by Cheryl Holt
Maggie and Evangeline had attended the same boarding school, had been friends throughout the years, losing touch after they’d graduated and Maggie had gotten engaged to Gaylord Farrow.
Michael had made Maggie cough up every detail she remembered about his sister, peppering her with questions until she’d finally thrown up her hands and claimed she couldn’t recall another fact.
She’d begged to accompany him to Evangeline’s home, but Michael had refused to let her. This was a conversation that should be private, that should be special and participated in by only the two of them. There would be plenty of time later on for Maggie and Evangeline to chatter about it like hens in a henhouse.
In his mind, he reached out to his twin brother. Now that he’d been told about Matthew, now that his memories had been jarred, he was recollecting scattered tidbits.
They’d been toddlers when they were separated, and Michael still distinctly felt the loss, the heartbreak and grief having never completely faded.
Matthew, are you there? It’s me, Michael. It’s your brother.
It was becoming easier to reach out, easier to mentally connect. He could sense that Matthew heard him, that Matthew was aware of Michael digging around in his head, but clearly Matthew was as confused and bewildered as Michael had always been.
No doubt Matthew wondered if he was insane—just as Michael had wondered.
I’m about to talk to Sissy. She’s so pretty. She’s all grown up, and she looks just like Mother. She sings just like Mother too.
“Ha!” Michael smirked to himself. “Stew on that for a while, little brother.”
Somehow Michael knew he was the older twin, that he’d always been the older brother.
He tarried in the quiet, thinking, reviewing what he wanted to say, but no matter how often he’d rehearsed his speech it never seemed exactly right. Should he blurt it out? Should he work up to it slowly? What if she didn’t believe him? What if she accused him of lying?
Even as the dreadful notion roiled him, he pushed it away. He had the birth certificate, but even if he didn’t he was certain she’d instantly grasp he was speaking the truth. She could simply peer into his eyes and she’d know.
He sipped his drink, his anxiety spiraling to the point that he considered leaving without seeing her. Which was absurd. Why be afraid? Why fret?
The tragic secret was about to be revealed. He didn’t have to hold it in anymore, and he suspected—once he shared his story with Evangeline—the anguish that had constantly consumed him would vanish.
Gradually he realized that the house wasn’t as deserted as he imagined. It dawned on him that a woman was singing. The sound drifted by, and he cocked his head, listening, and he was positive it was Evangeline.
Was there a music room? He’d bet there was. Every rich man’s mansion he’d ever entered had a music room.
The butler hadn’t appeared to fetch Michael, and it would be incredibly rude to wander about and find her on his own. Her butler was very competent, and there was no reason to suppose that he wouldn’t bring Michael to her the minute she was available.
But Michael was so keen to get it over with.
He stood, listened again, and started off. After a few twists and turns, he stumbled on her in a small salon.
She was seated at a harpsichord over by the window, the yellow sun reflecting off her hair so it glowed like a halo. As he focused on the words of her song, another memory stirred.
It was a lullaby their mother had sung to them every night. It had silly lyrics that had made them giggle and sing with her. An impression of…joy, of happy children and doting parents swept through him. He didn’t remember actual, physical events with his family, but he remembered those feelings of joy.
Oh, how wrenching it was to be confronted with all that they had lost.
Someone would have to pay for taking it from them. Michael wasn’t the type of man who could sit idly by and let such an injustice go unremarked. Had his father been the same way? Had Michael inherited his father’s stubbornness and cunning, his sense of right and wrong? He hoped so.
She came to the end of the tune, her fingers playing the last chord, and she was very still, her eyes closed. Suddenly their mother seemed to be hovering, her presence so tangible Michael was surprised he couldn’t observe her over Evangeline’s shoulder.
“Sissy?” he murmured.
She scowled and tensed as if unsure she’d really heard him, as if it might have been a ghost from their past.
“Sissy. It’s me. It’s Michael.”
Her eyes flew open and she gasped. They stared, their identical blue gazes locked together, a thousand unvoiced questions flitting between them.
“Michael Scott…” she said.
“No, Michael Blair. It’s always been Michael Blair.”
“I’ve been searching for you.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, you scoundrel?”
“I couldn’t figure out how.”
“But I should have guessed who you were, shouldn’t I? I should have guessed.”
“I think you knew all along.”
Her smile lit up the room. “I think I knew too.”
She jumped up from the harpsichord so fast the stool fell over behind her. She raced over to him and leapt into his arms, and he hugged her as tightly as he could. He twirled her in circles until they were both dizzy and out of breath.
“Call me Sissy again,” she told him as she laughed and cried. “Call me Sissy and never, ever stop.”
THE END
CHAPTER ONE
“Wake up!”
Matthew Harlow heard the curt summons, but he was dreaming fitfully and couldn’t rouse himself.
It was a beautiful summer day in August, and he was napping on the ground, the grass providing a welcome cushion. The prior evening, he’d over imbibed in a manner he normally never would, so he had a ghastly hangover. As they’d galloped down the country road, his head had been pounding so fiercely he’d finally had to stop.
