Annoyance flared once more.
She dared to peer up at him, wondering about the face behind the mask. His eyes had yet to leave her and it seemed to Chloe as though they undressed her, so intimate was his glance.
He bent closer and said, peering down at her bodice, “Do you, perchance…need assistance…removing them from your person?”
Her clothing? The question sent a quiver of alarm through her. “Assistance?”
“Do you need help,” he snapped, “removing the deuced necklace?”
“Oh!” Chloe exclaimed, relief flowing through her. Her cheeks warmed with her chagrin. “No! You cannot have it, sir!” Her hand moved protectively to her throat, shielding the necklace from his greedy eyes. “I’m afraid it is not mine to give you! The necklace belongs to Lady Fiona, you see—a gift from her departed husband.”
“Oh, really?” he said with a little more interest, and appeared somewhat moved by her plea. Perhaps she could persuade him to make an exception—just this once.
“Oh, yes! I would never forgive myself if I lost it. It’s quite a precious necklace.”
“I’m certain it is, but you haven’t lost it.”
“You cannot have it.” Chloe refused to remove her hand from her throat, unwilling to part with the jewels. It was a symbol of Lady Fiona’s trust for her and she could not bear to disappoint her, nor could she allow him to abscond with such a precious heirloom.
“Ah, but I’m not asking you to give it to me. Rather, I plan to take it.”
A gun suddenly appeared between them and Chloe gulped at the sight of the barrel.
She peered up at the masked man who had introduced it. He, too, had concealed his face, but his eyes clearly showed amusement at her expense.
Her temper fully ignited.
“You absolutely cannot have it!” she told him stubbornly, despite the grin in her face. Hawk had never hurt anyone before; she didn’t believe he would begin now, and she just couldn’t go back to Lady Fiona empty-handed. She started to remove her own ring from her finger. “Here, you can have this instead. I’m afraid it’s not gold or silver, but the stone must be worth something.” She slid it off and offered it to Hawk.
He examined it in her hand without touching it, as though it were a distasteful bug. He arched a brow and asked rudely, “What the devil is that?”
Chloe straightened, wounded by his look. “It was my mother’s. Please take it instead.” It would ease her to know that she had sacrificed the ring for a good cause.
He made no move to accept the ring, though she offered it willingly. “That, I’m afraid, is little more than a cheap bauble,” he told her rather brutally.
It wasn’t a cheap bauble! His denigration chafed her. It certainly was worth something—and to Chloe it meant a great deal more! “My mother gave it to me before she died,” she informed him tautly, annoyed that he would discard her gift so readily. “What sort of crusader are you, anyway? Any gesture, great or small, should be duly appreciated,” she lectured him. Good night! He might be a savior to the townsfolk, but he was just as rude as Lord Lindale!
She narrowed her eyes at him, studying him closer. In fact, he was just about the same height as Lord Lindale, as well. But it couldn’t be.
She dismissed the possibility entirely. She just couldn’t imagine Lord Lindale resorting to something so low as to steal for money. He had money. Didn’t he? He certainly seemed to spend enough on himself. Besides, neither could she imagine him doing something so unselfish as to give it away to others.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t buy a mouse a scrap of cheese,” he said, his tone amused at her expense, and entirely too familiar. “No thank you. The necklace, please…”
Chloe straightened to her full height, insulted by his outright refusal. She pushed the ring angrily back on her finger. “Well, I didn’t say it was worth a king’s ransom!” She took a deep breath to compose herself. “I was simply trying to make up for the unfortunate fact that I cannot give you the bloody necklace. As I told you, it is not mine to give!” She stood her ground, glaring at him, her hand once again going protectively to her throat.
Merrick wasn’t trying to insult her.
The look on her face as she’d offered the ring was so full of dismay over the possibility of losing it that he just couldn’t bring himself to accept it. Though even if he had, he doubted any man present would allow him to do it.
Standing before him now, her deep auburn hair shining under the moonlight, her cheeks a soft rose against her pale moonlit skin, she looked so adorably angry. He wondered what her hair would feel like gliding through his hands. He was sure it would be as soft as it looked…as must be her skin.
He knew those lips were sweet and he longed to kiss her.
And those velvety breasts…the rising curves beckoned to his mouth…his hands. What must they feel like against his palm, the nipple pebbled against his flesh.
He wanted to bury his face in her sweet scent. Roses. He knew she would smell faintly of roses…like the one he’d left for her in the carriage.
Standing beneath the moonlight, her dress shimmering around her soft curves, the night fog swirling in delicate tendrils about her feet, she looked almost ethereal.
She was, indeed, an angel…as he’d thought at first glance.
A fiery angel.
His loins tightened, heat rushing through them.
Every encounter with her further enraptured him. She stood up to him in a way no woman—or man—had ever dared. She offered him her treasures, yet fought like a lioness to protect something that didn’t even belong to her.
Damn, but she was beautiful tonight.
To bad this had to be done; he needed that bloody necklace. He took the pistol from Rusty’s hand and pointed it at her. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice in the matter, miss. Take it off, or I’ll do it for you.”
