The Impostor's Kiss

If he wasn’t dead, surely he must be dreaming.

And then his angel shouted in his ear, and he knew he wasn’t dreaming. She was a flesh-and-blood woman, and he wanted suddenly to kiss her…until her words penetrated.

“It serves the wretch right!” she declared, her breasts rising with indignation. “He’s not hurt! He’s just too muddled to ride! Rotten cad!”

“Nay, Miss Chloe! The horse threw him—I swear it! We saw it with our own two eyes!”

“Who the devil is ‘we’?” she questioned.

Bloody shrew; she must be his wife.

“Och!” she snapped before Merrick could ask who she was. “He’s bleeding all over my dress!” And she promptly dropped him to the ground.

And then he did what no manly man should ever do—he passed out.

Praise for new Historical author

Tanya Anne Crosby

“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,

Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling glimpse

into the human heart.”

—Romantic Times on The MacKinnon’s Bride

“With her talent for spinning engrossing yarns

and painting vivid characters and setting,

Ms. Crosby will again capture your heart.”

—Romantic Times on Perfect in My Sight

The Impostor’s Kiss

Tanya Anne Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mother and father, who in their most trying time have taught me the meaning of courage. And to my children, who remind me every day of the power of faith, hope and love.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Prologue

The Principality of Meridian, 1803

H ow could she have believed he would wed her?

Indulging in a rare moment of self-pity, Lady Fiona Elizabeth MacEwen sat upon the immense claw-footed bed that dominated her room. The fine silk bedcloth rumpled beneath her skirts. This room, where she’d been confined since the birth of her twins, was little more than a luxurious cell. In truth, she felt more like a prisoner than a guest.

Outside, there were no trees to shade the room from the heat of the day; the afternoon sun, diffused through gold-chiffon draperies, burnished the room with a gilded light that made one feel as though one simmered in the belly of a furnace. It was devilishly hot in this country—so unlike her beloved Scotland.

What had made her think someone like him would desire someone like her? He was a prince, after all, and she but an impoverished earl’s daughter. Julian Merrick Welbourne III would command a nation someday, while Fiona no longer even had a home left to take charge of.

What a despicable mess she’d made of her life.

Fiona fought her tears. Her father hadn’t raised a wilting violet—nor had he raised an imbecile. She understood why Julian was marrying that woman. As the only son of Meridian’s sovereign, he was expected to marry for the good of his country, not for love. She just didn’t comprehend how he could have forgotten his obligations to begin with.

Though perhaps he hadn’t?

Perhaps she’d never been more to Julian than a final rebellion?

That revelation made her feel used, abused and deceived.

Her eyes stung fiercely. Had he never loved her? Had he brought her to this place only to become his mistress?

She would rather die first than be any man’s jezebel!

A single tear slipped down her cheek. The worst of it all was not that she would never be wed to the man she loved…but that she would never be wed at all.

What man would marry her with two sweet little bairns in tow?

And worse, because of her damnable pride, Glen Abbey Manor—their ancestral home—was no longer her sanctuary; even if Julian released her, she had nowhere to go. Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her father—a mere guest in his own home.

They’d had so little to offer as a dowry and they’d both been so deliriously joyful over Fiona’s good fortune at marrying so well, that her dear papa had sacrificed everything to see her impossible dream come true. Trusting in the word of a gentleman, long before the impending nuptials, her father had handed over the deed to Glen Abbey Manor. For four hundred and twenty-two years her kinsmen had been proud to call the manor their home. From Creagach Mhor to the woodlands that spilled into McClellan’s valley, all of Glen Abbey was a part of their legacy, and the little church in the grove was rumored to have even sheltered the stone of scone when Edward of England had sought to steal it for his own.

If her father was left wonting, it wasn’t in honor or in charity. He’d shared his legacy generously, allowing the townsfolk, who’d settled the land along with their ancestors, to occupy their land parcels without payment.

What would become of them now?

How foolish they had been. How very foolish. And the irony of it all was that Julian hadn’t even wanted or needed Glen Abbey. Bordered by the Alps and the Mediterranean Sea, the Principality of Meridian covered no more than two square miles, but was one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in all of Europe. In comparison, the only value Glen Abbey held was as a means of control. She had no doubt Julian would use it to control her life and that of her sons.

Shortly after the church bells struck two, a rap sounded at the door.

Fiona didn’t stir herself from the bed; her time to avoid it was long past. Anyway, she knew it would be him. The maid had a key and never bothered to knock. He, too, had a key; he turned it in the lock to allow himself entrance. She heard the lock click, the door creak on old iron hinges, and then he stood in the doorway. Her breath caught at the sight of him—as it always did. She loathed that weakness within herself, that she could love this man, despite that he’d treated her so shabbily.

