Tanya Crosby - The Impostor's Kiss

Her inelegant description of herself brought a reluctant smile to Chloe’s lips. Nothing could be further from the truth; Lady Fiona had more elegance in her tiny finger than most women had in their entire bodies.

“Then I should bid you good eve.” Chloe relented and left Fiona’s bedside to put out the lamp upon the dresser. “Happy birthday.”

“No, leave it,” Lady Fiona said, waving Chloe away from the lamp. “It will go out on its own.”

Chloe screwed her face. It was entirely too dangerous to leave the lamp burning all night, but Fiona seemed fearful of the dark. Still, it always did seem to put itself out. “As you wish, my lady.”

“Will you kindly please stop addressing me so formally!” Lady Fiona said. “You must call me Fiona. I consider you family, Chloe. Have I not made you feel welcome?”

“Yes,” Chloe replied.

Lady Fiona gave her an admonishing look, but said, “Good night, dear.”

“Sweet dreams,” Chloe said, and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Later, after giving Lord Lindale a bit of the devil, she would return to put out the light.

God knew, Lindale didn’t deserve the respect of his peers, much less anyone else’s. Chloe could scarce bear to address him by his title, except with the contempt he deserved. As impertinent as it may be, except in front of his mother, she couldn’t bring herself to address him as “my lord.” He certainly wasn’t, as the title suggested, a leader of his clan. The old lairds would turn in their graves; he was an utter disgrace to the MacEwen name.

Pain was Merrick’s first awareness. Voices surrounded him. Shadows flitted past his lids.

“Hawk?”

“Is ’e dead?”

“No, y’ arse! Can ye not hear him moaning like a wee one?”

Merrick opened his eyes to find strange faces peering down at him—faces with hoods drawn back and missing teeth. At first he thought he might be dreaming, so hazy was his vision. It took him a groggy instant to realize that he lay upon the cold ground and that the bodies that belonged to the disembodied faces hovering above were half cloaked in bone-dampening fog.

“He’s coming aboot!”

“Are ye a’right, Hawk?” asked one man whose face seemed to suddenly dive down upon him.

“Damn!” Merrick said, and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He tried to rise, but fell backward.

“Bloody bastard. He left ye here to rot,” said the man.

Another man stepped forward, throwing his hood back as he offered Merrick a hand.

Pride warred with good sense. He could bloody well get to his feet without assistance from the enemy. He ignored the outstretched hand and struggled to his feet.

“There was nothing we could do, Hawk,” the first explained.

Merrick frowned. Why the devil did they keep calling him Hawk? Couldn’t they bloody well see who he was? He reached up to feel for a wound at his head and discovered a hood covering his face. Christ, no wonder he wasn’t seeing straight! He snatched off the hood and glared at the men surrounding him—a more motley crew he’d never met. Cursing, he tossed the bloodied hood to the ground. A downward glance revealed himself dressed in strange clothing, as well. Instinctively his hand went to his head where he found his forehead sticky. The tinny scent of his own blood stung his nostrils.

“Where’s that slimy bastard?” he demanded of the moron who’d extended his hand. At the instant he wanted only to wrap his hands about the robber’s throat and to squeeze.

And where the devil was Ryo?

“He got away,” the toothless man declared.

Merrick’s brain was so muddled he forgot he’d asked a question to begin with. “Who?”

The toothless man’s brows collided as he answered, “The slimy bastard.” His head tilted and his expression was unmistakably one of concern. “Don’t ye recall anythin’ at all, Hawk?”

No. Dammit. The last thing Merrick remembered was refusing to answer the thug’s questions. He’d demanded his own answers but the man had whacked him on the bloody head instead, and that was the last of his memory.

“The driver took off during the scuffle,” the taller man standing before him said. “We tried to follow…”

“By the time we got the horses,” someone interjected, “you were gone.”

The veins at Merrick’s temples throbbed. If someone had warned him yesterday that he’d be robbed by a bandit who looked enough like him to be his bloody twin, and that he’d be stuck at the mercy of his bumbling men while the thief made away with Merrick’s carriage, he’d have believed it a bloody jest. But there was nothing amusing about this situation, and the laughter that burst from his throat was manic.

The men all stared at him, looking befuddled.

He counted them—six—six ruffians against one. He was no match for them, no matter what idiots they might be. He couldn’t defeat so many—weaponless, to boot.

Merrick’s laughter stopped abruptly. Dizzied by his outburst, he took a step and nearly fell.

“Och, you dinna look so verra well, Hawk. We should take you home.”

Merrick opened his mouth to speak but the man interjected quickly. “I know ye dinna think it wise to be seen together, but I canna allow ye to stumble home in this bloody condition.”

What bloody condition was that?

And where the hell was home?

“I’ll…I’ll tell ’em you took a fall from your horse,” he said, fumbling for a story. “And…and I’ll tell them I came across you on the road and offered to see ye home.” He nodded. “That’s what I’ll tell them.” And then to the others, he added, “Go on home, lads. I’ll see to it myself. It wouldn’t look so good if we went together.”

It was evident they’d mistaken his identity, that much was certain. Merrick decided it might not be wise to enlighten them yet. Besides, home sounded damned good at the instant—no matter whose it might be. He slipped off the ring that bore the Meridian royal crest from his finger and pocketed it. He was weary, in pain, probably bleeding to death, and lost besides—not to mention intensely curious about his nemesis.

He nodded, overcome by the situation. “All right, then, lead the way.”

Chloe tried, but she couldn’t get little Ana’s face out of her head—that poor child—God rest her sweet soul. Chloe had struggled to save her, but the little girl had simply lost her will to live. She understood now how her father must have suffered at the loss of every patient.

Pacing the hall as she awaited Lindale’s return, she stopped only to cast malevolent glances out the window. She’d awaited this moment a long time, biding her time, minding her tongue.

No longer.

The more she paced, the angrier she got.

What sort 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.