For the first time in his life, Merrick was speechless at the sight of a woman.

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.

The carriage was nearly upon them.

Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.

As yet they hadn’t killed for their loot—never intended to—but tonight they may be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.

Someone could die.

Though how many more children would die without their aid?

The image of little Ana’s suffering face spurred his decision once and for all. He called out the signal for his men to strike. Let consequences fall where they may.

“Kiak-kiak-keiek-keiek!”

Within the instant, the carriage was beneath them.

Ian was the first to descend. He landed cleanly upon the carriage rooftop. Before the driver could call out a shout, he had his blade at the foreigner’s throat.

The carriage careened to a halt.

The jolt sent Merrick flying, an oath spewing from his lips. His first thought was that Ryo had never been so belligerent, but clarity came to him at once. His long-time servant might be impertinent, but he was neither militant nor disrespectful.

Something was wrong.

His gut shouted, Brigands; the night invited them. He unsheathed the blade he kept at his boot. If Ryo’s life were not at risk, he would have spoken by now to alert Merrick, or at least to assuage him. Not a word came from that quarter and the ensuing disturbances verified his suspicions. Outside, he discerned the sounds of men, he surmised—dropping from the trees—their landing crushing heavy twigs beneath their weight. What he’d thought was Ryo’s kick of frustration upon the roof must have been one of them dropping directly atop the carriage.

God help him, if they harmed Ryo, Merrick swore he’d yank out their spines through their throats and make them spineless in truth. He waited for the carriage door to open.

When at last it did, the masked thief seemed momentarily stunned by the sight of him. The fool froze where he stood, staring into the carriage. Using the man’s stupor to his advantage, Merrick reared back and boxed him in the jaw with the butt of his blade. The impact made even Merrick wince, but he hadn’t an instant to dwell upon it. The thief recovered swiftly, flinging himself into the carriage as Ryo suddenly whipped the horses into flight. His weight drove Merrick backward as the carriage bolted forward. Flying from Merrick’s grasp, the blade was flung against the carriage roof then ricocheted to the floor, skimming Merrick’s head on the way down. He struggled to retrieve it as a warm tide flooded into his eyes, but the thief had caught his arms, pinning them. He slammed his thick head against Merrick’s face and, for an instant, Merrick’s vision faded. The roar of carriage wheels was like thunder in his ears. The sounds of shouting faded with every turn of the wheels.

“Stop!” the thief demanded.

Merrick thought he might be shouting at Ryo to halt the carriage, and silently praised Ryo’s fearless ingenuity.

Suddenly the thief reached up and snatched the hood from his head, unveiling himself. To Merrick’s shock, the face revealed to him was his own. He froze where he lay, his vision hazed at the edges. Stupefied, he stared up into uncannily familiar eyes.

Chapter Two

“I an’s not really so terrible,” Lady Fiona said in defense of her only son.

It was bad form to argue the point, but Chloe Simon heartily disagreed. Something in her expression must have alerted Lady Fiona to her sentiments.

Fiona rebuked her. “A megrim is absolutely nothing to sneeze at!”

Chloe tried not to screw her face. Megrim—humph! The milksop had excused himself only to hie out the back door. Chloe’d spied him with her own two eyes. She just couldn’t bring herself to relay the information to his doting mother. The self-indulgent sot couldn’t even put his vices aside long enough to celebrate his mother’s birth date.

Poor Lady Fiona; her’s was a sad tale.

Most folks knew that her father had gone about claiming his daughter had been swept away to marry a prince. Chloe’s father had told her that Lady Fiona had fallen in love with a commoner—a merchant—and had eloped with her father’s blessings. But that, in itself, Chloe found eternally romantic—loving someone so desperately you would risk everything for their love—but the tale didn’t end there. Less than a year after the couple had wed, in some port town that Chloe could not recall its name, Lady Fiona’s husband had been murdered on the docks. Left with a small bairn, she’d written her father with the news. The old earl had loved his daughter fiercely, and though he’d felt she’d shamed him, he’d welcomed her home. But the tale only worsened; the earl had died whilst Lady Fiona was en route home. She’d buried her father upon her return to Glen Abbey amid gossipy whispers. And the saddest part of all was that the earl had never had the opportunity to see his grandson. Lord Lindale might have been a different man under the old earl’s influence.

Wasn’t it enough that he wasted every penny the estate earned? Did he have to show such blatant disrespect to the woman who had given him birth?

No, he wasn’t so terrible, he was worse than terrible; of this, Chloe was absolutely convinced.

Ian MacEwen, the fifth Earl of Lindale, was a pompous, spoiled, womanizing rogue, with a face God had wasted on so frivolous a man. And Lady Fiona—God bless her—was blinded by a mother’s love. It seemed to Chloe that, no matter the magnitude of his sins, her atrocious son could do no wrong. For Chloe’s part, however, his latest discourtesy had, once and for all, relegated him to the realm of the unredeemable.

Unfeeling, self-indulgent oaf.

She intended to meet him at the back door to give him more than a piece of her thoughts. She didn’t even care if it was bad form. His actions were absolutely unforgivable.

She helped Lady Fiona into the sprawling bed.

“Chloe, dear,” his mother persisted. “Ian has a great heart…”

“I’m certain,” Chloe said as pleasantly as she was able, adding silently, Certain he had none at all. Offering Lady Fiona a sympathetic smile, she tucked the blankets about her limp legs, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.

“He just doesn’t know how to show it,” Lady Fiona concluded.

More like he didn’t know how to use it, Chloe thought to herself. In fact, if Lindale had ever, even once in his life, allowed his heart to guide him, Chloe would lick his dandy boots. She just didn’t believe it. “Shall I find you a book to read,” she asked, changing the subject, “or are you much too weary?”

