My dearest brother, wear it in good health.
And with the letter completed, he removed the ring from his finger, wrapped it in a kerchief and waited for Rusty to arrive. He trusted Rusty to deliver it safely to its destination.
“There. It is done,” he said, and he sighed in relief. “No more worries.”
They were in somewhat cramped quarters until the new house was complete. Every last man in Glen Abbey had come together to rebuild the manor. Merrick, along with the rest of the men, had rolled up his sleeves to help reconstruct his mother’s home. He labored with his hands day by day, building calluses along with his home, but he came to bed every night feeling blissfully tired and complete—satisfied in a way he had never known.
There was little that survived the fire. A few baubles here and there. Most everything else was gone—save for the aviary, the stables and his mother’s rose garden.
He turned in his chair to face his wife, reveling in the beauty of her smile. “Do you realize we’re alone until Mother returns?” Fiona had ventured out for a picnic and a walk with Constable Tolly. He raised a brow meaningfully.
Chloe giggled.
She tapped him gently on the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you wish to try again for that daughter you so desire?” She sighed, as though it were the greatest of burdens, but it was betrayed by her impish grin.
Merrick shrugged. “Or son. It matters not to me.”
She bent to kiss him sweetly, wrapping her arms about his neck so possessively that it made him shudder with desire. His loins stirred at once. She never failed to do this to him, rouse him to incredible heights of passion.
“What say we retire to the bedroom?” he suggested.
“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” she teased, whispering in his ear, “Anything you say, Your Majesty.”
Merrick grunted as he lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. She said, “You will always be my king.”
“And you my queen.”
Surely, as much as they had coupled in the last month, she should be increasing by now… but oh, well… Merrick was having the time of his life trying.
“About that daughter,” he said as he lay her down on the bed, grinning mischievously.
“Son,” she returned with a smile and lifted her chin.
“Whichever,” he said. And then, “I love you, flower.”
“I love you, too,” Chloe whispered back.
And they made love, whispering sweet words to each other, promising to adore each other for the rest of their days.
A Crown for a Lady
Prologue
Northern Scotland, 1831
Ready to strike when the leader gave word, seven men watched from their perches in the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for yet a third time. Dressed in black from head to heel, they allied with the night.
They needed this loot, but something about that particular carriage left the leader ill at ease. Unmarked though it might be, it was too well-heeled to leave itself so vulnerable. Either the occupant was foolish… and lost… else the carriage was bait… to catch a thief.
Cupping his hand over his mouth, Ian MacEwen made to call out the signal, but indecision froze his lips.
Twice before he’d let the carriage pass, but its returning presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale laid before a thirsty man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison, its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.
“God’s bones. His direction’s rotten as me minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.
“A week ago, I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that haggis,” remarked another, almost too softly to be heard.
But everyone heard.
What did one say to a man who’d lost his youngest daughter to a battle against hunger?
Three years old, Ana had been her name—sweet and shy, with little red curls and a button nose. Everyone understood why Rusty Broun was here tonight; he had three more little birds waiting at home with mouths open wide and bellies as empty as Glen Abbey’s coffers.
“Trust me,” Ian said to them, his heart squeezing as he weighed the options. And he knew they would. Trust him. They followed him blindly, consumed with hope.
Good men, every one, they’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps?
Who in God’s name would take them in with their wives and their bairns?
No, Ian had to do something.
But what to do?
Silence met his question, a weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken, snapping twigs below.
The carriage was nearly upon them.
It was now or never…
Anticipation grew thick as the lowering fog.
As of yet they hadn’t killed for loot—never intended to if they could help it—but tonight they might be forced to wield weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.
Someone could die.
And yet how many more children would die without their aid?
The image of little Ana’s suffering, gaunt face spurred his decision once and for all, and he called out the signal for his men to strike. Let consequences fall where they may.
“Kiak-kiak-keiek-keiek!”
Within the instant, the carriage was beneath them. Ian was the first to descend. Drawing the black-hooded mask down over his face, as he went, landing cleanly atop the roof. Before the driver could shout a warning, he pressed his blade to the foreigner’s throat.
Rusty came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below, into the carriage, his blade replacing Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle to bar its path.
Forced to stop, the carriage careened sharply.
Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back, somehow managing to open the door. But then, he froze, stunned by what he found inside. Blinking, he stood staring stupidly at the occupant within, all thought of highway robbery vanished from his brain. It was as though he were staring into a bloody mirror.
His momentary hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.
