by Cheryl Holt
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.
As a result, Mr. Merrick had forfeited everything and been jailed, having had the good sense to hang himself in his cell before he could be shipped off to the penal colonies in Australia. His downfall had provided Matthew’s rise to prosperity, and while Matthew hated to consider Mr. Merrick’s loss, Merrick had obviously been an idiot, so no sympathy was warranted.
Yet…what about his family? If they were skulking about, feeling aggrieved and robbed of their heritage, they wouldn’t be happy to have Matthew riding in.
“Let’s switch coats,” Matthew said.
“What?”
“For the moment, you’ll be Captain Harlow.”
“A promotion! Wonderful! Will I receive an increase in wages?”
“No.”
“But I’m to be your superior?”
“You’ll never be my superior, you wise buck. We’ll just play a game on the occupants until we learn the lay of the land.”
“They’ll think I’m you, but who will you be?”
“I’ll be Private Rafe Harlow, your trusted advisor and friend.”
“If we’re using the same surname, we have to admit we’re brothers.”
“All right, but no one ever believes we are.”
And they weren’t, actually. Matthew had been raised by Rafe’s parents, taken in by them after the fire when Matthew was a little boy. Matthew’s parents had died in the tragedy, and in the chaotic aftermath, Rafe’s mother—who’d also been staying at the inn—had brought him home for what was to have been a short hiatus.
Yet no kin had ever searched for Matthew, and Mrs. Harlow had never been able to find a relative to claim him. Or so she’d said. She’d assumed herself to be barren, so she’d kept Matthew and reared him as her own. Then Rafe had come along and killed her during the birthing. Matters had gone downhill from there.
But they declared themselves to be brothers, though they were nothing alike. They were both six feet tall, with the tough, honed stature of soldiers, but Rafe was golden blond, charming, and dashing. Women studied him with keen interest whenever he passed by.
Matthew was handsome too, but his looks were more mature, more rough and tumble. His hair was dark, his eyes very, very blue, and with his dangerous air of menace and daring, he was more highwayman than gentleman. When he and Rafe stood side by side, they might have been an angel and a devil, the perfect pair for an artist to paint on a church ceiling.
“How long do I get to be a captain?” Rafe inquired.
“Probably for a day or two. I’ll have a better feel for the place if no one’s certain of my status.”
“Can I act all arrogant and officious?”
“Yes, but if you grow too obnoxious, I’ll let you know.”
“I could never be too obnoxious. I’m marvelous. Ask any of the ladies.”
Matthew snorted with disgust. “Give me your coat.”
Rafe grinned. “Once I have, can I order you around—as you’ve always ordered me?”
“No. Now shut up and give me your coat.”
CHAPTER TWO
Clarissa Merrick walked down the path in the woods, a basket slung over her arm. She’d told her cousin, Angela, that she was off to pick flowers in the forest, but in reality, she’d had to escape the tension in the house. Life with the Merricks had never been calm or peaceful, but the past few years had been exceptionally trying.
Harold Merrick, the family patriarch, had perished in prison before he could be transported to the penal colonies. But in addition to that horrid fate, he’d been assessed many other penalties as punishment for his humiliating swindles. The largest was forfeiture of Greystone, a shock to all, but most especially to Clarissa who viewed Greystone as her home and couldn’t imagine having to leave.
The threat of eviction hung over everyone, casting a pall over every event and decision as they waited to learn what would happen.
Angela’s brother, Roland, had spent every second since their father’s downfall, fighting to save the property, fighting to ensure that Harold’s heirs—namely Roland—be allowed to keep what had been the Merrick ancestral seat for two centuries. So far, he’d lost every appeal, but he continued to plug away.
Clarissa had come to live with the Merricks when she was ten, when her mother had died, her father couldn’t be located, and Clarissa had had nowhere to go. Her childhood with her mother had been incredibly difficult, with little to eat and their constantly struggling to stay one step ahead of the debt collectors, so Greystone Abbey had seemed like Heaven.
She might have ended up in an orphanage, but a kindly preacher had prevailed on Harold—her mother’s distant cousin—to invite her to Greystone. For
that compassionate gesture, she’d always be grateful, but Angela and Roland Merrick weren’t the most agreeable people with whom to reside. They were highly emotional, prone to exaggerated outbursts and temper tantrums.