For just an instant he glanced downward, as though ashamed, and then he said, “I’ve come to see my sons.”

“I want to go home,” Fiona demanded, though she knew it would gain her nothing.

His handsome face was stern, his chiseled jaw clenched with resolve. His blue eyes seemed pale as a new moon, whitewashed of emotion. “As I’ve explained, I cannot allow you to leave with my children, Fiona.” He stood looking at her, his presence undeniable with his imposing size. She noted little sway in his posture.

Fiona couldn’t help herself; a tear escaped and slid down her cheek. She ignored it. So did he as he started across the room, toward the crib. “I don’t believe you ever loved me,” she said accusingly, swallowing her pride, feeling defeated. “If you did, you wouldn’t keep me here to suffer the sight of your new bride.”

He said nothing and she took some comfort in anger. “Tell me, Julian, will it please you to know I shall be sitting here holding our bairns as your wedding bells toll?” He walked past her without looking at her and she added, “I wonder how pleased Elena will be when she learns of my presence in her home!” To her dismay, she started to cry.

Julian stopped finally and turned to face her, his gaze softening. “Please don’t cry,” he said. For an instant, when he met her gaze, she saw a glimpse of the man she’d known. It squeezed at her heart.

Unbidden, he came and sat next to her upon the bed, his voice softening. He reached out to wipe the tear from her cheek with a steady finger. Fiona closed her eyes, wincing over the tenderness in his touch.

“Fiona,” he pleaded, “I could make you happy. I would shower you and my sons with gifts. I would take care of you—never disappoint you.”

“You already have,” Fiona said, opening her eyes and facing him squarely. She shook her head adamantly. “I will never be your mistress, Julian,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

He reached out to touch her hand. “You know how I feel about you,” he said, but his confession professed nothing. He hadn’t said those three little words to her since he’d revealed his plan to wed another woman. If he’d said them…if she heard them…her will would have crumpled. But he hadn’t said them and she jerked her hand away from the warmth of his touch.

“My darling,” he beseeched her. “I promise to give you my full devotion.”

Fiona looked up at him and said with acid sweetness, “You mean, when you aren’t otherwise devoted to your wife and her own children?”

He looked away guiltily. “Fiona,” he said, and tried to explain yet again. “You know it was not my choice to wed Elena.”

Fiona didn’t care to hear it. She swallowed her tears and summoned the last of her strength. She stood and turned her back to him. “All I know is that I will not disgrace my father’s name any more than I already have! I may never be able to face him again as it is!” She walked away, needing distance, lest she be tempted. She couldn’t look at him without wanting to leap into his arms and to beg him to love her and her children.

How utterly pitiful she felt.

Across the room, waking in their crib, the babes began to whimper. Fiona rushed to the cradle, grateful for the distraction. She touched each of their little faces, caressing their cheeks with her finger, their little noses. Merrick and Ian were everything to her. For them she would bear any shame, any trial. At least, if he must lock her away from the world, he’d been merciful enough to leave her with her precious darlings.

“Mother adores you,” she cooed to them. Already they looked so much like their father, with dark hair and eyes so deep a gray they were like storm-ridden skies. Merrick seemed the more content of the two and she scooped Ian into her arms, intending to soothe him first.

She hadn’t heard Julian approach, but his voice broke when he spoke, startling her. “I’d hoped…it wouldn’t come to this, but you are, indeed, correct, Fiona.” He set a hand upon her shoulder and squeezed gently. “I cannot keep you against your will.”

Fiona choked a sob, anticipating what he was about to do. She wanted to go home—she truly did—but it pained her immensely to leave him…to never see him again…to never have the chance to hold him.

“As you know, Elena will arrive soon. I’ll not have her upset by my mistake.”

Mistake?

Fiona’s throat constricted. If he’d wished to hurt her, he couldn’t have chosen finer daggers for words. Tears sprang to her eyes as she shrugged away from him. With Ian in her arms, she turned to face the father of her children, the man she was supposed to have wed, the man who had seduced her and then locked her away.

Mistake?

His expression turned hard and as cold as steel. “I’ve a proposition.”

Fiona suddenly couldn’t speak past the knot in her throat. Taking comfort in Ian’s soft coos, she held her son to her breast. Though the glaze in her eyes must have betrayed her, she lifted her chin proudly. But nothing could have prepared her for what he was about to say.

“You may choose one of our sons,” he said. “The other you must leave with me. If you agree to this, I will return Glen Abbey Manor to you and to your father.”

Fiona blinked, disbelieving her ears. Whatever she had expected to hear, it wasn’t this. Her throat would not open to speak.

“I will allot you a generous allowance to comfortably raise my son.”

