The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne
the rest of the house, this room was big, but the style was indefinable—not Mediterranean, precisely, not Arabic, nor Oriental, but some odd mixture of every culture.
The iron-and-wooden bed was like something out of an Arabian tale, with fine, pale blue fabric draped over it from a wrought iron-wheel suspended from the ceiling. The muted midnight-blue satin spread stretched upon the bed was unmarred by even a single crease.
Oversized blue-and black-satin pillows gilded with Far Eastern symbols were littered across an uncarpeted, dark-wood floor, lending the room a sense of calculated chaos.
The draperies, too, were pale blue and sheer, flowing into the room like a billowing moonlit mist.
On the far side of the room sat a dark-wood table that was too low for chairs. Gathered at its center were half-a-dozen fat candles of various heights and widths—a luxury to his people. And surrounding the short, stocky table were more pillows in shades of blue and black; these were plain, without the gilded symbols.
Two sets of double doors led from the room; one set at his back, another to his left. He made his way across the room and opened one set, revealing a closet in which every nook and cranny was filled with hanging black, blue and white garments. It wholly embarrassed the single, freestanding wardrobe that occupied Ian’s room in Glen Abbey.
In fact, this was not a bedroom at all, he decided. It was an apartment. And when he thought of all the bellies that could have been satisfied for the cost of a single item within it, it made his belly churn.
Unbidden, the memory of Rusty Broun’s little Ana accosted him. The child would have been three years old the week after her death. Her face, gaunt with hunger, would bedevil him for the rest of his days. It was for her, as much as for anyone, that he had come seeking answers—for Rusty’s sweet Ana, and for all of Glen Abbey’s wee innocents who depended on Glen Abbey Manor for support.
He turned his back on the luxurious fabrics hanging in Merrick’s closet and went to the bed, settling down on it as he glanced about the room.
How could any man surround himself with so much rubbish when babies were literally starving to death?
Ian experienced an unholy stab of guilt merely standing in the midst of it all.
He collapsed on the bed, wondering how Merrick could lie amidst the cool satin sheets and not feel…
Devil hang him, but it did feel good, he thought, as he dragged himself backward and stretched out on the massive piece of furniture. Hell, his feet didn’t even reach the edge, and he was taller than most men.
He shook his head in disgust over his lapse in character, but guilt fell at the heels of exhaustion. God save his rotten soul, but it couldn’t hurt to wallow in a wee bit o’ comfort for just a bit.
He was fagged to bloody death.
As he sprawled in the silky bed, closing his eyes, Ian thought not of little Ana, nor of Glen Abbey, nor even of his mockery of a life, but of a green-eyed beauty with disheveled hair and a wit as sharp as his grandfather’s claymore…and lips that looked to be as soft as the satin caressing his cheek.
What he wouldn’t give to have a taste of that mouth.
He drifted toward sleep imagining his mystery woman in the most wicked of positions, her mouth coaxing him to climax.
So what the blazes if she wouldn’t even give him her name? His thoughts were his own and she couldn’t very well slap him in his dreams.
Chapter Five
N o longer was the preservation of honor a luxury to be considered. The contents of the box—a severed finger and a threatening note—necessitated that even the lowliest of solutions must be weighed.
Until now, Claire had not resorted to begging, but today she would add that particularly distasteful endeavor to her growing list of embarrassments.
To that end, her greatest opportunity lay with Lord Huntington, Alexandra’s father. Though he was known to be a frugal man, he was kind at heart, and if anyone might feel compelled to help her, it would be he. He had, after all, known her most of her life.
At any rate, she didn’t know anyone else well enough to solicit money from them. It was Ben who was everybody’s friend. Claire had always been content to remain in his shadow. She’d never been particularly fond of, or very good at, idle conversation. And though she had many acquaintances, her circle of true friends was quite small.
In fact, it numbered the grand sum of one.
Hoping her best friend wouldn’t wake this morning while she was visiting with her father, Claire awaited Lord Huntington in his office, gnawing anxiously at her thumbnail as she inspected the heads of exotic animals hanging about the room.
Lions bared their teeth at her. Small, doglike creatures seemed to be cackling down at her. Great, deer-like beasts, taller than Claire, turned their noses up at her disapprovingly.
In all the years she’d known Lexie, she’d never entered her father’s office. Lord Huntington was most often abroad, managing his business affairs from behind the telescope of a hunting rifle. When in residence, though, he’d always had a kind word for Claire and for Ben.
Ben, in fact, had turned to Lord Huntington for financial advice after their father’s death, and Lord Huntington had, in the beginning, taken Ben under his wing. Claire only knew this because she’d overheard a discussion between the two concerning debts and assets when they’d joined Lexie and her father for dinner one evening.
“Sorry to have kept you,” Lord Huntington said as he entered his office.
Claire bounded to her feet, sucking in a breath to calm her ravaged nerves. “My lord!” she exclaimed. “Please, no need to apologize.”
“Sit down, my dear,” Lord Huntington directed her as he approached the desk. He flicked his hand when she didn’t at once sit.
Claire plummeted into the chair, though her stomach seemed disinclined to follow.
“I do realize you’re busy, my lord,” she offered, wanting him to understand how truly grateful she was even for a moment of his time. “You know I would never intrude unless the matter were urgent.”
Lord Huntington took a seat behind the enormous cherry-wood desk that dominated his office. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface. He was a rather handsome man, despite his advanced age, and his smile reminded her of her father’s. He clasped his hands together and set his chin on two steepled fingers, waiting for her to speak.
Claire suddenly couldn’t find her voice. She opened her mouth, but words became difficult.
He lowered his fingers and dropped his chin to rest on his joined hands, his look concerned now. “What is it you need, dear girl?”
Claire was grateful for his directness.
Averting her eyes for an instant, she said a silent prayer that her father would forgive her for this moment of utter disgrace. Then she met Lord Huntington’s gaze, secure in the knowledge that her father would never accept his only son’s demise over the salvation of his family estate or his name.
“I—It’s Ben,” she stammered. “My lord, please don’t speak a word of this to anyone—not even Lexie—but Ben…he’s…gone missing.”
Lord Huntington sat up straight in his chair, dropping his hands to the desk. “What do you mean, ‘gone missing’?”
Tears pricked at Claire’s eyes. “Well, someone has kidnapped him and is holding him for ransom. And I am expected to raise two hundred thousand pounds—one hundred fifty more—or they tell me…” Her eyes misted. “They say they will kill him.”
Huntington slapped on the desk. “What?”
“I’m afraid it’s true, my lord,” Claire assured him. “In fact, last night, they sent a particularly gruesome gift as