“My lord, I do appreciate your offer,” Claire said.
“I assure you the accommodations are quite proper,” Ian told Huntington. “If that is what truly concerns you.”
“Oh, yes, it’s true!” Claire added. “We are very well chaperoned, my lord.”
“So I have noticed,” Huntington answered sardonically, giving them both a sideways glance.
Claire’s cheeks stained a deep rose under his scrutiny. She fidgeted, but held his gaze, even lifting her chin in defiance.
Ian thought she was perfectly adorable, as discomfited as she was, and he had to will his smile away.
“Well, then. I doubt your father would have approved, my dear, but I shall respect your wishes. Alexandra will be quite disappointed, I assure you.”
Ian didn’t like the man.
There was something distasteful about him.
He was behaving more like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten his way than like the concerned father figure he was obviously attempting to portray. “You have no choice but to respect her wishes,” Ian said, not caring that he sounded like an arrogant cock.
The man’s face turned florid, but he held his tongue, nevertheless.
The two of them locked gazes. Ian didn’t so much as blink. Nor would he have the least hesitation over planting his fist into the man’s windpipe.
“Please excuse me,” Claire said, brushing past Ian, then Huntington. “I shall go explain to Alexandra.”
When she was gone, Huntington turned to Ian. “I’m certain you haven’t a clue what you are dealing with,” he said.
“And you do?” Ian countered, lifting a brow in challenge.
“I am an accomplished marksman, I assure you, and I am quite proficient with nearly any weapon you might care to hand me,” he replied. His boast, it seemed to Ian, was more of a warning than a defense.
“And you believe I cannot possibly match your skills? Is that what you’re implying?”
Huntington ignored the question.
“I was not raised in London,” Ian said truthfully. “You mistake me for a man of your standard.”
“I don’t care who you are. I am unimpressed with your title and your pitiful little country. I shall thank you to keep Claire safe, or you’ll be answering to me.”
The man clicked his heels, then turned and marched away before Ian could respond, leaving him to wonder about his interest in Claire. It was evident the man’s feelings ran deeper than that of a familial friend.
Jealousy reared up like a two-headed beast.
It wasn’t like him to feel so green.
He was getting far too close to Claire, he realized. And it would behoove him to keep his distance, lest he find himself far more embroiled than he already was.
Chapter 18
The week passed without news and without incident. Claire was both disheartened and relieved.
Cameron had yet to uncover any news about Ben. And Merrick was nowhere to be found.
In fact, she was beginning to wonder if Merrick had lost interest in her cause entirely, as he fled each morning without breaking his fast and returned far too late in the evening for a proper discussion.
More and more, she was beginning to feel like an unwanted guest in his home.
Bored, worried and growing more anxious with each passing moment, she paced the gallery, perusing portraits of strangers whose faces all reminded her of Merrick.
She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the afternoon at Highbury Hall—of the way Merrick had kissed her… of the warmth of his lips hovering so near her own.
Nor could she seem to forget the embarrassing way she’d clung to him. Good Lord, it was no wonder he didn’t wish to face her now. He probably thought her a wanton.
Studying the portrait of a woman she assumed must be Merrick’s mother, she considered how young the woman appeared, though her face did show a trace of age—solemn wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. If the Mona Lisa wore a slight smile, this woman wore a slight frown, along with Meridian’s crown jewels. Claire recognized the tiara. It was a perfect match for the ring shackled about her own finger.
“My late wife,” the King said, coming up behind her.
“Oh! Your Majesty!” Claire started at his abrupt appearance. “Forgive me, I didn’t hear you approach.”
He stood looking at the portrait without responding.
“She’s quite beautiful,” Claire remarked uncomfortably.
His Majesty nodded agreement, but said nothing. There was another awkward moment of silence and Claire turned again to regard the painting. “I do believe Merrick has your look,” she suggested, thinking it must be a compliment.
Once again, he didn’t respond.
“How young was the queen when she passed?” Claire persisted. The king was quite uncongenial, she decided.
“Young,” he answered without elaborating, and turned to observe her.
Claire fidgeted under his intense scrutiny. He had his son’s uncanny talent for assessing her as though he could read her thoughts. “You must have been terribly sad,” she offered, searching for something more meaningful to say.
Nothing came to her.
He must think her an absolute ninny.
It wasn’t rational, she realized, but his father’s rudeness gave her a prick of annoyance toward Merrick. Obviously, the King didn’t approve of her. Though he was polite at mealtimes, he rarely conversed with her. That he was doing so now was a surprise.
Then, again, he wasn’t really conversing. He was simply staring at the back of her head, and he seemed to enjoy making her ill at ease.
Once again, he didn’t respond, and she had to look to be certain he hadn’t left her standing alone in the hall.
He was studying her.
Claire tried not to frown as she glanced back at the portrait.
“I am so very sorry for intruding,” she felt obliged to say.
She was beginning to regret having accepted Merrick’s hospitality. At least with Lexie she could have been herself, and she might have been able to avoid Lord Huntington completely. It wasn’t too late to go.
Another uncomfortable interval of silence passed.