He’d found a shady spot under the bows of a huge oak tree and dozed off.
“Wake up!”
The voice came again, and he swatted with his hand and sank back into his dream. Or perhaps he should call it a nightmare. When he was a little boy, he’d nearly died in a fire at a coaching inn, and the memory had plagued him all his life. It seemed to represent a great loss, the final time he’d been truly happy—though why that would be so, he couldn’t imagine.
He was trying, as usual, to escape the flames. The halls were chaotic, people running and crying. He reached out to someone who was hidden from view, and he stretched farther and farther, never quite able to grasp the person who was waiting for him out there in the dark.
His nostrils filled with smoke. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t…
“Matthew!”
He jolted to a sitting position, the details vivid enough that he expected to be three years old again and racing down the burning stairs.
But no, he was nestled under the oak. His annoying, dashing younger brother, Rafe Harlow, was seated next to him, their horses hobbled down by the creek and munching on the grass.
“What time is it?” Matthew asked.
“I’m not a clock,” Rafe replied. “How would I know?”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Too bloody long, and I’m sick of dawdling here, listening to you wail like a baby. Was it the fire dream or the ship dream?”
“The fire.”
Matthew had always had bad dreams, but they generally alternated between two subjects: a fire and a departing ship. He and Rafe had shared a bed when they were children, so Rafe had had plenty of opportunities to witness Matthew moaning with dismay and thrashing around.
“Let’s get going,” Rafe said. “I want this over with.”
“I don’t.”
“So you’ve claimed on a hundred different occasions. You’re the most ungrateful lout.”<
br />
“I’m not ungrateful,” Matthew said. “I’m…exhausted.”
“Whose fault is that? You’ve been reveling like a man on his way to the gallows.”
“This will be difficult—the whole affair. Our arrival. The transfer of ownership. I don’t have the energy, and with this hangover, I’ll probably make a mash of it.”
“You always make a mash of it. You’re too stubborn and inflexible, so you simply bluster in and piss everyone off.”
“I wish I’d never saved a single soul.”
“You’d have rather they all drowned?”
“No,” Matthew groused, “but if I’d been a tad less noble, we’d still be in Europe, tending to the sort of business we understand.”
“Soldiering…” Rafe uttered the term like an endearment, like a caress.
They were soldiers, with Rafe a lowly private and Matthew a tough, hardened captain. He had years of valorous combat under his belt. He wasn’t afraid of anything, never quailed or dithered, never cowered or retreated, and Rafe was learning his worst habits.
Soldiering they comprehended. Soldiering was where they excelled. They’d been raised in a world of men, thrived in a world of men. It’s what they knew, what they enjoyed. Diplomacy and tact were what eluded Matthew. He said what he thought, spoke his mind, and deftly carried out every order and promise.
People who assumed he wouldn’t, who misjudged or underestimated him, did so at their peril. He was too used to having his own way.
He had all the traits necessary to be a good leader, to convince men to follow him. With his bold strength and unfailing courage, men yearned to imitate him, to be like him, but none of them could ever hope to muster his brave daring.
As to women…?
He had limited experience with women, other than the rough and tumble types in army camps and port towns. He’d never spent much time around females, unless it was to have them perform salacious services. His only variation had been his recent decision to keep a mistress.
Penelope Bernard was British, and he’d met her in Belgium at an officers’ soiree. She was the daughter of an important government official, but he couldn’t see that her behavior was much different from any other trollop.
She had several scandals in her past, which was why she’d been hiding in Belgium, having been banished there by her father. Her illicit path was widely recognized, so marriage for her wasn’t likely, and she was happy to find an idiot like Matthew to pay her bills.
He’d involved himself in a manner he’d never intended, and already he was wondering what had possessed him. But then, she was extremely proficient on a mattress, and a man could never discount such a boon.
“How far is it to Greystone?” he asked.
“I’m not a map either,” Rafe snapped.
“You’re a ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?”
“My hangover is worse than yours, but you don’t hear me complaining every two seconds.”
“No, you just bite my head off at every turn.”
“Well, I’m tired of you.”
“I’m tired of me too.”
Rafe pushed himself to his feet. “Get a move on, you bloody hero.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, hero?”
“Yes. You know I hate all the fuss.”
“You didn’t seem to when we were standing in that cocked-up salon at the palace and everyone was cheering your name.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “It was pointless folderol.”
“You had every beauty in the room hanging on your arm.”
“There is that.”
“It put Penelope’s nose out of joint to see that gaggle drooling over you.”
“She needs to have her nose tweaked every so often.”
“That she does,” Rafe agreed.
For all of the life Matthew remembered, it had been just him and Rafe. Matthew was thirty and Rafe twenty-two, with Matthew the older, wiser, tougher brother who’d watched over Rafe, protected him, and never left him behind.
With them being the only siblings in the Harlow family, Rafe had never had to share Matthew with anyone or compete for Matthew’s attention. Rafe loathed Penelope and was jealous of Matthew’s relationship with her, but it was silly for him to fret.