“No!” She found her voice at last. “How can you possibly expect me to abandon my flesh and blood?”

He stood firm. “You have no choice in the matter.”

“I refuse to leave either of my sons!”

“If you fight me,” he warned her, his tone colder than she’d ever heard it, “I will seize both and will send you away with neither.” He gave her no more than an instant to digest the threat and then added, “Nor will I return Glen Abbey Manor to your father. You will be homeless and childless besides.”

Her heart seemed to plummet to her feet. Had she not been holding Ian, she might have given in to a swoon. In desperation, she clutched her son to her breast. Pride vanished completely. “I’ll stay!” she said, choking back tears. “I’ll do what you wish. Please, don’t take my children!”

His voice hardened. “I’m afraid you’ve made it absolutely clear to me that allowing you to remain in Meridian is an impossibility, Fiona.”

“But you…you cannot do this,” Fiona said, trembling. She shook her head in denial, but even as she did, she knew he could and he would. In his domain, Julian could do anything he wished, and if he wished to send her away empty-handed, she knew he could. Who would take him to task over it?

Nobody.

She was hardly important enough for anyone to raise their head over, much less their hand. The futility of it all swept through Fiona in a terrible wave of nausea.

“Julian,” she begged, and fell to her knees, clasping her son to her breast. Ian started to cry in earnest, sensing her alarm, and she loosened her grip.

“You have one hour to choose which of our two sons you will take and to pack your belongings,” he told her, resolved. “I’ve already made arrangements for you to be escorted home.”

No—please!” Fiona beseeched him.

Julian raised his hand to silence her, his jaw taut. His gaze lost every trace of warmth. “And if you return,” he warned her, “I shall take both my sons and leave you with nothing—not even your lofty pride.”

Shock, for an instant, stopped the beating of her heart. What pride was there in a woman upon her knees? Fiona nearly cried out. She blinked away stinging tears.

Julian turned and left her with the cold reality of his intentions. As the door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock, Fiona vowed one day to make him pay.

In the end she would have both her sons, and he would die a lonely old man.

Chapter One

Northern Scotland, 1831

W ho was she?

Misty woodlands enveloped them, forbidding even moonlight from illuminating their northward path to a remote township in northern Scotland where J. Merrick Welbourne IV came in search of answers.

Resting his head against the window, Merrick perused the unfamiliar countryside through a single open eye. Tonight the beaten road was peaceful, though the darkish woods made excellent spawning grounds for thieves and rogues. Like rats in the sewers of London, the north lands were said to be infested with them. Only a Tom O’Bedlam would venture through this place where brigands were said to thrive and townsfolk sheltered them, where outlanders were scrutinized through narrowed eyes.

Merrick had been forewarned, but he’d come anyway, bound for a place called Glen Abbey. His father’s letters—dozens of them—had been penned to a woman there. Though the letters had been too vague to determine their relationship, it had become apparent by their sheer number that they’d been written to someone his father had once cared for.

Now he considered what he should do when—if—he found her as he patted a hand over his coat where he’d placed the stolen missive.

Should he deliver it?

Or should he honor his father’s apparent wishes and let the past lie?

For that matter, would she even accept the letter if he chose to deliver it?

The tone of the posts suggested that his father had somehow abused her. He wondered what terrible thing his father had done to this woman and was curious why the letters had never been dispatched. But it was even more troubling that his father scarce left his apartments, reading the letters each night, sometimes weeping, and drinking himself into a stupor.

It was Merrick’s greatest hope that he could find this woman and right an old wrong so that his father’s conscience might be somehow eased. At the very least, he wanted answers…and answers he intended to get.

If ever they arrived at this mysterious little township.

With a sigh, Merrick slumped backward into the leather seat and closed his eyes, seeking patience. The journey seemed bloody endless.

Merrick certainly wasn’t proud to have snooped like some petty thief through his father’s personal items, but he’d felt driven to discover what lay at the heart of his father’s misery. It was his duty to his father just as much his duty to his country. It was a blessing Meridian was not of particular importance politically, as there were no provisions in their laws that would depose a sovereign for dementia. That was the first amendment Merrick intended to make. If by chance he ended like his father, he wanted them to pluck him from his sovereignty and to confer it at once to his heir.

Of course, to pass on his legacy, it meant he must first get himself a bloody wife.

The thought of that particular task sat like acid in his belly. He shook his head at the thought of all those silly little chits bouncing off their mothers’ skirts. The prospect of having to make witty chatter with empty-headed misses until he chose a bride made his stomach turn violently. The anticipation of having to endure one of them for the rest of his natural life gave him a fright. And their mothers—gad—vultures, all of them! He was glad to have escaped London for the time being.