“Where is my son?” he asked.
Claire shook her head. “I don’t know.” It was the truth. Merrick didn’t seem the least inclined to share his itinerary with her.
“Well, we have something in common, so it seems, because it appears my son has ceased to confide in me altogether,” he complained.
“Really?” she said, and she tried not to sigh. It wasn’t her place to hear this, nor did she wish to intrude. This wasn’t her family, nor would it ever be.
“He hasn’t spoken to you about it, has he?”
Claire forced herself to face Merrick’s surly father. “No, Your Majesty,” she answered. “In fact, I have barely spoken to him in days myself.”
He nodded, seeming to believe her. “I see.” Then, more silence. “Ryosan tells me that Cameron is out searching for your missing brother? Is this true?”
“Yes, sir,” Claire replied.
She was beginning to feel as though it were an inquisition, not simply a chance afternoon conversation.
Merrick and his father were both quite arrogant, she decided, but at least Merrick was less starchy. In fact, he was even rather common at times—nothing at all like his autocratic father.
Her thoughts returned to their afternoon kiss and her hand flew to her lips as her cheeks warmed.
“In fact, it was Cameron’s father who painted that particular portrait,” the King revealed. “I’ve commissioned quite a few from him.”
“He’s quite gifted,” Claire remarked.
“Quite,” His Majesty agreed. “Cameron is, as well, though his father seems to feel he has bastardized his gifts. Then, again, Cameron’s a bastard himself, so it’s rather to be expected.” Again, he stared at her, as though prying into her thoughts. “Sons are bound to disappoint, it seems.”
Was he
baiting her?
Why would he tell her these things?
Claire held her tongue.
“So what, precisely, is the ransom?” His Majesty asked, and his tone held the slightest accusation.
Or perhaps her own sense of guilt supplied one?
Claire swallowed, hard, feeling horribly discomfited.
Did he suspect their ruse? Did he know she had accepted Merrick’s proposal for money?
Her voice wavered a bit. “Twenty-five thousand pounds.”
“I see,” he said, and seemed to consider the sum a long moment. His attention fell to the ring. “Don’t grow too attached to that,” he warned with a nod. “Marriage is a business arrangement. My son has no interest in petty infatuations, and you would do well to remember that business arrangements can be easily dissolved.”
He walked away then, leaving Claire to wonder whether he was warning her not to get too attached to the ring, or to Merrick himself. In either case, it was rude and perhaps even a bit cruel.
She watched the man go.
Stupefied by their exchange, she turned to stare blankly at the portrait, wondering if her growing feelings for Merrick were becoming so obvious that his father should feel the need to counsel her.
In any case, His Majesty was a bitter old fool. It was no wonder Merrick was a contemptuous rake hell.
Ian hadn’t felt so much at ease since leaving Glen Abbey. They’d been following a trail that led them deep into the rookeries, down a filthy alley that reeked of wastes.
Surrounded by seedy types, he felt more in command of his senses than he’d felt in weeks. The blade he kept at his boot pressed into his leg, comforting him with its presence. It was within easy reach and he knew he could wield it more quickly than most could cock a pistol.
The building’s windows were shaded black and the men who disappeared within were not the sort most would wish to face in the broad light of day, much less in the deep of night. Still, Ian felt the thrill of the chase. He’d like to say he was doing this solely for Claire’s sake, but now that he was here, he wasn’t so certain. If he didn’t think of her—if he pushed her out of his thoughts, as he must—and he must—he still felt alive in the moment.
Cameron, the hound, had stumbled on the perfect vocation. Once Ian settled his affairs at Glen Abbey, he planned to propose a partnership with him. If Ian could put his skills to use along this vein, instead of in his usual thievery, he would find himself both challenged and accomplished at once.
That he wouldn’t have Claire was a given. She wasn’t the sort to love a man of his stature.
It didn’t matter.
Even if she loathed him for his lies, he could live with that fact so long as she was safe and so long as he had helped her save her brother.
And they were close.
So close.
The man whose portrait Cameron had drawn under Claire’s direction had disappeared into the building they were now keeping under surveillance. They’d followed him from a nearby pub, where Ian and Cameron overheard the bugger boasting about a payment to come. Now, they needed only to determine what business was done within and how best to get inside.
“Do you think he realizes he was followed?”
Ian shook his head. “I doubt it. The bastard’s too cocksure.”
“Well, we can’t very well simply pop into this building and tip our hats at them,” Cameron said. “One of us should stay the night and keep watch.”
“I’ll do it,” Ian volunteered.
Cameron tipped him a curious glance. “Won’t you be missed?”
By whom, Ian nearly asked. The man still hadn’t a clue about his circumstances. He hadn’t revealed anything because the time hadn’t been right. Miraculously, Merrick had yet to return to London, and Ian couldn’t afford to risk exposing himself until this task was finished.
“Don’t you have some gala to attend?”
