by Cheryl Holt
“Would you go?” she ultimately said. “I keep asking, but you won’t heed me.”
“I never listen to women.”
She smiled. “I dare say you never listen to anyone.”
He winked at her. “You could be right about that.”
He took her hand, and though she tried not to let him, he clasped hold anyway. He gazed into her blue eyes until he was drowning in them. He’d accused her of being a romantic. Deep down, was he one too?
He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it, then laid it on the table. The second he released her, she yanked the appendage away and slid it under her thigh, so it was out of reach and out of sight.
He didn’t understand why, but there were stories he yearned to tell her about his past, about how much they had in common, how lonely and alone he’d always been, how he’d craved a chance to belong but never had. She stirred that kind of connection, so he was on the verge of humiliating himself with maudlin drivel. Why was he so overwrought? He couldn’t imagine.
He pushed back his chair, went to the door, and unlocked it. He turned and tossed her the key. She grabbed for it but missed, and it clanked to the floor.
He might have uttered any parting comment, but what emerged was, “Do you ride, Miss Merrick?”
“I live in the country, Private Harlow. Of course I ride.”
“Meet me in the drive at ten tomorrow morning. You can show me the estate.”
“I’m sure Roland or his agent would do a much better job.”
“I’m sure they would too, but I asked you, and as you’ll quickly discover, I always get my way.”
“Not with me.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
He walked out, closing the door behind him, and he hovered, listening as she jumped up and ran over. She thrust the key in the lock and frantically spun it, thinking herself safe from whatever else he might decide to try.
Women! He would behave precisely as he pleased. How could she stop him?
“Goodnight, Miss Merrick,” he said.
There was a lengthy pause, with her not having realized he was still lurking just outside. Cautiously, she said, “Ah…goodnight.”
He shook his head and continued on.
CHAPTER FOUR
“The Captain is a frivolous boy.”
Roland Merrick gleefully rubbed his hands together. “Can you seduce him?”
“Can I seduce him?” his sister, Angela, scoffed. “Of course I can. I already have him wrapped around my little finger.”
“Are you sure, Angela? I can’t take a chance that you’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve always had an overly elevated opinion of your feminine wiles.”
“It’s all deserved,” she huffed.
“Perhaps in your own deluded mind,” he muttered to himself.
“Did you just insult me?”
“No, no. I said I wouldn’t mind having this debacle resolved quickly.”
“I’m trying my best,” Angela whined. “Don’t you dare complain.”
“I’m not complaining,” he insisted, but he absolutely was.
She was an inept bungler, and it galled him to have her in charge of his fate. But he’d exhausted every legal option, and with every avenue a dead end, there had seemed only one alternative remaining. Angela had to wed Captain Harlow, and why shouldn’t she? It was the perfect solution.
A marriage would keep the property in the family, and if they were in-laws, Captain Harlow could hardly be cruel to Roland. Once Angela was Harlow’s bride, Roland would be allowed to stay on the sprawling property, and if he was in residence, there would be plenty of opportunity to chip away at the Captain’s ownership and authority.
At its heart, Greystone was a farm, with deserted woods, deep streams, and high cliffs. Who could predict what sort of accident might befall a person who wasn’t cautious? Captain Harlow might wed Angela, but it would never be a match made in Heaven and it wouldn’t last long.
“The Captain’s brother has been asking after you,” Angela said.
“So?”
“He wants you to come to supper. He wants to speak with you.”
“Didn’t you tell me he’s a private in the army?”
“Yes, but he’s quite severe. You can’t avoid him forever.”
“How could a lowly soldier presume to boss me?”
“You’d be surprised. He’s much more capable than his younger brother.”
“I don’t care about the Captain’s brother. He’s not the new owner. Has Captain Harlow asked after me?”
“No, he’s too busy charming the prettiest housemaids.” Roland rolled his eyes, and Angela added, “I told you he’s a frivolous boy.”
“If all he can think about is tumbling the servants, how will you persuade him to focus on your relationship?”
They were in the main parlor of the gamekeeper’s cottage where Roland had been living for months. He was thirty and should have been in town, courting the most beautiful, available women. Greedy mothers should have been throwing their daughters in his face at every turn, but the Merrick name had been smeared beyond recognition, their father’s sins unfairly visited on his children.
No family would offer Roland a bride. Though he was guilty of no transgression, he was a pariah. So was Angela. They were hiding in the country, shunned, shamed, and unable to call on the neighbors or regain their place in society.
He blamed it all on his father, but he blamed it on Captain Harlow too. The man had been given Greystone as a reward for valor, but he didn’t have to accept it. He didn’t have to take what had always been Roland’s. He could have declined the honor, but had Captain Harlow done the gracious thing? The proper thing?
No, he had not! And Roland would never forgive him.
“Have you considered how to proceed if I can’t entice him?” Angela said. “What if I can’t get him to propose?”
“It’s not an option, Angela. You must marry him.”
“But what if I can’t? He likes me and enjoys my company, but I can’t guess how he’d reply if I broached the idea of a match between us.”
