The Impostor's Kiss

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.