Lady Fiona waved her hand in dismissal, her kind blue eyes sparking with…disappointment?

Chloe couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t lie about her feelings. She didn’t like Lady Fiona’s wayward son and never had.

“Reading, my dear, is a pursuit better suited for younger eyes,” Lady Fiona said.

Chloe stood, squeezing Fiona’s hand, and said gently, “You aren’t old.” She certainly didn’t look it. At fifty-six, Fiona was still lovely, her skin as vibrant and youthful as it had been the day Chloe had first met her. The shocking white in her hair was the only trait to betray her age. Even from the confines of her chair, the set of her shoulders was even, revealing a lean waist and a youthful frame.

Fiona squeezed back, her delicate fingers gripping with more strength than it seemed possible she should possess in her deteriorated state. “Humph!” she argued. Her eyes glittered fiercely. “I’m indisputably crusty, my dear, and that’s the truth!”

Her inelegant description of herself brought a reluctant smile to Chloe’s lips. Nothing could be further from the truth; Lady Fiona had more elegance in her tiny finger than most women had in their entire bodies.

“Then I should bid you good eve.” Chloe relented and left Fiona’s bedside to put out the lamp upon the dresser. “Happy birthday.”

“No, leave it,” Lady Fiona said, waving Chloe away from the lamp. “It will go out on its own.”

Chloe screwed her face. It was entirely too dangerous to leave the lamp burning all night, but Fiona seemed fearful of the dark. Still, it always did seem to put itself out. “As you wish, my lady.”

“Will you kindly please stop addressing me so formally!” Lady Fiona said. “You must call me Fiona. I consider you family, Chloe. Have I not made you feel welcome?”

“Yes,” Chloe replied.

Lady Fiona gave her an admonishing look, but said, “Good night, dear.”

“Sweet dreams,” Chloe said, and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Later, after giving Lord Lindale a bit of the devil, she would return to put out the light.

God knew, Lindale didn’t deserve the respect of his peers, much less anyone else’s. Chloe could scarce bear to address him by his title, except with the contempt he deserved. As impertinent as it may be, except in front of his mother, she couldn’t bring herself to address him as “my lord.” He certainly wasn’t, as the title suggested, a leader of his clan. The old lairds would turn in their graves; he was an utter disgrace to the MacEwen name.

Pain was Merrick’s first awareness. Voices surrounded him. Shadows flitted past his lids.

“Hawk?”

“Is ’e dead?”

“No, y’ arse! Can ye not hear him moaning like a wee one?”

Merrick opened his eyes to find strange faces peering down at him—faces with hoods drawn back and missing teeth. At first he thought he might be dreaming, so hazy was his vision. It took him a groggy instant to realize that he lay upon the cold ground and that the bodies that belonged to the disembodied faces hovering above were half cloaked in bone-dampening fog.

“He’s coming aboot!”

“Are ye a’right, Hawk?” asked one man whose face seemed to suddenly dive down upon him.

“Damn!” Merrick said, and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He tried to rise, but fell backward.

“Bloody bastard. He left ye here to rot,” said the man.

Another man stepped forward, throwing his hood back as he offered Merrick a hand.

Pride warred with good sense. He could bloody well get to his feet without assistance from the enemy. He ignored the outstretched hand and struggled to his feet.

“There was nothing we could do, Hawk,” the first explained.

Merrick frowned. Why the devil did they keep calling him Hawk? Couldn’t they bloody well see who he was? He reached up to feel for a wound at his head and discovered a hood covering his face. Christ, no wonder he wasn’t seeing straight! He snatched off the hood and glared at the men surrounding him—a more motley crew he’d never met. Cursing, he tossed the bloodied hood to the ground. A downward glance revealed himself dressed in strange clothing, as well. Instinctively his hand went to his head where he found his forehead sticky. The tinny scent of his own blood stung his nostrils.

“Where’s that slimy bastard?” he demanded of the moron who’d extended his hand. At the instant he wanted only to wrap his hands about the robber’s throat and to squeeze.

And where the devil was Ryo?

“He got away,” the toothless man declared.

Merrick’s brain was so muddled he forgot he’d asked a question to begin with. “Who?”

The toothless man’s brows collided as he answered, “The slimy bastard.” His head tilted and his expression was unmistakably one of concern. “Don’t ye recall anythin’ at all, Hawk?”

No. Dammit. The last thing Merrick remembered was refusing to answer the thug’s questions. He’d demanded his own answers but the man had whacked him on the bloody head instead, and that was the last of his memory.

“The driver took off during the scuffle,” the taller man standing before him said. “We tried to follow…”

“By the time we got the horses,” someone interjected, “you were gone.”

The veins at Merrick’s temples throbbed. If someone had warned him yesterday that he’d be robbed by a bandit who looked enough like him to be his bloody twin, and that he’d be stuck at the mercy of his bumbling men while the thief made away with Merrick’s carriage, he’d have believed it a bloody jest. But there was nothing amusing about this situation, and the laughter that burst from his throat was manic.

The men all stared at him, looking befuddled.

He counted them—six—six ruffians against one. He was no match for them, no matter what idiots they might be. He couldn’t defeat so many—weaponless, to boot.

Merrick’s laughter stopped abruptly. Dizzied by his outburst, he took a step and nearly fell.

“Och, you dinna look so verra well, Hawk. We should take you home.”

Merrick opened his mouth to speak but the man interjected quickly. “I know ye dinna think it wise to be seen together, but I canna allow ye to stumble home in this bloody condition.”

What bloody condition was that?

And where the hell was home?

“I’ll…I’ll tell ’em you took a fall from your horse,” he said, fumbling for a story. “And…and I’ll tell them I came across you on the road and offered to see ye home.” He nodded. “That’s what I’ll tell them.” And then to the others, he added, “Go on home, lads. I’ll see to it myself. It wouldn’t look so good if we went together.”