Somewhere beyond the carriage a birdcall caught his attention and his eyes flew open.

Not just any bird, but a saker—or to be more precise, a very good imitation of one. He’d know the sound anywhere.

He rapped on the carriage roof. “Did you hear that, Ryo?”

The driver’s reply was petulant, as though he’d been stewing the entire journey. “I hear nothing, Merricksan! I only do what I am told!”

Merrick frowned at the response—sour old codger. But Ryo’s objections over Merrick’s intervention wasn’t his greatest concern at the moment. Unless his ears deceived him, he had, in fact, heard a saker’s call. He’d recognized the cry at once; the saker was his favored bird of prey.

He’d been no more than twelve when Ryo had first introduced him to the bold predator. And because it was more familiar to Oriental and Arab falconers, he’d never encountered anyone who’d owned one aside from himself. However, this was not the Orient, nor was it Meridian, and sakers didn’t fly wild in the north woods of Scotland.

He sat forward, peering out from the window.

Somehow the night seemed blacker than it should. Shadows teased his eyes and, for an instant, he had the strangest perception of looking down upon his carriage, sleek and black as it wheeled its way along the leaf-strewn path. The image was fleeting, gone before he had time to blink his eyes, but it was enough to make him doubt not merely his vision but his hearing, as well.

He slumped backward, unsettled, his mood growing darker than the woods they traversed.

They should have reached Glen Abbey Manor long before now… If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ryo was driving in circles, delaying their arrival.

He rapped again on the carriage roof. “Chris-sakes, get us to a bed—any bed’ll do by now!”

Ryo replied, “Grab your pants, Merricksan! We’re going as fast as we can.”

“Not fast enough,” Merrick suggested. “And that would be ‘hold your knickers,’” he corrected the older man, “not ‘grab your pants.’”

“Same ting,” the older man argued from his safe perch outside.

“No,” Merrick persisted, amused despite himself. “You would, in fact, find yourself in gaol for grabbing your pants in public.”

Ryo’s response was indignant. “Humph! Why should anybody care if I am grabbing my pants, but not if I am holding my knickers? Your Western language makes no sense to this old man.”

Merrick refused to laugh, though his shoulders betrayed him, shaking softly with his mirth. Dammit all to hell, he was too tired to be diverted. And he’d reduced himself to arguing semantics with a stubborn old Asian, who somehow, despite his position of servitude, never once lost an argument.

Why the hell had he asked Ryo to drive, anyway? Or had Ryo insisted upon accompanying him?

Somehow, Merrick was never quite certain of these things where Ryo was concerned. If Merrick asked to dine on steak, the old bugger served him raw fish instead. If he requested brandy, he got bloody ale. If he begged for silence, Ryo would sooner hum some lively tune, just to be contrary. This was their relationship, and though at times it bedeviled the hell out of Merrick, he wouldn’t truly have it any other way.

At the instant, however, he was far too tired to be anything but irritated. “God have pity,” he muttered.

Despite claims to the contrary, Ryo’s hearing was impeccable. The old man interjected without invitation, “Could be that Merricksan’s discomfort is divine retribution for his disrespecting his elders!”

Merrick countered, “Could be Ryosan would be better served by minding his own affairs.”

Ryo didn’t respond.

Wise man. He seemed to know when to launch an attack and when, precisely, to withdraw. Though he couldn’t seem to resist a final kick of frustration to the carriage, Merrick duly noted. The impact of his foot rattled the vehicle.

Crotchety old codger; let him show his temper. It didn’t matter. Merrick was well armored in his conviction that he was doing his duty.

Answers awaited him in Glen Abbey, and the devil and his hounds couldn’t keep him from discovering them.

Ready to strike when the leader gave the word, seven men watched from their perches within the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for the third time. Dressed in black from head to heel, they allied with the night.

They needed this loot, but something about the carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too well-heeled to leave itself so vulnerable. Either the occupant was foolish…and lost…or the carriage was bait. He cupped his hand over his mouth to call out a signal, but indecision froze his lips.

Twice before he’d let it pass, but the carriage’s presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale laid before a thirsting man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison, its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.

“His direction’s as bad as me minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.

“A week ago I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that bloody haggis,” remarked another, almost too softly to be heard.

But everyone heard.

What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger? Three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty was here tonight; he had three more little birds waiting at home with their mouths open wide and their bellies as empty as Glen Abbey’s coffers.

“Trust me,” Ian said to them, his heart squeezing as he weighed the options. And he knew they would. They followed him blindly, consumed with hope. Good men, all of them, they’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps? Who would take them in with their wives and their bairns?

No, he had to do something.

Christ Almighty, what should he do?

Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.