Clarissa was unflappable and pragmatic, thoughtful and sincere, so she rarely participated in their frenzied explosions, which meant she’d never really fit in. Plus she was the proverbial poor relative, benefiting from their charity, and they never let her forget it.
She and Angela were the same age of twenty-five, and Harold had believed she and Angela would be great friends. But Angela found Clarissa to be a nuisance and treated her like a servant. No, she treated Clarissa worse than she treated the servants.
Angela was malicious and cruel, but Clarissa was used to it and couldn’t figure out why a person would be so hateful and petty, but there was no changing Angela. There was only quiet acceptance and a firm resolve to avoid her when she was in a snit.
Through the trees, Clarissa could see the chimneys of the Abbey. She paused to revel in the sight, even as she wondered how many more times she’d be able to dawdle in the woods and peer out at the magnificent place.
What if Roland ran out of appeals? What would become of them? She couldn’t guess.
With a sigh of regret, she started off again. She couldn’t hide in the forest forever, but as she rounded the last bend in the path that would lead her out into the manicured gardens, she stumbled, her basket dropping to the ground.
A soldier was blocking her way, his red coat a brilliant splash of color in the green hues of the foliage. His back to her, he stared intently at the Abbey, as if taking stock, as if assuming control. He heard her basket skid across the dirt, and he whipped about as if anticipating an attack.
His stern glower flummoxed her, and she gaped, uncertain whether to continue on or race off in the other direction.
He was very tall—six feet at least—but it wasn’t his excessive height that unnerved her. There was an air of authority about him, of power and ability, that was so stirring it wafted toward her like a tangible object.
Grand and imposing, imperious and magnificent, his shoulders were broad, his waist narrow. His hair was black, worn long and tied with a strip of leather, and he had the most spectacular, mesmerizing blue eyes. She’d never observed eyes like them before.
He was tan and fit, muscled and toned, his male form providing ample evidence of concentrated physical activity, of hours spent out-of-doors engaged in manly pursuits.
“Madam.” He dipped his head in greeting. “You surprised me.”
“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here in the woods.” She smiled, but he didn’t smile in return. “And it’s not madam. It’s Miss.”
“I hope I didn’t startle you, Miss…?”
“Merrick. Miss Clarissa Merrick”
“You’re a Merrick family member?”
“Yes.”
“A daughter?”
“No.”
“What is your relationship to Harold Merrick?”
He barked out his questions, his severe tone making it impossible to refuse to answer, and why wouldn’t she reply? There was no reason not to tell him of her connection to Harold.
“Harold was my mother’s cousin.”
“I see.” He studied her, his lazy gaze taking an inappropriate trip down her body, to her toes, then back up.
She wanted to ask, What is it you think you…see?
But she didn’t. She knew what inference was created when a woman of her advanced years announced herself to be a paltry cousin. It painted visions of an unwanted burden, a financial drain, and if the declaration hadn’t given him a hint of her status, her clothes definitely would have.
With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was pretty enough, but she’d never had an allowance, with Harold feeling he’d done plenty for her simply by offering her shelter. Clarissa’s wardrobe consisted of the garments Angela didn’t like, and with Angela being so spiteful, she handed off the most unflattering pieces in her closet.
Clarissa had become an excellent seamstress, necessity teaching her how to nip and tuck so the worst frills and fripperies were removed, but she couldn’t alter the colors of the fabrics.
Angela always parted with dresses that washed out Clarissa’s skin so she looked pale and sickly. Clarissa usually tried to be unobtrusive and inconspicuous, to never remind Angela and Roland that she was taking up space when they wished she wouldn’t.
Her current gown matched the modest image she normally sought to portray. It was grey with white trim at the neck and cuffs. She might have been a dowdy governess or unhappy nanny.
“Why is the family still in residence?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” She frowned, realizing she had no idea who he was or why he was lurking. He had no business pressing her for information. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir. We haven’t been introduced.”
“No, we haven’t.”
He didn’t add more, didn’t supply his identity as he should have. Instead he marched toward her, covering the distance in four quick strides.