It was evident they’d mistaken his identity, that much was certain. Merrick decided it might not be wise to enlighten them yet. Besides, home sounded damned good at the instant—no matter whose it might be. He slipped off the ring that bore the Meridian royal crest from his finger and pocketed it. He was weary, in pain, probably bleeding to death, and lost besides—not to mention intensely curious about his nemesis.

He nodded, overcome by the situation. “All right, then, lead the way.”

Chloe tried, but she couldn’t get little Ana’s face out of her head—that poor child—God rest her sweet soul. Chloe had struggled to save her, but the little girl had simply lost her will to live. She understood now how her father must have suffered at the loss of every patient.

Pacing the hall as she awaited Lindale’s return, she stopped only to cast malevolent glances out the window. She’d awaited this moment a long time, biding her time, minding her tongue.

No longer.

The more she paced, the angrier she got.

What sort of man passed a hungry child on the street, ignored her outstretched arms, and spent his money on women and drink instead?

What sort of man took a father’s last coin, when his child lay suffering on her deathbed?

What sort of man stole a young girl’s home, her dreams, when her da was fresh in his grave?

Ian MacEwen was that man. And though it might seem irreverent of her, Chloe wasn’t inclined to wait on God to see justice done. It was no longer a matter of what he had done to her; he was destroying innocent lives.

Somehow, she swore, she was going to see that he paid for his sins.

Hearing voices at last, she ran to the window and thrust aside the ancient draperies. They were so old they were brittle in her grasp; she looked at them with disgust, wondering where the money went—not for the upkeep of this house or its mistress, that much was certain.

Riders approached. She recognized both at once. Escorted by Rusty Brown, Lindale wobbled in the saddle like a common pub brawler. So furious that she didn’t care who witnessed her tirade, she lifted up her skirts and marched toward the door, determined to let the world know what sort of man was the lord of Glen Abbey Manor.

Merrick never anticipated the welcome they received.

They’d given him Hawk’s mount and he’d insisted upon riding though he could scarce remain in the saddle. His head throbbed and he was dizzy and sick to his belly, besides. He tried to listen to every word of his escort’s prattling, storing away details for later. In the morning he fully intended to see these men arrested.

It seemed Hawk was their leader, though that particular fact didn’t surprise Merrick much. What did surprise him was the regard with which Rusty seemed to address him. The man seemed determined to instruct him in what to say and how to behave once they reached, of all places, Glen Abbey Manor.

And now his curiosity was more than roused.

It couldn’t be mere coincidence that Hawk looked so much like him that he could have been his twin, but that he resided at Glen Abbey Manor, as well? The former was remarkable, the latter suspect.

But he didn’t have time to consider the possibilities.

No sooner had they ridden upon Glen Abbey Manor’s lawn when they were surrounded by chattering, rushing servants—or maybe it was merely a single woman. The ungodly sound she made was like a banshee shrieking in his ears. He tried to dismount, but his vision was skewed. Misjudging the distance to the ground, he tumbled from the saddle into waiting arms.

His injuries must have been fatal because he found himself coddled at the bosom of the loveliest angel his imagination could never have conjured. The scent of roses enveloped him in a sensual cocoon. Delicate hands pressed his cheek against velvety breasts, while a face as beautiful as heaven itself looked down upon him.

For the first time in his life Merrick was speechless at the sight of a woman.

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 flesh-and-blood woman, and he wanted suddenly to kiss her…until her words penetrated and he realized what she was saying.

“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.

He landed with a sickening thud that rattled his very brain. His head clouded with pain. The last he recalled was the fuzzy image of her standing over him, examining her ruined dress, and the sound of her irate voice cursing the day he was born.

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

Chapter Three

C hloe had been employed seven months ago to nurse Lady Fiona, not her son. But it seemed more and more, even without this latest incident, that Lady Fiona charged her with some task that involved Lord Lindale.

It nettled her.

He nettled her.

Rotten knave.

Forced to nurse him throughout the night, while Lady Fiona sat, looking on from her invalid chair, she assured his fretting mother, “He’ll be fine.” She tried not to sound so heartless, but there just wasn’t a bone in her body that felt pity for the cur.

He lay in his bed, sleeping more peacefully than he had a right to. Chloe feared he’d cracked his skull—but the gash on his forehead was superficial, needing only two little stitches. He’d bear a small scar, but as far as Chloe was concerned, it was his just due. The wicked should bear a wicked countenance.

God’s truth, it didn’t seem fitting that Lucifer should be the most beautiful angel, though in studying Lindale’s slumbering face, she could well believe it to be true. The thought made her frown, because she didn’t particularly like to admit that his countenance appealed to her.

His face bore the same chiseled look of those ancestors depicted in Glen Abbey Manor’s gallery. His hair was a dark, sun-kissed blond. Shaded darker by moisture from her cloth, it was brushed away from his face, revealing magnificently high cheekbones and a strong jaw shadowed with shimmering gold whiskers.

She studied the gold flakes. Odd, but she thought she remembered him clean-shaven this afternoon.

It must have been her imagination.

She examined the stitches upon his forehead, admiring her handiwork, and then turned her attention once more to his face. In stark contrast to his masculine features, his lips were full and his lashes lay thick and dark against his cheeks. Most women would die for lashes so long. Though he must have his father’s complexion, she decided, because Fiona was considerably fairer. Chloe wouldn’t know, because she’d never met Ian’s father—nor did his portrait grace Glen Abbey’s gallery.

“He looks so pallid,” Lady Fiona said, worry invading her usually cool tone.

