Tanya Crosby - The Impostor's Kiss

Should he deliver it?

Or should he honor his father’s apparent wishes and let the past lie?

For that matter, would she even accept the letter if he chose to deliver it?

The tone of the posts suggested that his father had somehow abused her. He wondered what terrible thing his father had done to this woman and was curious why the letters had never been dispatched. But it was even more troubling that his father scarce left his apartments, reading the letters each night, sometimes weeping, and drinking himself into a stupor.

It was Merrick’s greatest hope that he could find this woman and right an old wrong so that his father’s conscience might be somehow eased. At the very least, he wanted answers…and answers he intended to get.

If ever they arrived at this mysterious little township.

With a sigh, Merrick slumped backward into the leather seat and closed his eyes, seeking patience. The journey seemed bloody endless.

Merrick certainly wasn’t proud to have snooped like some petty thief through his father’s personal items, but he’d felt driven to discover what lay at the heart of his father’s misery. It was his duty to his father just as much his duty to his country. It was a blessing Meridian was not of particular importance politically, as there were no provisions in their laws that would depose a sovereign for dementia. That was the first amendment Merrick intended to make. If by chance he ended like his father, he wanted them to pluck him from his sovereignty and to confer it at once to his heir.

Of course, to pass on his legacy, it meant he must first get himself a bloody wife.

The thought of that particular task sat like acid in his belly. He shook his head at the thought of all those silly little chits bouncing off their mothers’ skirts. The prospect of having to make witty chatter with empty-headed misses until he chose a bride made his stomach turn violently. The anticipation of having to endure one of them for the rest of his natural life gave him a fright. And their mothers—gad—vultures, all of them! He was glad to have escaped London for the time being.

Somewhere beyond the carriage a birdcall caught his attention and his eyes flew open.

Not just any bird, but a saker—or to be more precise, a very good imitation of one. He’d know the sound anywhere.

He rapped on the carriage roof. “Did you hear that, Ryo?”

The driver’s reply was petulant, as though he’d been stewing the entire journey. “I hear nothing, Merricksan! I only do what I am told!”

Merrick frowned at the response—sour old codger. But Ryo’s objections over Merrick’s intervention wasn’t his greatest concern at the moment. Unless his ears deceived him, he had, in fact, heard a saker’s call. He’d recognized the cry at once; the saker was his favored bird of prey.

He’d been no more than twelve when Ryo had first introduced him to the bold predator. And because it was more familiar to Oriental and Arab falconers, he’d never encountered anyone who’d owned one aside from himself. However, this was not the Orient, nor was it Meridian, and sakers didn’t fly wild in the north woods of Scotland.

He sat forward, peering out from the window.

Somehow the night seemed blacker than it should. Shadows teased his eyes and, for an instant, he had the strangest perception of looking down upon his carriage, sleek and black as it wheeled its way along the leaf-strewn path. The image was fleeting, gone before he had time to blink his eyes, but it was enough to make him doubt not merely his vision but his hearing, as well.

He slumped backward, unsettled, his mood growing darker than the woods they traversed.

They should have reached Glen Abbey Manor long before now… If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ryo was driving in circles, delaying their arrival.

He rapped again on the carriage roof. “Chris-sakes, get us to a bed—any bed’ll do by now!”

Ryo replied, “Grab your pants, Merricksan! We’re going as fast as we can.”

“Not fast enough,” Merrick suggested. “And that would be ‘hold your knickers,’” he corrected the older man, “not ‘grab your pants.’”

“Same ting,” the older man argued from his safe perch outside.

“No,” Merrick persisted, amused despite himself. “You would, in fact, find yourself in gaol for grabbing your pants in public.”

Ryo’s response was indignant. “Humph! Why should anybody care if I am grabbing my pants, but not if I am holding my knickers? Your Western language makes no sense to this old man.”

Merrick refused to laugh, though his shoulders betrayed him, shaking softly with his mirth. Dammit all to hell, he was too tired to be diverted. And he’d reduced himself to arguing semantics with a stubborn old Asian, who somehow, despite his position of servitude, never once lost an argument.

Why the hell had he asked Ryo to drive, anyway? Or had Ryo insisted upon accompanying him?

Somehow, Merrick was never quite certain of these things where Ryo was concerned. If Merrick asked to dine on steak, the old bugger served him raw fish instead. If he requested brandy, he got bloody ale. If he begged for silence, Ryo would sooner hum some lively tune, just to be contrary. This was their relationship, and though at times it bedeviled the hell out of Merrick, he wouldn’t truly have it any other way.

At the instant, however, he was far too tired to be anything but irritated. “God have pity,” he muttered.

Despite claims to the contrary, Ryo’s hearing was impeccable. The old man interjected without invitation, “Could be that Merricksan’s discomfort is divine retribution for his disrespecting his elders!”

Merrick countered, “Could be Ryosan would be better served by minding his own affairs.”

Ryo didn’t respond.

Wise man. He seemed to know when to launch an attack and when, precisely, to withdraw. Though he couldn’t seem to resist a final kick of frustration to the carriage, Merrick duly noted. The impact of his foot rattled the vehicle.

Crotchety old codger; let him show his temper. It didn’t matter. Merrick was well armored in his conviction that he was doing his duty.

Answers awaited him in Glen Abbey, and the devil and his hounds couldn’t keep him from discovering them.

Ready 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. Dressed in black from head to heel, they allied with the night.

They needed this loot, but something about the carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too well-heeled to leave itself so vulnerable. Either the occupant was foolish…and lost…or the carriage was bait. He 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 laid 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 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?