She stood her ground, watching him come, and she supposed she should have been afraid. After all, she was alone and far from the house. Yet she sensed no danger from him. He exuded power and control, but conveyed no impression of peril.
He towered over her, the toes of his boots slipping under the hem of her skirt. It was incredibly rude of him to stand so close, and in ordinary circumstances, she would have backed away. But it was obvious he was hoping to intimidate her, and he never could.
She’d lived with Angela and Roland for fifteen years, and if she wasn’t intimidated by them, she certainly wouldn’t be intimidated by a stranger.
She gazed up into his blue eyes, and it was the oddest thing, but with him so near there seemed to be a surge of energy flowing between them, as if the air around them was enlivened. She’d never previously suffered a similar reaction and wondered what could be causing it.
She’d had limited experiences with men and had never had a beau, although there had once been a neighbor boy when she was seventeen who’d been interested.
He’d decided to head to India to seek his fortune and had booked passage on a passenger ship, where he would work as a crewmember to earn his fare. She could have worked on it too, and he’d begged her to wed and travel with him, but Angela had swiftly put an end to the plan by scaring Clarissa with tales of risk and misery.
Yet Angela hadn’t needed to chide and fear-monger. Clarissa had declined simply because she’d possessed no affection for the boy. He’d kissed her a few times—her sole claim to amorous adventure—but his overtures had been half-hearted at best.
She’d understood that he’d been too cowardly to make the journey on his own, and there had been no other girl he could ask to accompany him. She was the only one with such scant ties to the area that she might have picked up and flitted off with him.
But she’d never felt special or wanted. Not as a child by her overburdened mother. Not by her kin who’d grudgingly allowed her to stay with them. She’d never had much in her life, but if she ever had the chance to marry, it would be to a man who loved her—as her tepid swain clearly hadn’t.
With his indifferent advances being her small foray into passion, she hadn’t been aware that bodily proximity to a handsome male could generate such turmoil. Was it common? Did it occur frequently between men and women? Or were their personal chemistries charging the atmosphere in a novel fashion?
“Your name, sir.” She demanded the information in the strictest tone she could muster. “I insist you provide it, then you may explain why you’re hiding in our woods.”
He didn’t clarify his presence, but said, “You’re feisty, aren’t you?”
At his assessment, she could have laughed aloud. Feisty was the last word she’d use to describe herself. “Hardly, and you haven’t answered my question. Who are you and why are you at Greystone?”
�
��I am Mat…” His voice trailed off, and he started again. “I am Rafe Harlow.”
“It’s awfully difficult for you to remember your name. Why is that? Is it fake? Are you on the run from the army?”
“No, I’m not on the run. Why would you suspect something so ridiculous?”
“You’re hiding in the forest, and you can’t recall who you are.”
“I know who I am, and I’m not hiding.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m on furlough.”
“Furlough?” she scoffed.
“Yes.”
“But from the army?”
“Yes.”
“Your position?”
“Private.”
“Private Rafe Harlow?” She oozed skepticism. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
She finally took a step away, but it wasn’t because she feared him. She scrutinized his masculine demeanor and comportment. He was so striking and arresting, if he’d boasted of being a general, she’d have absolutely believed him. If he was a private, she’d eat her bonnet!
“You’re lying,” she said, “about everything.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Why would I bother?”
“That’s what I’m trying to discover. Now admit what you’re about, or I’ll go to the house and bring some footmen to chase you away.”
Even as she uttered the warning, she knew it was pointless. She was positive no one could chase him anywhere, certainly not a group of aging, arthritic servants.
He snorted with disgust. “No footman could order me about.”
He spun away and went to the edge of the trees again, to the spot where the woods ended and the gardens began. He studied the Abbey, the groomed lawns, the horses in the pastures. It was a bucolic sight, the sort an artist might paint as a rendering of a perfect summer afternoon in the English countryside.
She hovered behind him, wondering whether she should approach and stand next to him. She’d like to march on by, to proceed to the Abbey and notify Roland that an interloper was loitering, but she was disconcerted by how Private Harlow was evaluating the property. As if it was his own little kingdom. As if he ruled over all he surveyed.