Ian had forgotten. The Duchess of Kent had, indeed, planned another soiree—this one in Claire’s honor. Though she still might not approve of Claire, Victoria seemed fond of the attention The Times was showering upon her. After Claire’s “incident” had reached the papers, the duchess had somehow been assigned as her patroness by default. And suddenly, even the duchess’s worst critics had given her a nod for taking such a compassionate stand in defending London’s newest darling. The politics of these people was almost unpalatable.
“Demme, I’d forgotten,” Ian confessed.
“I’ll stay,” Cameron suggested. “It’s what you’re paying me for, after all. Go,” he said.
Ian nodded, though he wasn’t paying the man a single penny.
“If I didn’t know better… I’d think you were avoiding the poor girl,” Cameron suggested, as he removed a cheroot and flint from his waistcoat pocket.
Ian didn’t respond. He stared at the building’s facade, wondering how Claire was faring in his father’s domain. More than anything, he’d like to see her snap at his father like the little fox she was. It would serve his father right. That man was no match for Claire’s quick wit.
Saucy, beautiful chit.
“If you’re tired of her already,” Cameron remarked, lighting his smoke, “I’d be delighted to take her off your hands.”
Ian cast the man an irate glance.
“You’ll be doing nae such thing,” he snapped, a bit of his brogue appearing through in his anger.
Cameron merely grinned.
Chapter 19
Glen Abbey, Scotland
The manor was in ruins.
Everything had been destroyed by the fire—from the portraits in the gallery to the ledgers that had been abandoned in Fiona’s room.
Merrick, the son she’d not set eyes upon since he was but an infant, had risked his life to save her, dragging her out through the flames.
The feelings she’d experienced in that moment of discovery completely overwhelmed Fiona.
After the fire, Merrick, Chloe and Fiona retreated to the hunting cottage, where Merrick assured her that he’d had no knowledge of the ledgers. It should have been Fiona’s first clue that the ledgers had remained on their estate; not a single one had been forwarded for Julian’s inspection. Edward, their crooked steward, merely used the books as a tool to control the estate’s finances, she had realized belatedly, and she berated herself for not discovering it sooner. She had trusted him without fail—with her own welfare and that of her son’s.
Sorrow and regret nearly overwhelmed her.
She’d spent most of her sons’ lives grieving over the losses of her own father and estranged son, and feeling sorry for herself over being jilted by Julian. Because of her, both her sons had suffered and Glen Abbey—their ancestral home—was no more. For four hundred and fifty years, her kinsmen had called Glen Abbey Manor home. The history of her people, childhood memories, the nursery where she’d nursed Ian and where she’d hoped to see her grandsons tucked into the very crib she’d once used as a bairn were all reduced to ash and rubble.
How could she have been so selfish?
How could Merrick ever forgive her?
And Ian—her sweet boy—he might never speak to her again, once he learned the truth.
Their father was a heartless bastard to never, even once, have come to face her after the day he’d forced her to choose between their infant sons. In his stead, he’d sent perfect strangers to depict the most precious moments he hadn’t had the guts or compassion—or even love enough—to experience for himself. But Fiona knew she was just as much to blame, and now it was time to do what she should have done years ago. It was time to face the truth.
Time to face Julian.
He was in London, Merrick had revealed to her. He’d come so that Merrick could choose his bride from amidst England’s finer families and make a marriage of convenience.
Och, but hadn’t he learned his lessons?
Fiona was so pleased that Merrick had fallen in love with a sawbones’ daughter. He and Chloe were to be wed soo
n, and Fiona intended to hurry the ceremony lest Julian find a way to spoil it for them. And once Merrick and Chloe exchanged their vows, she intended to march into London to face Julian and beg Ian’s forgiveness.
She wondered how Ian was faring. She didn’t worry for a moment that he couldn’t take care of himself. She knew precisely who he was, and his father had better take care.
Meanwhile, while Fiona contemplated what she would say to her son and her once-cherished lover, Merrick and Chloe practically waltzed into the room, holding hands, laughing together, oblivious to Fiona’s presence in the chair by the hearth. She smiled, remembering a time when she, too, had been so much in love.
Oh, to be young again. Someday, she wished the same for Ian—that he would find himself a sweet girl to care for him and love him. He was always risking himself for others. It was high time someone took care of him.
“Mother,” Merrick said in surprise. “I didn’t see you there.” And then, noticing her smile, he commented, “You’re looking radiant today.”
“It pleases me immensely to see you two so happy,” she said honestly. “Where have you been?”
“For a lovely walk,” Chloe replied. “You should have come,” she added in a chiding voice, though without the least bit of censure. “It would do you far more good to get the blood flowing through those legs than to sit there musing over what-ifs or what-could-have-beens.”
Her soon-to-be daughter-in-law was plainspoken as they came. But it was true. Fiona’s legs were, in fact, still weak, and it was her own fault. She’d spent far too much time in that invalid chair without good cause. Her deception had cost her the strength of her limbs. With Chloe’s help, however, she was growing stronger and stronger by the day. By the time she headed down to London, she was determined to stand and face Julian without a single wobble in her step.
“I was not ‘musing’,” Fiona said, denying the accusation, though she had been, in fact. “I was visiting with Constable Tolley—he only just left.”
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