. He felt all inhibitions melting away as Imogen’s heat reached him through the thin muslin and linen of her day dress.

“Ye’re already wet, aren’t ye?” he whispered in her ear. He hooked his fingers and pressed harder.

She bit off a moan. “We can’t.”

“We could.” His cock was already stirring, and he didn’t take a step back to keep Imogen from noticing. Hell, if they were alone, he’d already have her skirts around her hips and his fingers in her slick, tight channel.

Her hand came down over his. “Control yourself,” she hissed, peeling his fingers free. She threw his hand down and sidestepped him, rocking the base of the wicker basket as she stalked to the other corner.

Her reaction was exactly what he’d intended, and yet the admonishment struck him in the gut. Control himself? He thought he had been, but the disappointment he felt, the sting of her rejection, kicked like an angry mule.

Ronan took a few seconds in the corner of the basket, alone. Bold overtures and declarations would work, he knew it. He’d drive her away before the week was through. Before the engagement ball, for certain. She wouldn’t recognize his advances as anything but true and honest because hell, he did want her. He wouldn’t have to lie at all to gain the outcome he wanted. He waited until his arousal had reduced before he started toward Imogen.

“Forgive me,” he said, swallowing his pride and practically choking on it. “I’ve sprung this on ye too fast.”

Imogen peeled a lock of her hair from her cheek. The wind had intensified, buffeting her hat and dress. “Your change of heart is rather…surprising.”

He needed to press his suit, but he felt a bite of panic, unable to think of what more to say. Perhaps a retreat, before he advanced again.

“How is Rory?” he asked. The abrupt change in topic startled Imogen, but she looked relieved. “I’ve heard Mrs. Desmond has had to hide the grape preserves and biscuits for tea from her.”

Imogen allowed a grin, and the sight of it quickened his pulse. “I think she should teach Rory how to make them instead. She’ll root out the hiding spot in no time at all.”

She peered at him and, again, touched the ribbons on her hat. “I’ve asked her to stay on with me. I’d like to adopt her. If possible.”

It didn’t surprise him. The young girl obviously admired Imogen, and vice versa.

“She’s lucky to have ye.”

Imogen waited, as if expecting him to say more on the matter or express his concerns. After his scathing observation regarding Haven, he didn’t blame her. But Ronan didn’t have anything else to add. It was her softheartedness that had led her to be such a champion for those women she harbored. He’d already seen her protective side when it came to the girl. He would have been surprised if she hadn’t thought of a way to keep her close.

Another gust of wind pummeled the balloon, causing the colorful silk above them to ripple wildly. Imogen clung to the basket edge and held firm.

Ronan looked to the operator fussing over the burner. “Perhaps we should descend, aye? The wind is picking up—”

A loud cracking sound cut him off, and instantly the basket went into a dangerous tilt. Ronan slammed back into the wall of the basket, breath smacked from his lungs.

“Ronan!” On the other end of the basket, Imogen screamed, her feet flying out from underneath her as that side of the basket rose up into the air while Ronan’s end seemed to tilt downward. She clung to the edge, her legs flailing.

“Imogen!” He got to his feet and reached hand-over-hand up the side of the basket toward her. “Stop kicking and dunnae let go!”

The operator was on his hands and knees, crawling up the incline toward the burner. “One of the ropes must have come untethered!” he shouted, reaching for a rope hanging from the mouth of the balloon. “I have to open the vents to release the pressure and start our descent.”

“Then do it,” Ronan growled, aware of more shouting on the ground. All he could focus on, however, was Imogen, her panicked face looking over her shoulder, searching for him.

“Ronan, I can’t hold on! My gloves—” She screamed again as a second cracking sound resonated and the basket rose at an even more perilous angle. Another rope had to have come loose. The pilot cried out as he fell backward, landing hard against the basket wall, as Ronan had earlier.

His heart seized when he saw Imogen, her fingers slipping from the basket, her feet and legs now dangling off the floor completely. If she fell… At this angle, the wall that had caught Ronan and the pilot might not be enough to catch her.

“Ronan!”

He reached for her, barely able to touch her ankle.