Grunting in pain over the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into motion, flinging himself into the carriage and hurling the stranger backward, knocking the ready blade from his hand. The knife flew, smacking the rooftop, then ricocheted downward, skimming the stranger’s head, drawing blood.
Without warning, the carriage bolted into movement.
Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming the man’s head down. He yelled for him to cease and desist so he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the stranger fought like a caged lion. Frustrated, he slammed his own head down into the man’s face. “Stop!” he commanded. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
Scowling, baring teeth, he stranger ceased his struggles long enough for Ian to reach up and snatch the hood from his face, and for an interminable moment, both men stared into uncannily familiar eyes.
The man could be his twin.
But it couldn’t be.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Ian demanded.
“Who are you?” the stranger growled. But, clearly, he didn’t care to wait for an answer because he bucked, renewing his struggles, and Ian had no choice but to head-butt the fool again—but devil hang the bugger if he’d meant to butt so hard. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he ceased struggling at once, going limp. Ian checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when he found it strong.
Bloody hell… there wasn’t much time before he regained consciousness. What was he supposed to do now?
Pure instinct drove him now.
Ian was a fool for many things, but he wasn’t an eegit. Certain as he could be that it was no coincidence they shared the same face, he snatched off his hood and jerked the man up to quickly remove his coat, his waistcoat and shirt. Working quickly and deftly, he switched shirts with the man all the while the carriage thundered over uneven terrain. He drew his own hood over the
man’s head, then shrugged into the man’s coat, leaving the waistcoat for later. He opened the door, shouting for the driver to stop.
“Got him!” he said. “Let me put him out.” The driver complied at once, and Ian dragged the former occupant of the carriage out onto the grass, then laid him down.
“You are not dead, denka-sama,” remarked the driver, unmistakable relief in his tone.
Ian peered up at the man, thoroughly impressed that he had somehow managed to escape Rusty Broun’s blade.
Ian didn’t respond immediately. What should he say?
The shouts of his men were gaining on them now, the whole lot of them pursuing the carriage afoot.
Peering down at the hooded stranger, he felt a moment’s indecision, but they would find the man, he was certain, and whether the stranger revealed himself to them, or not, Rusty would know what to do with him.
“Let us return home, denka-sama?” the foreigner pleaded. “We should never have ventured here.”
Home.
Wherever that was… that’s where the answers to all Ian’s problems lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow, he knew it deep in his bones. Still, he stared again down at the hooded stranger, undecided.
“He is alive?”
“Alive as you and me.”
“Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good may come of this, Merricksan!”
“There!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.
His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt they had been discovered. There was no more time to decide.
“Let’s go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage and slamming the door.
At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion, and he didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back now. Onward, ho!
Somehow, Ian knew the answers to all Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.
Chapter 1
One week later
The door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning to the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property. The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.
Claire Wentworth stood outside the shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silver. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. That, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. She hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner. It couldn’t be helped.
Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss. There was only one Ben.
Resolved, once again, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including an old heavy sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many, many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.
No prayer or rueful wishes could alter the facts: Their father’s death had left them in serious debt. Ben had fully intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.
Now, it was up to Claire to rectify that situation.
Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew it was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.
At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-begotten wares.
The clerk was preoccupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping ever-so softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three Claire had dealt with—she recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.
“What name shall I write?”
The girl paused. Claire imagined that she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured into this place, she’d been unable to find her voice.
“Sarah… Sarah Jones.”
Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.
Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was certain.
“Do you hereby certify tis your own property?” the clerk interrogated.
It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire could have stolen the items from her employer.
The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“Three shillings,” the clerk offered.
Claire wondered what the girl was selling.
Gasping, clearly affronted, the girl declared, “But, sir! This is fine—”
“Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.
“Please… oh, please… take a look at the stitching,” the girl pleaded. “This gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”
“My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”
Silence met his offer, and he wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough goods by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an expressionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.
“Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”
As though he had anticipated her answer, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away.
Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.
Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait.
The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave Claire a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, she lifted the latch of her box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”
Claire shrugged.
She wasn’t at all certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.
The shopkeeper seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”
Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast, despite having expected a pillage.
Wh
atever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.
Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride remaining. “Surely you mean eight guineas only for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.
The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.
“No, Madame. I am overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”
Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver,” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.
His mask didn’t crack.
Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.
It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.
“Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”
Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a pair of shoes,” she said tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady shouldn’t use show a temper, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir,” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, she lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take her silver to her grave. Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining twenty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom, and she was running out of items to sell.
“Be seein’ you,” the clerk said smugly.
Claire was so incredibly furious that she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched out through the common shop and out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids. What was she supposed to do now?
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 20
