by Cheryl Holt
But then, Percy probably had nowhere to go. Jamie had offered him a cash settlement and a London house, which Percy had proudly and stupidly refused. He'd been incredibly ungracious about it, too, so Jamie wouldn't offer again. From this point on, Jamie had no intention of being courteous or sympathetic. He'd waited three decades for this moment, and he would revel in his triumph.
He stepped to the butler so that they were toe-to-toe, and he towered over the smaller man.
"I'll announce myself," Jamie seethed, "and save you the trouble. As opposed to you, I know my true title. But when I next ask you, you'd best proceed immediately, or you won't work here anymore. Am I making myself clear?"
The butler gulped. "Yes, Mr. Merrick."
Jamie raised a brow.
"I mean Lord Gladstone."
Jamie flashed a cold, lethal grin. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" "No, no, it wasn't." "You're excused."
The butler raced away, and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at his twin brother, Jack. "Worthless bastard," Jack muttered. "He's harmless."
"You should have skewered him with your dagger as an example to the others."
Jamie chuckled. Typically, Jack was the pragmatic, rational sibling, while Jamie was the wild, impulsive one. If Jack would voice such a remark, he was more unnerved by events than he let on.
Jamie and Jack were close as any two brothers could ever be. Jack could read Jamie's mind, could finish his sentences. Jack was the only person in the world who understood what Jamie had been through. Jack was the only person in the world Jamie cared about or trusted.
"Are you ready?" Jamie inquired.
"Of course."
"Watch my back."
"Don't I always?"
Jamie's wry expression reminded them both that Jack had been nowhere in sight when Percy had risked an assassination, but Jamie wouldn't judge Jack too harshly. Neither of them had anticipated the attack, and in a way, Jamie was glad Percy had acted.
Jamie had been preoccupied with Anne Carstairs, so he hadn't been paying attention. With Percy's desperation so blatantly exhibited, Jamie would be more cautious.
"Let's get this over with," Jamie said.
He marched down the hall, Jack directly behind him, and they entered the parlor. The Merricks weren't expecting him to appear without a grand pronouncement, so he was able to scrutinize them without their noticing.
They were attired as the rich, lazy nobles he detested. The four women had on fancy gowns and ribbons, while Percy wore a fussy, expensive outfit that had likely taken his tailor a month to sew. In contrast, Jamie was in frayed woolen trousers, dust-covered boots, and a shirt that he'd pilfered from a dead sailor.
He didn't even have a coat—Miss Carstairs had robbed him of it—so he didn't have the advantage of pretending he'd been taught how to dress. He'd have to meet them in his shirtsleeves, and if they didn't like it, they could all go hang.
On the sofa off to the right, Anne Carstairs was whispering with her sister. Anne had had no clue as to his actual identity, and he was eager to see the look on her face when she heard who he was.
With her hair tidied, and her garments clean and dry, she was even prettier than she'd seemed out in the forest, and he frowned with dismay. He'd enjoyed their encounter much more than he should have, and the realization had him so vexed that he noted he was distractedly massaging his wrist, which was always a sign of extreme distress.
It was an old habit, picked up after he'd almost had his hand chopped off when he'd been caught stealing some bread for Jack when Jack had been ill and starving. Jamie had been very young, just seven or eight, and already a dangerous, cynical criminal, but the near loss of his appendage had been a frightening affair, the terror of which had never totally faded. All these years later, he still occasionally had nightmares that the blade was about to slice down.
He couldn't comprehend why the incident had remained so vivid in his memories. The episode was nothing out of the ordinary. His childhood had been one long trial of misery and woe, a violent and tragic saga of betrayal and duplicity. As a result, he never attached himself to others, never bonded or befriended. His father's cruel decision to forsake him and Jack had seen to that.
Although Jamie's mother had married the despicable swine, Jamie had been treated as a shameful, dirty secret, had been discarded like a pile of rubbish.
He often wondered if his father knew—when he'd cast them out—the sort of existence he'd sentenced his sons to endure. Had he plotted for them to die as a consequence of the indescribable torture and strife they'd suffered? Or had it all gone horribly wrong? Maybe he'd meant for them to be raised by some kindly widow down the road, but without his being aware, they'd been kidnapped, instead.
