The Impostor's Kiss. Tanya Crosby Anne
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,