“He’s fine,” Chloe assured her, though he did, in fact, seem a little peculiar. As she mopped his forehead, trying to put her finger on the distinction, Edward, Glen Abbey’s long-time steward, came into the room and whispered something into Lady Fiona’s ear.

Chloe didn’t bother to greet him. He wouldn’t acknowledge her anyway. Like Lindale, the steward didn’t seem to condone her presence at Glen Abbey Manor. Too bad. She didn’t particularly like him, either. He was secretive and abrasive and seemed to have far too much influence over Lady Fiona.

Lady Fiona gasped. “The constable?”

“Yes, madame,” Edward said.

“Whatever for?”

“He did not say, madame, though he wishes to speak with my lord.”

“How rude of him!” Lady Fiona declared, her mettle peeking out from behind her elegant facade. Chloe had often thought she should have been born a queen, not simply an earl’s daughter. “He certainly may not!” Clearly unsettled, her voice trembled slightly. “You may tell him that he must return at a decent hour when my son has had ample opportunity to recover himself.”

Edward bent once more to whisper something Chloe couldn’t quite make out, and Lady Fiona replied, “Well! Take me to him at once and I shall tell him myself!”

“Yes, madame,” Edward replied, and complied at once, wheeling her from the room. The cumbersome chair scraped the door on the way out.

“Lord-a-mercy, Edward! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Of course not, madame.”

They left Chloe smiling to herself. Even in her condition, Lady Fiona’s mettle was an inspiration.

With Lady Fiona and Edward gone from the room, she allowed herself to study the contour of his body beneath the sheets. His chest was wide, his limbs long and muscular. He was nearly bare, she knew. They’d removed his shirt. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man unclothed—she’d nursed a few—but it was certainly the first time she’d been alone with one. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she lifted one corner of the blanket to peer beneath.

It wasn’t as though he would ever know; he was fast asleep.

Her heart beat a little faster as she lifted the coverlet. A sprinkling of curly hair beckoned to the touch, but she didn’t dare. It began at his chest and tapered to a fine, silky line that drew her gaze lower, despite her sense of propriety. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, she was loathe to admit, with tawny flesh that stretched taut over beautiful muscles. She just didn’t remember his skin being so dark.

Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated lifting the covers higher to peer lower. What a terrible waste of a man, she thought with disgust.

Merrick lay as still as he was able, in no rush to wake.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a woman’s nurturing touch—nor even the first time, for that matter. He’d had lovers, but this was somehow different.

As a child, it had been Ryo who’d cared for him when he’d been ill, and Ryo who’d reared him to manhood. Strength and honor had been instilled in him from the day of his birth, but he feared behind the mask, he was no more than a little boy who craved a mother’s love. It was never more apparent than it was this instant; he could have languished in the moment, never waking.

Her warm, sweet breath brushed his face and he turned toward it like a flower to the sun. When he opened his eyes at last, it was to find her bent over him, her face near his chest as she peeked beneath the covers, glimpsing him. Her private smile was the most sensuous smile he’d ever witnessed on a woman. It stirred his loins at once, rousing the one part of him that didn’t ache—at least not at that instant. Her lips curved softly, admiringly, and he feared that if she didn’t drop the covers at once, she would witness, firsthand, the erection of a tent.

As a matter of self-preservation, he spoke. He couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “Enjoying the view?”

She dropped the coverlet with a startled gasp.

He watched as a flush crept from the valley of her breasts and then tinted her face. Her lips deepened to rose, and he wondered if they would be warm to the touch…hot and soft.

Not for the first time, he had the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Recovering her composure quickly, she tossed the cloth she held over his face, as though to escape his gaze. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re awake!” Though her color betrayed her, her tone was full of pique.

“I am,” Merrick assured her, removing the cloth. He smiled disarmingly—at least he thought it should be, but she seemed entirely unaffected.

“More’s the pity,” she lamented. “It appears not even the devil wants you, my lord.”

Her contemptuous tone didn’t escape him.

Grimacing, Merrick adjusted himself in the bed to give her better access. “What,” he taunted her, “no welcome-home kiss for your darling husband?” He had no idea where the question came from, only that it spilled far too easily from his lips.

She gasped, as though offended by his quip, and took an appalled step backward. “How dare you speak to me as you would one of your strumpets! The fall must have addled your brain!”

But she didn’t answer his real question: who was she, dammit?

And then she added much too glibly, “I shall inform your mother that you’ve awakened, my lord—just in time for company! The constable will be quite pleased not to have to wait, after all,” she told him, and hurried to leave.

“Rusty lied,” he said before she could abandon him. “It wasn’t a fall.”

She stopped abruptly at the door, her curiosity piqued.

That waist—so tiny he thought his hands could easily span it. She turned slowly to face him.

Merrick weighed his words; he was hoping for an ally, but wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “The horse didn’t throw me,” he admitted.

One delicate brow arched. “Really?”

“I was, in fact, robbed,” he said.

Both her brows lifted now. “Really!” she said again, her face suddenly losing its animosity. In truth, she appeared even hopeful.

Merrick nodded, watching her closely. “Indeed.”

She took a step closer. “Hawk?” she asked, and the tone of her voice was suddenly awestruck.

Merrick stared at her, dumbfounded.

She lived with the rotten thief and didn’t realize who he was?

“Yes,” he said tersely, deciding that Hawk had obviously never shared his secret with his lovely wife.

She was somebody else’s woman.

He was struck, on the heels of that revelation, with a wave of envy as foreign to him as the bed in which he lay.

Chrissake, when in his life had he ever envied anyone anything?

His entire life he’d had everything at his disposal simply for the taking.

She straightened to her full height and seemed to be assessing him. “I don’t believe you,” she declared suddenly.

“Why not?”

“Because.” Her expression was smug now. “You should be so fortunate to exchange mere glances with the man. You aren’t fit to wipe his boots. That you breathe the same air is a blasphemy in itself.”

