The Impostor's Kiss. Tanya Crosby Anne
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