The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne
“I will publicly announce that I have chosen my bride.
“You need only make up some reason as to why you cannot wed with me—perhaps you don’t love me, after all?”
“Of course I don’t love you!” Claire protested. What a ludicrous notion! How could she love a man she didn’t even know? “I’ve only met you twice!” she pointed out reasonably.
“Three times,” Ian corrected her. “And that’s enough to establish at least an attraction, don’t you think so?”
Claire gasped softly. “I am not the least bit attracted to you, I assure you!”
“Are you not?” he asked.
Claire’s heart did a telltale flip against her breast. She was horribly afraid he might feel it, as well. “Not at all!” she lied.
He grinned wickedly, as though somehow he knew differently. “Pity,” he said. “Because I’m quite attracted to you…!”
Praise for Tanya Anne Crosby
“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,
Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling glimpse into the human heart.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub 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 BOOKclub on Perfect in My Sight
The Impostor Prince
Tanya Anne Crosby
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Prologue
Northern Scotland, 1831
R eady 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.
They needed this loot, but something about the closed carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too luxurious to leave itself so vulnerable.
Either the occupant was foolish or lost…or the carriage was bait to catch a thief.
Ian MacEwen 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 set 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 haggis,” commented another, almost too quietly to be heard.
But everyone heard.
No one answered.
What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger? Almost three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty Broun 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 his men.
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. But what?
Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.
Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.
As yet, they hadn’t killed for their loot, but tonight…they might be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.
Someone could die.
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.
Drawing the black hooded mask down over his face, he landed cleanly upon the rooftop. Before the driver could shout, he had his blade at the Asian’s throat. Rusty Broun came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below into the carriage. His blade replaced Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle, barring its path through the woods. Forced to slow down, the carriage careened sharply. Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back and managed to open the door.
Stunned by what he saw inside, he dropped to the ground, staring stupidly at the occupant.
All thought of highway robbery vanished.
It was like staring into a looking glass.
His hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.
Ignoring the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into action and flung himself into the carriage, hurling the stranger backward and knocking the blade from his hand. The knife flew upward, smacked the rooftop and ricocheted downward, skimming the man’s head, drawing blood.
The carriage bolted into movement.
Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming his head down. He tried to tell the man to stop so that he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the man fought like a lion.
Frustrated,