On considering the notion, Jamie scoffed. He'd discovered the hard way that children were expendable, so most likely, his monstrous father had intentionally delivered them to what he'd prayed would be their abrupt demise.
During Jamie's slavery and servitude on the High Seas, he'd seen and done things that would have killed the average person a thousand times over. He'd survived the ordeal, but not without a steep cost.
He was a callous man, a brutal man, who'd learned early on that it was pointless to trust or hope, and he didn't like it that Anne Carstairs had rattled him so easily.
She'd been humorous and sweet, bumbling and in need of male protection, which had stirred his masculine instincts in a disturbing manner. He hadn't planned to like anything about her, had wanted their introduction to be cool and formal, but circumstances had determined that they'd commence on a different footing.
Time would tell how the alteration would affect their relationship, but he was certain it would be to his benefit. He always got his way. He always came out on top.
"I am Jamieson Merrick, Earl of Gladstone," he said, causing them all to jump. He gestured at Jack. "This is my brother, Jackson Merrick."
There was an astonished silence as they evaluated Jamie—and obviously found him lacking. Slowly, they rose, but no one curtsied or bowed, and the moment grew awkward.
Fat, sluggish Percy slithered forward, feigning amity and support, but his malice was transparent and couldn't be fully disguised. Jamie felt as if they were two cocks in the ring, about to fight. Unfortunately for Percy, he would lose any confrontation, though he didn't seem to fathom that he would.
As usual when Jamie bumped into Percy, he was astounded by the strong Merrick bloodline. Their kinship was undeniable. They were the exact same height, had the same startling blue eyes and facial features, but Percy was bloated from sloth and indolence, his body flaccid, his hands soft. If Percy had ever worked a day in his life, if he'd ever known an instant of adversity, he'd have slimmed down and they could have been triplets, but for the fact that Percy's hair was blond while Jamie's and Jack's was black.
"Welcome, Jamie!" Percy struggled to keep his smile in place. "I see you've arrived. Where is your entourage? What? No company of soldiers? No phalanx of guards?" He chortled as if he'd been making a joke. "With all my money flowing into your pockets, I know you could afford to bring them."
"I have no need of a battalion to take possession of my own property. And it's Lord Gladstone to you."
The gibe was too much for Percy, and he could barely contain his rage. "Don't push your luck."
"Why shouldn't I?" Jamie goaded. "I'm the luckiest man alive. By the way, you've allowed a poacher to roam about in my woods."
"A poacher? Oh my. What makes you think so?"
"He shot at me."
"I take it he missed."
"Pity, isn't it?" Jamie chided. "He should have aimed a little more carefully. From now on, I'll be more vigilant, so he'll never have another chance."
Percy was innocence itself. "Why are you so convinced he was shooting at you? Couldn't it have been a regrettable error?"
"Is there a reason you're still here?" Jamie countered. "If I didn't know better, I might suspect you of trying to kill me."
"Dearest long-lost brother, how could you raise such a dreadful accusation?"
"I can't abide your foolishness. Even if you do away with me, Jack is next in line. We were born nearly a year before you were. Will you slay us both? Have you the nerve?"
A muscle ticked in Percy's cheek. "I wish you no harm."
"You've become a third son. Perhaps you should join the church or the army. If it would guarantee I'd be shed of you forever, I'd pay for your commission myself."
With the taunt, Jamie could see that Percy's motives were revealed, their cards on the table. Percy had arranged to have him murdered—either by his own hand or by hiring another—and Jamie wouldn't underestimate his half brother again.
Rudely, Jamie spun away from Percy, dismissing him, and focused on the others in the room—all female. Aging, senile Edith Merrick, the Dowager Countess of Gladstone, studied him vaguely, clearly not understanding who he was or what was happening.
Her daughter, Ophelia—Percy's twin and Jamie's half sister—understood completely, and her loathing wafted out. Sarah Carstairs looked as if she'd like to be rendered invisible, while Anne Carstairs was about to collapse in a stunned heap.