“Get this bloody thing onto the ground!” he shouted to the pilot, but the man was crumpled against the basket’s inner wall, clinging to his shoulder with a look of agony on his face. Shite.

“Imogen, lass, hold on. I ken ye can do it. I’ll get us down,” Ronan said, reaching out instead for the metal rods of the cage that held the burner into the center of the basket. “Tell me what to do,” he shouted to the pilot, who was still conscious. Thank God.

“Pull the controlling line—it leads to the vent lines.”

Ronan searched for a line that lead down from the mouth of the balloon. He found it and tugged. The basket dropped, though not quickly enough.

“I’m slipping,” Imogen rasped, squeezing her eyes shut. “You said I wouldn’t die a horrible and painful death!”

Ronan cursed himself and his bloody idea but refused to panic. “I said I wouldnae let anything happen to ye, and that hasnae changed. Look at me, Imogen.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I’ll land this sodding thing one way or another, but ye’ve got to hold on. Trust me.”

Her eyes glittered, but the hysteria in them subsided as she held his stare. She nodded, and Ronan exhaled. She was placing her trust in him, and he couldn’t fail her. The balloon descended, their speed increasing. Ronan kept a hold of the line opening the vents and maneuvered his way toward Imogen. If her fingers came loose, he needed to be closer in order to have a better chance at catching her.

“The ground’s getting closer,” he said.

“Too fast,” the pilot replied. “We need to slow down. Release the line.”

Ronan did as instructed, keeping watch on Imogen’s grip all the while.

“I’m never stepping foot in another flying contraption again,” she called.

“Ye say that now,” he replied, angling himself directly underneath her. “Once this is over ye’ll remember nothing but the thrill of it.”

“Thrill? You’re mad!”

He checked over his shoulder and saw the ground rushing at them. “Hold on, lass,” he called, preparing for the impact.

“I am holding on!”

The basket landed, hard, and Imogen lost her grip. Ronan caught her as she fell, though they were already leveling out. Ronan tucked her close, trying to cushion her landing. They dropped onto the floor of the basket with a whump, the air nearly driven from his lungs, his head rattling a bit. Shouting voices approached as the silken balloon collapsed around the basket, shrouding the three of them.

“Are ye injured?” Ronan asked, running his hands down her arms and over her head, her pinned hat askew.

She blinked and tried to sit up. “I…I don’t think so. My God, that was terrifying.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, my lady,” the operator said, still clutching at his arm as he stood and the balloon was peeled aside by the other men. “The stakes were hammered in deep, but the wind was worse than we predicted.”

Ronan helped Imogen to her feet, her arms and legs shaking. He swept her up into his arms, cradling her, and handed her over the edge, back onto solid ground.

“You’re not shaken,” she said, observing him as color rushed back into her blanched cheeks.

“We’re on the ground, safe, just as I promised ye,” he replied, keeping to himself the fact that his pulse had nearly stopped when he’d seen her hanging perilously.

“Yes, I…” Imogen pressed her lips together, going pale again. Her cheeks billowed out, and Ronan leaped out of the way seconds before she vomited onto the grass.

He rubbed her back and handed her the handkerchief in his pocket.

She whipped it from him and stepped aside. “I’d like to go home now.”

Ronan signaled the waiting phaeton. He couldn’t blame her in the least.

Once she’d comported herself and more color had come back to her cheeks, Ronan turned to her. “Will ye think about what I’ve asked?”

Her expression was inscrutable, but the Imogen he’d come to know was much too intelligent and wily to give anything away. He’d taken her by surprise up in the balloon, and her honest reaction had helped him test his theory. But now…now she was composed. Battle-ready.

“I have thought about it.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps Lady Reid will be amenable to your marriage of sexual convenience. Elope with her.”

“Are ye conceding, then?”

“Not in the least.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m just suggesting she might be a more enthusiastic partner for your needs, rather than a much frostier bedfellow in the marriage bed.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to shout he didn’t want another woman, but he clamped his lips shut.

“Do you concede, Your Grace?”

His grin matched hers in ferocity. “No’ on yer life.”

Once more, they were at an impasse.