Merrick blinked at her declarations.

Two things struck him in that instant. One, she had absolutely no notion of her connection with Hawk. And two, she didn’t seem to like her husband very much.

In fact, he’d like to have agreed with her assessment of Lindale, but her accusations seemed somewhat more personal than they should have, considering that she wasn’t even talking about him. She was talking about Lindale—who was, in fact, Hawk. Be damned if the inanity of the situation didn’t amuse him, despite that her vehemence was directed, for the moment, squarely at him. “Is that so?” he asked her wryly.

“Yes, of course. Hawk is everything you are not.”

He sat, not bothering to cover his bare chest. Why trouble himself? She’d already had an eyeful.

She gasped, and turned to go, suddenly and conveniently embarrassed by the sight of him.

“And just what is it that I am?” he asked, baiting her. He didn’t want her to leave just yet.

She turned to face him, lifting a hand to her face, covering her eyes as she spoke to him. The flush in her breast returned, followed by the one in her cheeks. But she didn’t cow. Her mettle brought a smile to Merrick’s lips. “I shall be most pleased to make you a list,” she told him, and then added, “After you do me the courtesy of covering yourself, my lord.”

He ignored her request. “Make me a list, then.”

“Are you decent?”

More so than he’d like to be. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I warrant it’s nothing you haven’t seen numerous times before,” he told her pointedly, and waited for her to deny it.

She parted two fingers slightly to peek through and closed them again with a soft gasp. “You are so crude!”

“Crude?” But she didn’t deny his allegation.

“And rude!” she added, but she didn’t turn to go, he noticed. In fact, he thought he saw her peeking again through those long, delicate fingers.

“Go on,” he encouraged. As a test to see if she was looking, he let the coverlet drape further.

She gasped softly and his smile deepened. “You are selfish, arrogant, spoiled, ungrateful, vulgar—shall I continue, my lord?”

“I think I get the idea,” he relented, though with a half smile.

“Yes, well, then…I am leaving now,” she informed him tersely. “Because I cannot bear to remain in your presence another instant, my lord!”

“What about Hawk?” he prompted, his lips curving slightly upward when she made no move to go.

“Hawk?” She sighed. “He, of course, is beloved, kind, compassionate, generous, charitable, noble, brave—” With every endearing adjective, she lost a note of shrewishness; her tone became even wistful.

Merrick’s smile vanished completely. “I thought you were leaving,” he said. Her defense of the bugger irritated him more than it should have.

“I am leaving,” she assured him.

“He’s nothing but a common thief,” Merrick told her. “There is absolutely nothing noble about him. The man robbed me and left me to die where I lay.”

He thought she rolled her eyes, but they were still covered and he couldn’t quite tell. “You were scarce in danger of bleeding to death,” she assured him, unmoved. “It was merely a scratch.”

“Really?” His fingers sought his wound for validation. “Scratches don’t require stitching,” he protested. Damn, but was he looking for pity? He didn’t deserve the contempt she was giving him.

Hawk did.

“Oh, yes, it should scar quite nicely,” she said, sounding smug as she turned her back to him at last.

Heartless vixen.

“And as long as we are discussing the matter so freely,” she added, casting him a glare over her shoulder, “I believe justice was served last night—a lesson to you for running out so rudely on your mother’s birthday celebration. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall go and inform the constable that you are quite eager to see him.”

His mother’s birthday celebration?

Her declaration rendered him speechless.

As though his eyes were drawn to it, he glanced across the room, noticing for the first time the portrait of a woman in her youth. It was the same woman in the portrait his father had guarded so fiercely. She was unmistakable in her elegance. He blinked, glancing back at the fiery angel paused in the doorway, and was struck at once by the truth.

It was no accident of nature that he and Hawk looked so remarkably alike that no one seemed able to tell them apart.

Pure emotion barreled through him, the force of it so intense that he was glad he was lying down. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

She marched from the room, leaving Merrick to stare after her, stunned by his epiphany.

Hawk was his bloody brother.

And his mother…she was still alive.

Ryo had known, damn him to hell. That was why he’d tried to keep Merrick from Glen Abbey Manor. It was also why he’d delayed their arrival as long as he’d dared and then had bolted away at the first opportunity…thinking Merrick was still aboard, no doubt. He was like to be halfway to London by now…with Merrick’s brother in tow.

When the haze cleared from his thoughts and he looked up again, she was gone.

Merrick leaped from the bed. “Wait!” he called after her. But he didn’t know her bloody name and she didn’t stop.

Chapter Four

H ow dare he look at her as though she’d rent his heart from his breast, Chloe thought as she made her way to the drawing room. She was vexed with herself for feeling remorse where Lord Lindale was concerned. Why should she regret harsh words when he deserved to feel wretched?

In the drawing room she found Lady Fiona engaged in a heated discussion with Constable Tolly, refusing to give quarter. She smiled softly as she watched the mistress of Glen Abbey Manor at work. She guarded her privacy and her son like a lioness.

“My son will be most pleased to receive you on the morrow,” she assured the constable. “However, today I shall not allow it.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she said, “Please forgive me if you feel thwarted. That is certainly not my intention.”

The constable stood with his hat in hand, his face florid with agitation. “My lady,” he pleaded. “How will I capture this brigand if you and the rest of Glen Abbey refuse to cooperate? You above everyone in this town should be most concerned after what he’s done to you.” He was referring to her crippled legs, and straightened uncomfortably, rising to his full height.

His awkward attempt to cow Fiona failed miserably. She was as unrelenting as the constable was persistent.