Where she was concerned, he seemed to have a second sense, and the sight of her blushing and squirming was so enjoyable. She was sincerely wondering if she could tiptoe to the door and sneak out undetected, but he wanted her to know that he was in charge of her and she had no secrets.
He grinned, and her embarrassment was so thorough that if she'd burst into flames he wouldn't have been surprised.
"Hello, ladies," he began. "Here is my plan. It matters not to me if you like it or no, and I won't hear any argument. You may concur and acquiesce—or you may leave my home at once."
They rippled with fury, but none dared berate him. The papers regarding the transfer of tide had been signed so recently that there'd been no opportunity to discuss their fates. They had to be terrified, and he hated to have them fretting, but at the same juncture, he couldn't have them harboring any illusions about his intentions.
"Tomorrow morning," he continued, "I shall marry one of you."
"You can't be serious," Ophelia huffed.
"Oh, but I am. I have a Special License with me, and whichever woman I select, she will be my countess. The running of the household will fall on her shoulders, and whether the rest of you are permitted to stay at Gladstone will be up to her." He glared at Percy. "You're excluded, though. Despite what my wife may decree, you will not remain."
"I have no desire to remain," Percy lied.
"Fine. I expect you to be good as your word. You may attend the wedding; then you'll go."
Percy yearned to storm across the floor and initiate a brawl, but Ophelia stopped him with a subtle shake of her head. Her rapport with Percy was interesting— were they as attuned as Jamie and Jack?—and Jamie tucked away the information for later dissection.
He glanced over at Jack. "Look at my choices, Jack. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. How will I ever decide?"
"You've always been partial to blondes," Jack replied, referring to Ophelia but aware that the verdict had already been rendered. "Of course, brunettes are nice. And a redhead, well, you know what they say about redheads."
"Hot in life and hot in ... other places, too."
They shared a laugh, and the ladies were incensed, but Jamie controlled their futures, so they couldn't antagonize him.
"Now then"—Jamie pretended to mull his options— "which one should I pick?"
He stepped to Edith, Percy's mother, a scrawny, older matron who had supplanted Jamie's mother. Edith was thin as a rail, as if she never ate, and her face was covered with frown lines, evidence of decades of misery. Had it been difficult, being wed to Jamie's father? Jamie was certain it had been.
"Countess." Jamie was polite, bowing in respect. He had no quarrel with her. She was slowly going mad, and she seemed as muddled as had been reported.
"Charles?" Apparently, she thought Jamie to be her deceased spouse. "Is it time for church?"
"I'm not Charles, Countess. I'm Jamie. I'm the new earl."
The cloud faded, and as lucidity flowed in, she soured. "Are you finally here, you interloper?"
"Would you like to marry again? You could be my bride, but you're a tad old for me."
"Yes, I am. Besides, one bad husband is enough for any woman."
"You won't mind if I move on to someone younger?"
"Be my guest," she said acidly.
He shifted to Ophelia. She was thirty, as were Jamie, Jack, and Percy. Since she thrived on excess, she'd put on a few pounds, as Percy had, so she was a bit pudgy around the middle. She didn't seem to recognize that she was growing chubby, and in spite of it, she was still quite beautiful, shapely and buxom, with thick, gorgeous blond hair and the Merrick blue eyes. She'd never wed, had remained single, and Jamie was curious as to why.
"What about you, Ophelia?" he needled.
She was his half sister, so his inquiry wasn't genuine, but he'd been told that she was extremely vain about her appearance, about her position as Percy's sister. She lorded herself over everyone in a cruel fashion, and Jamie would love to bring her down a peg or two.
"How do you know my name?" she queried.
"I know all about Gladstone. I made it a point to find out before I came. Considering that I was entering a den of enemies, why wouldn't I learn of you? Did you take me for a fool?"
He could read in her gaze that it was precisely what she'd assumed. She'd believed him stupid, coarse, and illiterate, and at having been so wrong in her calculations she was livid.
"No," she muttered, "I can see you're not a fool."