She was stunningly pretty, but acted like a whore. She was also vain and greedy, so there was much about her that was unlikable. He suspected—if Greystone turned out to be magnificent—she’d attempt to finagle a marriage proposal out of him.
But Matthew wasn’t a fool and—should he ever wed—he’d never pick such a spoiled, immoral brat. He’d marry for love and affection, which were things he thought he might have once had, but had lost somewhere along the way.
Rafe oozed appeal and charisma, his bravery and boldness indisputable, but he was a child at heart, and Matthew would never choose Penelope over Rafe. Matthew’s bond with Rafe was unbreakable and eternal.
“Let’s go,” Rafe urged again. “Since we’re unsure of how far we still have to travel, I’d rather not arrive in the dark.”
“Neither would I.”
Head pounding, Matthew stood and brushed off his clothes while Rafe readied the horses. They mounted and rode on, the name of his new estate—Greystone—echoing with each clop of hooves.
After another hour or so, they found the front gate, a pretentious arch over the entrance, with Greystone chiseled into the stone. They reined in and studied the lane that wound into the woods, the house not yet visible.
“Ready?” Rafe asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“I’ll race you.”
“We’re not racing,” Matthew scolded. “I have no desire to gallop in like a pair of bandits bent on robbery.”
“Do you think the servants know we’re coming?”
“The place is empty. It’s what I was told, anyway.”
“What will we do for help?”
“Rafe, we’ve lived in army camps for…what? Fifteen years? Twenty years?”
“Yes.”
“We can fend for ourselves for a few days.”
“I guess we’ll survive.”
“Plus, I imagine they’re all in the village, waiting to hear if I’ll keep them on.”
“Will you?”
“It depends if I like their looks or not.”
“That’s what you say about soldiers under your command.”
“It’s the same animal.” He nodded up the lane. “You first.”
“No, you first,” Rafe insisted. “It’s your property. You should lead us.”
Matthew might have presumed Rafe was being courteous, except that his words dripped with sarcasm.
Ever since the night of his alleged heroics, they’d viewed the entire brouhaha as a hilarious nuisance. He’d been on that deserted beach by accident, watching as a ship had foundered in heavy seas, then been impaled on the sharp rocks of the coastline. It sank quickly, water sweeping over the deck.
Passengers had started jumping into the surf and almost all of them had been women and children. He’d always been a strong swimmer and had the courage of a lion, so he’d dove in and begun rescuing people. He’d done a fine job of it too, saving nearly everyone, with only a handful of the crew and some toddlers lost to the tempest.
Later, he learned that the ship was filled with the families of high-ranking British officers. They’d been on their way to visit their husbands and fathers in Belgium. And of course, three of them had turned out to be favored royal cousins. After that discovery, Matthew’s intention to ignore the incident had evaporated.
He’d been decorated and praised and lauded until the clamor had grown embarrassing. The last straw had been his receipt of Greystone as a reward for his valor to the Crown and the citizens of Britain. It all seemed too much, and he’d planned to decline the gesture, but Rafe had yanked Matthew to his senses before he could make such a recklessly stupid decision.
Though no one would listen, Matthew
kept insisting he’d simply behaved as any other man would have, but the honors had been foisted on him despite his protests. His acclaim had become so pronounced that he’d finally shrugged and opted to revel in the moment. It was interesting to have something different happen for a change, something that didn’t involve fighting and maiming and killing.
They rode into the woods, Matthew’s eyes alert, checking out the trees, the blue sky above. The woods opened to orchards, then meadows of grass where horses grazed and frolicked.
Eventually they rounded a bend, and it loomed in front of them. Greystone Abbey. It was huge, solid, constructed of grey brick and shaped like an ancient castle, with turrets—turrets!—on the corners, ivy clinging to the walls.
“There it is,” Rafe said. “What do you think?”
Matthew struggled to exhibit nonchalance. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
“Bloody right, you lucky bastard.”
Jaws agape, they stared and stared, taken aback by the grandeur, by the majesty. He’d expected a sturdy house, perhaps a few fields and a manicured garden. Not a castle fit for a king. Not orchards and herds of cattle and horses running in the pasture.
Matthew whistled and shook his head. “Sweet Jesu…”
“How could you have ever thought to refuse all this, Matthew?” Rafe asked. “Are you sure this is the correct place?”
“I’m pretty sure. We can both read. The sign at the entrance said Greystone. I doubt there are two such estates in this part of the country.”
“Probably not.” Rafe glanced over at him, his impish grin infectious. “Are you ready for this?”
“Give me a minute.” Matthew studied the Abbey, the barns behind, the rolling hills beyond. Clearly the servants were still in residence. He could see people going about their chores.
Rafe noticed the same. “Nobody’s left.”
“No, it doesn’t appear they have.”
“If the servants are here, the Merricks are likely here too. If they are, this could get tricky.”
“It definitely could,” Matthew agreed.
Greystone Abbey had previously been owned by a man named Harold Merrick who’d concocted a massive financial swindle. The deceit had ultimately defrauded several of the kingdom’s most notable aristocrats, as well as the Prince Regent and Duke of York.