Unable to rise to the occasion, Lady Fiona straightened in her chair, clearly piqued. “It is my full intention to cooperate with your investigation, William. As you recall, I gave you a full report when I encountered the cad myself. But I simply cannot allow you to disturb my son whilst he recovers, and that is that!”

“But, madame!” the constable protested still. “The time to debrief Lord Lindale is now, while the incident is freshly impressed upon his brain. Not later, when time has eaten away at his memory like tiny maggots.”

“I beg of you, don’t be so melodramatic!” Lady Fiona charged him. Her usually pale complexion suffused with a furious rose. “And by the by, what incident is it that you are speaking of?” she asked him, tapping her nails firmly against her wheeled chair. “I was told that he fell off his bloody horse!”

The constable gasped at her blasphemy. Lady Fiona never lost her sense of propriety. Still, he persisted. “Attempted robbery, my lady. We have reason to believe there may have been one.”

“Really?” Chloe asked, lifting her brows. “Did someone report a robbery?”

The constable finally noticed her standing in the doorway. For an instant he considered his answer. “Not precisely, Miss Chloe, but last evening there were reports of a strange vehicle in the area—headed toward Glen Abbey Manor. Today the vehicle seems to have utterly vanished. It obviously did not arrive at its destination, nor was it registered at the inn.”

Chloe chewed her bottom lip, contemplating whether to reveal Lord Lindale’s confession.

“I rather hoped Lord Lindale might shed some light on the mystery.”

“What leads you to believe the carriage was bound for the manor?” Chloe asked him.

“Miss Chloe,” he said a little impatiently, “no one ventures this way anymore unless they are bound for Glen Abbey Manor. It is the only estate left of any consequence.”

“I see,” Chloe said. It was true. Thanks to Lindale’s avarice, Glen Abbey was, indeed, a withering township. Too far inland to serve as a port town, and nearly inaccessible by land, the town had too few resources, very little industry and a landlord who was intent upon collecting and spending every last farthing from his tenants’s pockets.

The constable pleaded, “I beg you…the man is the very ‘seed of corruption,’ which has grown like strangling vines about Glen Abbey’s throat.”

“Please, William,” Lady Fiona said, rolling her eyes, “spare us the theatrics.”

Chloe tried not to smirk. It was no wonder the constable felt frustrated; his sentiments were hardly shared by the townsfolk. And knowing that the Hawk’s efforts brought food to babes’ mouths, Chloe held her tongue. If Lord Lindale wished to speak out against Hawk, he would need do so himself.

Lady Fiona stood her ground. “I never said we would not cooperate, Constable. I only appeal to your sense of decency. Come back tomorrow.”

The constable’s complexion was by now apoplectic. “Very well, you leave me little choice.” He smashed the derby upon his head. “Good day!” he said smartly, and spun on his heels toward the door. “Good day to you, Miss Chloe.” Taking his leave of the drawing room, he stopped in the foyer to speak briefly with Edward. Chloe watched them, wondering when the two had become so friendly.

“I have absolutely fizzled,” Lady Fiona said, turning Chloe’s attention from the low-speaking pair at the door. “I believe I shall take myself out to the garden to enjoy the rest of the morning.”

“Yes, madame,” Chloe said, distracted by the pair at the door. Edward had been Lady Fiona’s shadow since Chloe could recall…at least, until Chloe had come to attend her. Since Chloe’s arrival at Glen Abbey Manor, Edward seemed far more inclined to his own pursuits. She took the helm of the invalid chair and maneuvered Fiona from the room.

The wheeled chair was a cumbersome contraption. Outside, they struggled over stepping stones and patches of weed, which seemed to spring forth overnight. The chair caught at every pebble. As they encountered clumps of weeds, Chloe bent to yank them from the ground and tossed them away from the stone path.

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” Lady Fiona said apologetically. But someone had to. Glen Abbey’s sole gardener had a long enough list of tasks. The poor man struggled to fulfill his duties and to feed his family with meager pay.

“I don’t mind,” Chloe assured her. And she truly didn’t. God had given her two hands to use. Her mother had often labored, by choice, in their little garden at home, coaxing flowers to bloom. Chloe desperately missed the scent of freshly cut blossoms.

She missed her mother.

Fiona reached back to pat her hand. “You are a godsend, my dear. Whatever would I do without you?”

“You would cow these pesky weeds into lying down for you!” Chloe said as she pushed the wheeled chair toward Lady Fiona’s favorite spot beneath the rose canopy. “I mean to say, not even Mother Nature would challenge you.”

Fiona laughed softly, the sound almost musical. “Oh, but you don’t seem the least bit cowed, my dear. I must be losing my touch!”

Chloe smiled. Hardly, she thought, recalling the constable’s florid complexion. Even from her invalid chair, Lady Fiona managed to make one feel as though she towered over them. She was kindhearted, but strong-willed. And she was reticent, in truth, but with more of an air of melancholy than one of bitterness. Chloe tried to remember the first time she’d met Lady Fiona and smiled, because she couldn’t recall. Like a long-reigning monarch, it seemed she had always been there. In better times, Lady Fiona had, in fact, been somewhat affectionately known as the queen of Glen Abbey.

They reached the canopy and Chloe settled Fiona’s chair beneath the cascading rose vines so that she was free of the sun. She cast a glance in the direction of the house to be sure Edward had not followed and said, “I wanted to tell you while we were in the drawing room that my lord is awake.”

It was an old house.

Taking care to avoid a confrontation before he was ready for it, Merrick wandered the halls, taking in the deteriorated state of the manor. At one time it must have been grand—nothing like the opulence of Meridian’s palace, but noble, nonetheless.

It was evident no one cared for it now.

And yet, though the walls were dingy and the draperies were brittle and yellowed, each room he passed was immaculate.

Had they no funds for the upkeep of this house?