"She's our sister," Jack interjected. "Marrying her would be quite contemptible—even by your low standards."
"But if I was partial to her," Jamie responded, "do you suppose the church would give me a dispensation?"
"I wouldn't want one!" Ophelia insisted.
"Really?" Jamie pressed. "You wouldn't like to be my countess?"
Obviously, the prospect hadn't occurred to her, and for the briefest second, her greed shone through. Then she and Percy had another furtive exchange, and almost with regret, she declined.
"I'm sure we wouldn't suit."
"I'm sure we wouldn't, either," Jamie concurred. Having her in his bed would be like having a venomous snake.
He continued on to his true prey, Sarah and Anne Carstairs.
They'd come to Gladstone as orphaned toddlers, taken in by their aunt Edith, but for most of their lives Percy had been their guardian. They were his first cousins, with his mother and theirs being sisters, but they weren't exalted Merricks by blood, so he'd never displayed the appropriate attention to them, had never arranged for suitors, let alone coughed up the money for dowries.
With the exception of a fleeting romance Anne had had at age seventeen, the two sisters had puttered about the estate with no means to alter their circumstances.
Sarah was twenty-six and the elder of the two. She was also a beauty, with lush brown hair, big green eyes, and a curvaceous body. She was quiet and restrained, the pragmatic sister, the no-nonsense sister, and she looked very sad, as if she'd never experienced anything but heartache. If she hadn't been so patently unhappy, she'd have been the logical choice.
"What say you, Sarah Carstairs? Would you like to be my bride?"
"No, and I have no idea why you'd ask."
"Don't you? If I don't let you stay, where will you and your sister go? What will you do?"
"We're not even related. How could our plight possibly matter to you?"
"It doesn't. I'm merely allowing my benevolent side to poke through."
"Which is exactly what I expected your answer to be."
"I'm not much for flowers and poetry, so this is as chivalrous as I get. Haven't I swayed you?"
"No, but thank you for the offer."
"I'm afraid it has to be your sister, then."
He turned to Anne Carstairs, who ha
d been his destination all along. Her pretty green eyes were wide with terror, like a frightened fawn about to bolt. At the notion of marrying him, she was horrified, and on viewing her dismay, he was incredibly annoyed.
Who was she to spurn him?
He wasn't too keen on marrying, himself, but the Prince Regent had demanded it as the price for Jamie reclaiming his heritage. The King had once been friendly with the Carstairses' father, and he'd often worried over their situation.
Jamie was a proud man with few loyalties, but he was and always had been a British subject, so he hadn't been able to refuse the royal request. Nor would he have jeopardized his chance to regain his title by saying no.
The Prince hadn't wanted Jamie to join the ranks of the aristocracy, and Jamie had had no doubt that if he'd ignored the Prince's stipulation, His Highness would have found a way to keep Jamie's future from being realized.
Marriage to Anne Carstairs—to any woman—was a small price for Jamie to pay to get what he deserved.
"You shall be my bride," he advised. "We'll wed in the morning—at eleven o'clock. I presume you'll be ready?"
He was being a complete ass, but he couldn't help himself. There was something about her that made him want to misbehave simply to see how she'd react. Besides, it wasn't every day that a fellow tied the knot. He ought to be permitted to have a spot of fun before the drudgery set in.
"Miss Carstairs?" he badgered. "Has the cat got your tongue? Or are you struck dumb by my magnificent self? I guess I'll have to take your silence as consent."
She'd been gaping at him as if he were a ghostly apparition, and the remark spurred her out of her trance.
"Marry you?" she hissed. "Are you insane?"
"People say that I am, but I'm not. Although I must admit that, if the situation warrants, I can be a beast. Such as now."
Frantically, she assessed him, appraising his dishevelled state, his unshorn hair and worn clothes. Her disdain was evident, and it rankled. While he'd learned many things about her, he hadn't heard that she was a snob.
"No, no, no!" She shook her head. "I absolutely will not marry you."
"Excellent! I'm delighted," he gushed as if she hadn't just curtly rebuffed him. "We'll discuss the details over supper."