“You have to make him interested—and keep him interested.”
“He’s a womanizer. He flirts and smiles at every female who walks by.”
“You’ve described a libertine, Angela. If you can’t drag a sincere proposal out of him, we’ll drag out an insincere one. We’ll lure him up to your bedchamber, and I’ll burst in and find you in a compromising situation.”
“I should disgrace myself with Captain Harlow?”
“To save Greystone? Why not? It’s not as if you’re saving your chastity for anyone special.”
Over the years, she’d had a dozen perfectly respectable swains, but she was so fussy, she’d arrogantly rebuffed every suitor. Then their father’s crimes had been exposed, and she’d squandered her chance. No sensible beau would bind himself to her now. She was languishing at Greystone, twiddling her thumbs and pretending she’d always planned to remain unwed.
“I’m convinced,” she said, “that Captain Harlow has a past littered with ruined maidens. What if I made the ultimate sacrifice, but he refused to come up to snuff and marry me? What then, hmm?”
“The ultimate sacrifice? Gad, you protect your virginity as if you’re a cloistered nun.”
“It’s easy for you to chastise me, isn’t it? You’re not the one who’d have to have him as a husband.”
“Thank God, but why are you complaining, Angela? Every spinster in the kingdom would cut off her right arm to be his wife. Why not you? You don’t even have to cut off your arm. Just spread your legs a few times.”
“Don’t be crude and don’t call me a spinster!”
“Well, you are one.”
“That’s it. I won’t sit here and be insulted by you.”
“Feel free to depart whenever you’re ready.”
She leapt up and stomped out, which only affirmed his decision to move
to the gamekeeper’s cottage. There was simply no talking to her and every conversation ended in a quarrel.
Still though, he rose and followed her to the foyer, silently fuming as she slammed her bonnet on her head and angrily tied the bow.
“Lovely to see you, dear sister,” he sarcastically said. “As always.”
“Stuff it, Roland.”
“Come again soon.”
“You’re living in a fantasy world, dreaming up schemes and plots, but what if you never succeed with any of them?”
“At least I’m scheming and plotting. What have you been doing the last two years?”
“I’ve been your hostess and run your household.”
“In a monstrous mansion that guests never visit. It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve been overly busy with any important task.”
“I ought to leave you to your own devices. If you had to manage the servants and keep things operating smoothly, I dare say you wouldn’t be quite so smug.”
“I’m sure you’re correct,” he amiably agreed, simply wanting her to hurry along.
Blessedly, she went without further argument, and he dawdled in the doorway as she disappeared down the path to the Abbey. But as he spun to go inside, he blanched and stumbled back.
There was a man standing next to him, casually leaned against the wall and watching Roland as he had watched Angela.
He was a very big fellow, dark-haired and menacing, with piercing blue eyes and an imposing manner that frightened Roland very much. Dressed in tan breeches, a flowing white shirt, and knee high black boots, he had a very large knife strapped to his waist. Was he a bandit? Was Roland about to be robbed?
Before he could utter a peep of alarm, the man said, “Roland Merrick, I presume?”
His accent was cultured, upper crust, providing evidence of breeding and education. So…not a bandit. Who then?
“Yes, I am Roland Merrick.”
“I am Captain Harlow’s brother.”
Roland gulped with dismay. “Private Harlow?”
“Yes.” The man grinned maliciously. “Not what you were expecting, I’d guess.”
“No…ah…not at all.”
“Your presence is requested for supper at the main house. You’ll stay for a meeting after the meal, so if you had other plans, clear your calendar.”
“Has Captain Harlow invited me?”
“No, I have.”
Roland was slim and slight, but nevertheless, he drew himself up to his full height of five-foot-eight and glared imperiously. He wouldn’t be bullied in his own home.
“With all due respect, Private Harlow, you have no authority to tell me anything. Should your brother wish to speak with me, have him—”
Roland never finished his sentence. Private Harlow stepped in and grabbed Roland by his shirt. One handed, he lifted Roland so the tips of his shoes brushed the ground.
“Supper will be served at seven. You and I will confer at eight to discuss your departure from the property, as well as what’s to be done with your female relatives.”
We’ll see who departs and who doesn’t!
Roland imbued his gaze with all the hatred he could muster, but it had no effect. It was impossible to look menacing when his feet were dangling.
“I won’t be ordered about by you, Private Harlow. You have some nerve if you suppose I’ll blindly obey.”
“Seven o’clock, Mr. Merrick. If you don’t show your sorry ass as I’ve commanded, I will come and fetch you. I will tie you up and drag you to the Abbey. It’s your choice how you arrive. I’m happy either way.”
Abruptly, he released Roland, and Roland crashed down, staggering to right himself so he didn’t fall to his knees.
Roland couldn’t figure out why he was being belligerent. He wanted to charm the Harlows, wanted to keep them off guard and have them assume he was harmless. But he couldn’t help huffing with offense.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he claimed.
“You’re not? You should be.”