He’d encountered few servants along the way, but the ones in residence obviously gave their mistress their blood and sweat. Did they do so out of love?

Or did she bleed them like a leech?

Was his flesh-and-blood mother so heartless that she could abandon her own babe?

He stopped to examine a portrait that hung at the head of the stairwell. If he didn’t know better, he would swear he was looking at himself. But it was Lindale, dressed in a deep blue waistcoat and a white, elaborately fashioned cravat—a bit dandyish for Merrick’s taste. The tailcoat, however, was black—aside from the bright waistcoat, it could have been Merrick down to the last fine detail.

It was quite obvious that he and Ian were twins.

He’d already concluded that much, but what he didn’t know was how it came to be that he was foisted upon his father’s wife. It would certainly explain the emotional detachment she’d kept toward him…though what would she have had to gain by her silence? Had his father threatened her? Bribed her? Then again, she’d never born his father any issue. Perhaps raising a bastard hadn’t been a concern for her since she hadn’t had a son of her own who might inherit.

Merrick stared at the smirking portrait, trying to read the uncanny blue eyes. They were the same odd shade as his own. It had never struck him until this moment just how startling they were. A lover had once told him that they were his most disquieting trait, because they always seemed to know.

How much did Ian know?

He’d certainly recovered his surprise quickly enough to steal his carriage, clothes and life. Unfortunately, Merrick no longer even had the letter that was addressed to Fiona; it had been in his vest pocket. For better or worse, his twin was in possession of it now and Merrick had only his face as proof.

An incredible surge of anger clouded his brain.

Why had his father not accepted both his sons? More importantly, why had his mother agreed to leave one behind?

Or had she any choice in the matter?

Perhaps she hadn’t, and that would be the obvious source of his father’s unremitting guilt. But what, precisely, did he regret?

It seemed the more Merrick uncovered, the more questions arose.

He wiped a finger across the framework, found it free of dust and continued down the hall toward Ian’s room. There would be plenty of time yet to face his mother. He hadn’t formed in his brain what he would say to her.

What did one say to the woman who’d abandoned you?

Chloe knocked first at Lord Lindale’s bedroom door.

He, not Hawk, was the reason for Glen Abbey’s declination. God help her, if she hadn’t been in such dire straits after her father’s death, she would never have agreed to suffer his employ. She could scarce look him in the face.

How could he dare face her after robbing her of her life? Moreover, how could he throw stones at Hawk when he was far worse than Hawk could ever be? Hawk stole to help others; Lindale stole out of greed.

What the old earl had given in friendship, the present earl had snatched away without regret. And what was most unforgivable was that he’d done so at the blackest hour in Chloe’s life—whilst she’d buried her father. That afternoon, thieves had overturned their cottage and had stolen every document her father had locked away—including the deed to their land and house—a gift from the old earl to her father for his years of loyal service. The thieves had left everything else of value behind, which told Chloe that there had been only one thing they were after.

Chloe had come to Glen Abbey Manor hoping to find proof. As yet, she’d found nothing more than a meddlesome steward who never seemed to sleep. What Chloe couldn’t determine was whether the steward was merely watchful of his mistress or whether he was a minion of Lord Lindale’s. In either case, the two seemed eternally at daggers drawn.

She knocked again, calling out to Lindale impatiently. When there was no answer, she opened the door to find the room empty. The disheveled state of it startled her. The bedsheets were strewn across the floor, as though they’d been wrenched in a hurry from the bed. The entire room was in shambles, with clothes strewn everywhere and the wardrobe open wide…as though they’d been searched. It brought back horrible memories of that terrible afternoon. It set her teeth on edge.

But why would Lord Lindale feel the need to search through his own belongings? If there was one thing she knew about him, it was that he was meticulous. Like a miser guarding his hoard, he knew where everything was at every moment.

Preoccupied with those thoughts, she turned to leave and her heart leaped a little to find him standing behind her, watching. She hadn’t even heard him enter. Her hand flew to her breast. “What are you doing here?”

He glowered at her and said pointedly, “This is my room, is it not?”

Why did the quip seem more an inquiry than his usual sarcasm? Chloe furrowed her brow. “Of course,” she answered a little uncertainly. “I was… I mean to say, I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“I was out.”

Something about his gaze was far darker, far more menacing, than she recalled. In fact, his demeanor seemed entirely different. He’d donned familiar garments, but somehow he seemed to be wearing them differently this morning—more elegantly and less vainly.

“Where is my mother?” he asked, his tone not at all doting.

“In the garden,” Chloe replied. “Is something wrong?”

Merrick clenched his jaw.

Everything was wrong.

A fury of emotions warred within him. This might not be his life he was faced with, but neither was the one he’d left behind. As he’d watched her survey the disheveled room, it had occurred to him that his entire life had been a bloody lie.

She was watching him warily, as though she sensed the difference in him. Well, he was different. It would behoove him to let her think the bump on his head had caused him a lapse in memory. He still hadn’t the first notion what his little shrew’s name was, much less her relation to him. One thing was certain: judging by the way she’d explored his body whilst he’d slept, she wasn’t his bloody sister. That conclusion filled him with a strange sense of relief.

She was, in truth, the most appealing woman he’d ever met. He didn’t know whether it was the natural bloom in those high cheeks that intrigued him, or those eyes that seemed to veil deep, earthy secrets, but she was nothing like the coy debutantes he’d encountered in London. In fact, she was nothing like anyone he’d ever met. She had color in her face like a commoner who was unafraid of the sun’s sweet kiss, but she was genteel and carried herself as regally as a queen.

Who was she?

The question plagued him.

“I was perusing the portraits in the gallery,” Merrick said carefully, watching her expressions. “Was yours never commissioned?”

She cocked her head, clearly bemused by his question. “Why should mine have been commissioned at all?”