She gasped aloud as the cold metal touched her bare flesh. “How utterly rude!” she exclaimed boldly, though her eyes showed a trace of fear.
He laughed softly, masking his regret. “Imagine that,” he quipped to his men, “a rude thief.”
Perhaps there were only a few men, but it seemed a hundred, or more, laughed at his jest.
Chloe bristled over his unremorseful tone.
It seemed she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Half a dozen shadowy figures with gleaming silver in their hands surrounded her. They stood at a distance, their weapons glistening by the light of the moon. In her quarter, the coachman sat with the reins still in his hands, not daring even to look in their direction.
Och, how could the evening have gone so wrong? Why, oh, why, had she agreed to this evening? What had she hoped to gain by accepting Lord Lindale’s invitation?
Even if she wanted Lindale—which she didn’t—he was hardly the sort of man who would lower himself to wed a commoner. He would dally with them, certainly, but he had nothing to gain by wedding someone without money or title, and he wasn’t the type to do anything lest it profit him.
Chloe had let herself be carried away by the moment, she told herself, by Aggie’s enthusiasm, by her own vanity. At twenty-three, it had simply felt good to have a man notice her—even if it were Lord Lindale. This town had scarce a man left in it who was unattached. And even if there were, there were none who were quite suitable for her. She didn’t want to feel herself vain and trivial, because it wasn’t so much that she felt herself too good to lower herself to being a farmer’s wife, it was just that she couldn’t quite relate to them. Thanks to her father, she aspired to more than simply shucking peas.
“The necklace,” Hawk prompted, reminding her of the gun’s presence with a cold kiss from its barrel against her cheek.
She peered up at Hawk, slow to respond despite the chill of metal against her flesh.
How had he known she would come this way? He must have known. She cast the coachman a glance, studying his demeanor. He wouldn’t even look at her.
Fear or guilt?
“Removing anything from your body would be my utmost pleasure,” he told her, handing his pistol to one of his men. Chloe swallowed as his hands worked to unclasp the necklace. Her heart beat a little faster as his warm fingers grazed her back. She swore she could feel the heat of his breath as he bent close to better see the clasp.
Once he removed the necklace from her neck, though she remained fully dressed, she felt vulnerable and exposed. With the weight of it relieved, she felt utterly stripped of her sense of honor. To her dismay, she felt like weeping and she hadn’t cried since her father had died—and before that, when her mother had passed away. As horribly as she’d felt when little Ana had died, she hadn’t even cried then.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
It wasn’t supposed to make her feel as though she’d been violated. She knew what Hawk did with the money, knew it went for a good cause. And it certainly wasn’t that she was so attached to the necklace that she couldn’t appreciate the good it might bring to others, but she was, without a doubt, attached to her pride and honor, and somehow he’d just reduced that to mere slivers. And she realized in that moment that if she could feel this way about something that wasn’t even hers, how must others feel when he stripped them, unwillingly, of their personal possessions?
Yet, it could hardly be helped when there were far too many starving children in the world and far too many oblivious people.
Could it?
Her heart felt too heavy to beat properly.
There must be some other way.
“Now…I have something for you,” he revealed, and produced a crisp white kerchief.
Confused, Chloe merely stared at the offering, uncertain what he expected her to do with it. Dry her tears after he was gone? She glared at him, piqued by the insinuation that, like some school-girl, she would weep her eyes out once he had left her. She might feel like it, but she wasn’t going to.
He held the kerchief out for her to take, opening his hand so she could better see it in his palm. It was then she realized that it was wrapped neatly about a small, rounded object. Curious, she reached for it, but he snatched it away, “A little something for the lady of the house,” he told her, “to make amends for the loss of her necklace. Tell her that it belonged to the occupant of the carriage I robbed some nights ago. He was rather insistent she receive it.”
Chloe grit her teeth and turned her hand, waiting for him to hand her the kerchief. She wasn’t going to allow him to tease her with it again. With narrowed eyes, she studied what she could of his face. His eyes were familiar to her…his mouth…that smirk…
He dropped the kerchief into her hand and her gaze fell to the tiny bundle. Whatever it was, it was small and heavy for its size—she tested its weight—like a ring, or a stone. It was probably just a rock—his idea of a joke.
She glowered at him.
“Now,” he said, bowing gallantly, completely unaffected by her indignation. “I bid you good night, miss.”
Before Chloe could anticipate his intent, he placed a gentle peck upon her lips. She shrieked furiously at the violation, but he didn’t linger long enough to allow her to slap him for the shocking liberty. How dare he!
With a parting smirk, he gave a signal to his men to retreat. They were swift to obey. In less than an instant the night fog had enveloped them all and she hadn’t a clue in which direction they’d gone. They left her standing in the middle of the road with the white kerchief settled in her hand and the unmistakable taste of him upon her lips.
And suddenly, without a doubt, she knew the night had been carefully orchestrated. Lindale hadn’t intended to woo her at all. No, he’d used her for some other design. She fully intended to find out just what that was.