Private Harlow strutted away, so regal and sure of himself—so certain Roland posed no threat—that he didn’t glance back. If Roland had been holding a pistol, he could have shot the man, and he wouldn’t have suffered an ounce of remorse.
* * * *
“He’s a soldier.”
“How could you know that?”
Michael Blair smiled at his sister, Evangeline. They were strolling in the garden at Michael’s estate of Cliffside. Actually it was his wife’s estate, but why quibble? He was old-fashioned, believing the husband was king of his castle. The husband ruled the roost—with his wife’s permission of course.
“This will sound strange,” Michael said, “but my brother and I have a mental connection.”
“What sort of mental connection?”
“I can read his mind.”
“You’re joking.” She laughed then, as she studied his serious expression, she said, “You’re not joking.”
“No. When I was younger, he was always rattling around inside my head. I would rattle around in his too. I used to wonder if he was an angel, but as I got older, I simply thought I was a bit insane.”
“How do you read his mind?”
“I have no idea how it happens. I go into a kind of trance, and I can see the world through his eyes. Sometimes we have the same dreams.”
“My goodness!”
Michael’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He never confided the secret to anyone. “Don’t tell anybody. I can’t have people deeming me peculiar or touched.”
“You are peculiar,” she teased, “but in a very nice way.”
“You’re the only one who thinks so.”
“Your wife would agree with me.”
“Perhaps.” He grinned and shrugged. “So I know Matthew is a soldier.”
Michael was a twin, and his twin brother was Matthew, but until recently he hadn’t remembered he had a twin. They had been separated at such an early age that the memory was lost in the fog of disasters that had occurred the year he was three.
His father had been a viscount, heir to the Radcliffe estate in Scotland, and should have been Earl of Radcliffe when Michael’s grandfather died. While visiting London, he’d fallen in love and wed Michael’s mother, an inappropriate actress and singer.
They’d had four children together: Bryce, then the twins Michael and Matthew, then Evangeline—whose birth name was Anne, the same as their mother’s had been.
But Michael’s grandfather had been vehemently opposed to his exalted son marrying an actress. He’d insisted the union had never transpired, that Michael’s mother was a doxy and her children illegitimate. When Michael’s father had perished—under suspicious circumstances—the earl had been determined that Michael and his siblings never inherit the title, the property, or a single penny of his enormous fortune.
Michael’s mother had been in possession of many Blair family heirlooms, along with money, a house, and other gifts their father had given her. The old earl had claimed she’d stolen those things, and with his wrathful power unleashed at her, she hadn’t been able to fight his allegations.
She’d been convicted of several felonies and transported to the penal colonies in Australia, and after she’d departed England there had never been any news of her. They didn’t know if she was still alive, but Evangeline was searching for her and desperately hoping she might be.
Their mother was forced onto the prison ship that took her away from England. Michael and his three siblings had been left behind, in the care of Mr. Etherton, who’d been a friend of their father’s.
Bryce and Evangeline had been placed in boarding schools, had been raised with few difficulties, but believing they were orphans with no past and no history. They’d recently crossed paths by accident and had set about to find Michael and Matthew. Michael had been located, but they had no information about Matthew.
During that hectic time when their mother had been snatched away, they were to have gone to school
too, but they’d spent the night with Mr. Etherton’s servants at a coaching inn. There had been a terrible fire, and the servants were killed. Michael and Matthew survived the fire, but what happened to them in the chaotic aftermath was a mystery.
Michael had grown up in London, occasionally at an orphanage, and occasionally on the streets. As an adult, he’d become obscenely rich through gambling, intimidation, and numerous criminal enterprises, although with his marriage to Maggie, he was trying to mend some of his wicked habits.
Michael knew—without a doubt—that his brother, Matthew, was hale and healthy and prosperous.
“Have you seen Matthew soldiering in your visions?” Evangeline asked. “Is that how you’re aware of his employment?”
“Yes, I’ve often observed him wearing his red coat.” Michael scowled. “He’s likely in England at the moment. At an estate in the country.”
Evangeline’s jaw dropped with amazement. “How can you be so sure?”
“A few weeks ago, he was riding down a lane toward a grand house. It seemed to belong to him.”
“If you’re that intimately connected”—her tone was definitely sarcastic—“can you simply jump into his mind and request directions? We’ll pop in for a visit and surprise him.”
Michael chuckled. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“You don’t suppose he’s marching around with the name Matthew Blair, do you? If I make inquiries to the army, what are the chances we’ll find him?”
“It won’t be that easy.”
“I know.”
Michael had been given the name Michael Scott at the orphanage, and he’d always used it rather than Michael Blair. On the night of the fire, he’d had papers shoved in his shirt that had shown his actual surname to be Blair, but it hadn’t meant anything to him.
What about Matthew? Did he remember his true name? Or had it been changed? Was it completely different, the old one long forgotten?
They could search for him in the army, but if they found a good candidate, how could they be certain they had the right man? Michael had had his birth certificate. What might Matthew have?