Determined to discover their relation, he took a step toward her.

She took a step backward. “Are you feeling quite all right?” she asked.

He followed her. “Quite,” he assured.

But she retreated another step and found her back against the dresser.

Merrick moved to trap her at once. Enclosing her between his arms, he leaned against the dresser and looked directly into those beautiful brown eyes.

There was no fear there, only confusion. Her back remained straight and her chin tipped slightly upward. “My lord! What is it you think you are doing?” she asked, her tone full of reproach.

Merrick hadn’t the patience for banter. He wanted to know what he wanted to know. Right now. He gave her no warning of his intentions. He bent to take her mouth in a foraging kiss that made his loins swell with desire.

The advance took Chloe completely by surprise.

His mouth possessed hers, his tongue slipping through the defenseless barrier of her lips, tasting with furious abandon. For an instant Chloe could scarce think to react. Her knees buckled in response to his ruthless invasion and he caught her in his arms, holding her steady for his mouth play.

He was fierce and forceful, taking his pleasure as he pleased. But she was not his for the taking. He might have plundered everything else she’d owned, but he wasn’t going to take from her the only thing she had left of value: her reputation.

Regaining her senses, she shoved him away.

He went easily, withdrawing, the back of his hand going to his mouth. She thought he might be disgusted by the kiss, and it somehow added insult to injury.

He appeared to be studying her. “When was the last time I tasted those beautiful lips?” he asked her.

For an instant Chloe could only stare at him, dumbfounded by the question, her mouth hot and bruised from the unexpected assault. She lifted her fingers to ease the sting, her mind numb with the question. It was crude and entirely too personal, not to mention daft, as he’d never dared abuse her in such a fashion before.

And yet, the way he phrased it, the look in his eyes, made her belly quiver and her body react in ways that confused her.

“How…how dare you,” she stammered. Her lips trembled. The bump on his head must have addled his lewd little brain, she decided. “No man has ever dared treat me so basely!”

He had the audacity to smile at that.

“My lord, I was employed to nurse your mother!” she reminded him. “Not to be abused by her son.” His lips curved into a slow smile that infuriated her. “If you ever do that again—”

“Are you threatening me, flower?”

She felt her face flame. “Don’t ever call me that again!” She knew her tone was out of line, but he must be held accountable!

“Or you’ll do what?”

“I—I’ll call you out!” she declared, and meant it. “Yes, I will!” she assured him when he gave her a doubtful look. Having said that, she turned and marched from the room, hurrying away while she still had a coherent thought left in her head.

She had always known he was a cad, but his indecent assault was hardly what she had expected. Perhaps he was far more dangerous than he seemed?

It was certainly time to rethink her presence here.

Chapter Five

T here was no denying it.

Her reaction to his kiss pleased him immensely.

His brother had never kissed her. That realization filled him with a sense of relief that was palpable. In fact, it was evident no man had ever touched those soft, sweet lips before him and it filled him with an inexplicable sense of relief.

He smiled to himself at the way she’d clung to him while he’d explored the depth of her mouth. He could still feel every curve of her body against his own, still taste the sweetness of her lips.

She’d threatened to call him out.

The very idea turned his smile into a grin. Damn, but she was a fiery little vixen. There wasn’t a woman in all of Meridian or London who intrigued him more. His grin widened as he thought of Ian in London. He’d like to see how Ian fared in his shoes amid the hordes of eager debutantes. Unless Ian came forth at once, he was likely to be immediately inundated by the wearisome social schedule Merrick had managed, by the skin of his teeth, to escape.

But some things could not be avoided.

He made his way to the garden, his gut churning at the thought of facing his birth mother. He would need to face her soon; better that it should be on his own terms.

Would she suspect?

Would she recognize him?

Or, like everyone he’d met, would she be blind to the differences?

The garden was Fiona’s sanctuary.

No one could comprehend what this place meant to her. It reminded her of things impossible to forget. The roses she’d planted were the same as those that had once crept outside her window in Meridian. Only here they scarce bloomed, despite that she lovingly coaxed them. When, by chance, a blossom emerged, she cherished its rare crimson beauty. Along the garden pathways, in stark contrast to the deep green rose vines, grew vivid primrose, gayfeather and bright-colored lilies.

At times, such as this morning, whilst she’d looked over Ian as he’d slept, she felt acutely the pain of loss. And yet she could not quite regret the past entirely, for Ian had grown into such a remarkable man. And Merrick…she knew he would want for naught. Julian would give him everything.

Still, so many questions plagued her about him.

Julian, she knew, would never allow her to risk Merrick’s succession to Meridian’s throne. He’d threatened her quite enough through the years, warning her to keep her distance.

In truth, he’d never released her from his prison, only widened the perimeter of her cell. Edward was nothing more than her turnkey. Julian was a selfish, conniving, lying, controlling devil of a man who did not want her, but neither did he wish anyone else to have her. He’d stolen her life, her child and her freedom. She hadn’t the least control over Glen Abbey Manor. After her father’s death, Julian had retained the property for her own good and that of his son.

And yet the years had not been merciful enough to erase the memory of his loving or the pleasures of his touch. After all this time, the memories could still ravage her heart.

By God, whoever said love and hate were opposites knew not of what they spoke. Fiona loved Julian and despised him both. What she truly wished was that she just would not care.

Noting a particularly healthy section of vine, she reached out to better examine what looked to be the promise of a bud. The sight of it gave her heart a little leap of joy. She reached for it, but it eluded her and she eyed the chair with no small measure of disgust. The contraption might be a godsend to those who required it, but for Fiona it was a sentence—another reminder of her many deceptions—one more horrid lie atop the rest. After casting a glance about to make certain no one was watching, she lifted herself slightly from the chair to snatch at the bud.

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