Chapter Eleven
Dismissing his men, Merrick hurried to the cottage before Chloe could arrive. He’d purposely chosen her old cottage so he could surround her with things familiar. Now he hid the necklace in a vase, intending to dispose of it later. The mask he hid outside in the bushes. He’d gleaned enough information from Rusty to know that Ian had a jeweler in Edinburgh who bought stolen gems. It should be a simple enough task to find the man—though he felt a pang of guilt after what Chloe had revealed to him.
Curious about the necklace, he retrieved the vase from the mantel upon which he’d placed it and lifted the necklace from within.
Had his father truly given the necklace to his mother? Had she kept it all this time? If she loathed him so much, wouldn’t she have rid herself of the memory entirely—sold it for what money she could get from it—particularly considering the condition of the manor? It was in deplorable shape.
It was obvious the necklace meant something to Fiona, or she wouldn’t have presented it to Chloe to wear tonight. Her affection for Chloe was more than apparent.
Did his mother love his father still?
Merrick studied the necklace. It seemed familiar to him somehow. Distinct as it was, there could not be another like it, he was certain. And then it occurred to him where he’d seen it and the significance of its presence here was unmistakable. There was only one woman Merrick had ever seen his father publicly acknowledge his affection for—his own mother. In one of the paintings that graced the portrait gallery in Meridian, this necklace adorned his grandmother’s neck.
His father had truly loved Fiona. If the sheer number of his letters wasn’t proof enough, this necklace surely was. Could the two love each other still? After all these years? If so, how could his father have completely abandoned them? Unless he hadn’t the first clue what their circumstances were. His father’s pride was such that if he felt they were well taken care of, he wouldn’t extend himself. Which led Merrick to believe that whomever handled the books for Glen Abbey was someone his father trusted completely.
Edward.
Merrick couldn’t comprehend why Glen Abbey Manor had no funds available. Even if their rents and investments were scarce, his father was not a cruel man. Whether he loved Fiona or not, he would have taken responsibility for his child. But it was clear to Merrick that his father loved her desperately still. Had he strangled Glen Abbey’s finances to force Fiona to come crawling back to him? It was not his style, though it was certainly a possibility. Men—and women—did strange things in the name of love. And it had become obvious that there was much he didn’t know about his father.
At the moment he scarce knew himself, if the truth be known.
He wondered, instead of simply giving Fiona the letter he’d stolen from his father, what if he could bring the two of them face-to-face?
One thing was certain, Merrick wasn’t his father. He knew what he wanted and he intended to go after it. He didn’t intend to sit and bemoan his loss for the rest of his days.
He started to replace the necklace within the vase and then decided it wasn’t the best place to hide the jewels. In fact, it was the most obvious place someone might look. He took the necklace into the bedroom, where he doubted Chloe would step foot, and found a suitable spot beneath the mattress. He tucked the covers back into place—just in time, as he heard the carriage wheel into the drive.
He scarce had time to meet her at the door.
The instant the carriage came to a halt, Chloe burst from it like a raging blue flame, her dress flowing about her as she marched toward him. Her cheeks were a deep, angry rose and her delicate throat was unadorned, but for the flush that deepened her lovely skin.
She showed him the kerchief in her hand. It remained neatly bound. Obviously she hadn’t opened it. “You’ll not believe what I’ve been through,” she exclaimed, and suddenly, surprisingly, burst into tears.
Merrick didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t had much experience with weeping women. P
atting her shoulder reassuringly, he led her into the cottage.
It was all Chloe could do not to rage at him for his deception. And he’d brought her to her own cottage—the one he’d stolen from her—what a horrid slap in her face! But she realized she must keep her head to expose him.
The cottage was small compared to the manor. Since the repossession, it was rumored that Lord Lindale sometimes used it for his dalliances—a matter that somewhat disgusted her.
So he meant to seduce her, did he?
That fact made her all the more furious and she cast him a narrow-eyed glance.
The cottage was simple but quaint. Inside, it was elegantly decorated and well-kept, though it remained largely unoccupied. Nothing remained of her old life here. The interior had been gutted and remodeled to suit Lindale’s taste. Once a week servants came to thoroughly scrub it and place fresh flowers in the vases—just in case guests were entertained.
Tonight, dozens of candles were lit about the main room—an extravagance in itself, for it was obvious by their sweet scent that they were made of beeswax. The manor itself used tallow, which left a thin layer of soot upon everything in its way. The servants dusted furiously to keep the furnishings free of it. Unlike the manor, the draperies here were new and bright, and the furnishings fashionable. Seeing the disparities only validated what she’d always believed about Lord Lindale—that he was a wastrel and a rogue.
And yet, how could that be entirely true if, in fact, he was Hawk?
Chloe looked about her, chafing at the answer. Because he spent the money, not on the poor, but on himself. That much was apparent. So he gave a token bag of coins occasionally—that certainly didn’t qualify him for sainthood.
Rotten scoundrel.
The hearth was ablaze, bathing the room in warm, flickering light. Together with the candles, it made a stunning effect. A small table in one corner sat elegantly adorned with crystal and porcelain. Lilies of various colors filled the vases surrounding it.
Tanya Anne Crosby Page 10
