The Impostors: Complete Collection

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  “So you lied to me?”

  He nodded. “With good cause, but aye. I did. I’m a liar, indeed.”

  “You lied to me!” she said again, but with a note of wonder. In truth, Claire had never been more relieved to learn she’d been lied to in all her given years. She would have made do, but she wasn’t meant to be a princess, most certainly not a queen.

  He grinned, perhaps sensing her thoughts, and then when he spoke again his Scots brogue was thick as pea-soup fog. “What d’ ye say, lass? Now that all is said and done, do ye believe ye could be happy with a puir, ill-tempered Scotsman? Because the truth is I still wish to marry ye.”

  Claire wasn’t quite certain she was hearing him correctly. Did he say, he still wished to marry her? “Why?”

  His lips turned roguishly. “Well, ye see, Claire, I was a wee hideous caterpillar when I met ye, lass. And now—well, I’m still just a wee hideous caterpillar,” he admitted. “But I believe I just may grow to be that wondrous butterfly you so admire… only with you in my life.”

  Claire swallowed the lump that rose to choke her. It was the most beautiful proposal she had ever heard—not that she’d heard many, mind you, but it was certainly better than her first. She choked on a giggle.

  “I’ll never lie to you again,” he swore, moving to the edge of her bed. “And I promise to buy you a thousand books of your choosing—to read any time you like.”

  Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “I also promise you will never have to wear shoes again if you don’t wish to.” He lifted his brows. “Or even clothes, for that matter—in fact, I very much wish you wouldn’t.”

  Claire gasped, covering her mouth, laughing as fat tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “What say you, lass? Will you be my wife?”

  Claire flew into his arms. “Yes!” she proclaimed, throwing her arms about him. “Oh, yes!”

  Only then, remembering his father, her joy was dampened, and she suddenly pushed him away. “What will your father say?”

  “Ah, well, I wouldn’t worry overmuch about him,” Ian reassured, reaching up to wipe away another tear from her cheek. “He’s on his way to making his own amends. And if I know my mother, she’ll keep him far too preoccupied with restitution to worry about either one of his wayward sons.”

  Claire choked on another giggle, joy overwhelming her. “Twins,” she said, with wonder, and without another word, Ian pushed her gently back down upon the bed, and bent to kiss her on the mouth.

  “I love you,” he said again.

  “I love you,” Claire confessed, laughing against his puckered lips. “And, yes, indeed, I will marry you… but on one condition.”

  “What might that be?”

  She clutched at his shirt, pulling him down atop her. “You must never… ever… ever stop kissing me,” she demanded.

  He chuckled darkly, the sound low and rich. “I’d like tae see you try and keep me from it,” he warned, pressing his mouth against her lips. But she averted her face, and whispered into his ear. “Not like that…”

  Ian turned to face her, his lips stretching into a wicked grin. He lifted his head, tilting her a curious look, correctly interpreting the glimmer in her eyes. “I see,” he said, raising his brows and laughing as he dove beneath the sheets.

  “Ian!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Not now!”

  But it was too late… her fiancé was already burrowing beneath the sheets.

  Epilogue

  Members of the Meridian Royal House were traditionally laid to rest on familial soil. But because Edward was, to everyone’s best knowledge, little more than a servant, Julian had had him interred in Kensal Green’s All Souls public cemetery. But at least he had a gravestone that bore his true name—a far cry more than he’d had in life.

  Edward Melchior Welbourne.

  Julian Merrick Welbourne II sighed.

  The sky was uncharacteristically blue, belying the soberness of the day. There should have been another misty, grey London sunrise. He stood staring at the grave where his half-brother lay. The freshly packed soil was rich and black, speckled with upturned clippings of brilliant green—a stark reminder of life and death, and the swiftness and violence with which a life could be upturned. He’d buried Edward without ever having acknowledged their relation. It seemed pointless to confess it now, when the man was six feet under and there was no hope for atonement.

  He’d like to have shed a tear, at least. But his eyes remained dry for the brother who, despite the fact that he’d been denied kinship, and despite his obvious unresolved anger, and despite the fact that time and distance had placed wedges between them, had taken the bullet meant for him.

  Blood was, indeed, thicker than water.

  Somehow, that fact left Julian feeling hollow as he stood alone in a final, anonymous tribute to a man he’d never really bothered to know.

  Years ago, he’d sent Edward, his father’s “mistake,” away. At the same time, he had also banished Fiona—his own “lapse in judgment,” as his father had called her—and he’d kept one of their twin sons to raise in a house full of lies.

  Merrick never suspected. But, in the end, guilt drove Julian nearly to madness. He stared at the ground now, clearheaded for the first time in months, perhaps years…

  Edward had been the last of his blood kin except for his sons. And both of his sons surely loathed him now, after discovering the truth.

  After their encounter with Lord Huntington, Ian left London without ever giving him the opportunity to explain himself. Apparently, he felt he knew everything he needed to know. And, evidently, there had been little love lost between him and Edward, as well, because Ian hadn’t even considered remaining to see the man put into the ground.

  As for Merrick… if he didn’t already despise Julian after facing his true mother for the first time in his life, Ian would surely turn his heart once he returned to Glen Abbey.

  Removing his hat, he tossed it down upon the grave, then walked away, disgusted—more with himself than with anything else. It was all his own fault, and someday, his own funeral would not be so different, he feared. Perhaps, perforce, strangers and acquaintances would pay him due respects, but his own family—the word was somehow alien to him—would be painfully absent.

  Would he look down from some higher place and see empty, unfamiliar faces?

  Shuddering, he walked out of the cemetery to find Ryo waiting by the carriage. The loyal servant had spared Julian the benefit of his wisdom, at least for the moment, and simply gave him a sober nod as he opened the carriage door.

  Julian gave the cemetery one last backward glance.

  It was time to go.

  He mounted the carriage and closed the door.

  The return trip to Berkeley Square was dreary, despite the sunny day, and once home, Julian went straight to his office. He pulled the drapes and withdrew the image of Fiona from his desk drawer, then set it down on the desk to contemplate. It was only then that he noticed the package that had been delivered and placed on one corner of his desk—a small, wrapped handkerchief with a dirty note attached to it.

  He untied the handkerchief and unwrapped it, revealing its contents: Merrick’s ring bearing the royal crest of Meridian.

  A multitude of emotions assaulted him at once. At the forefront came self-disgust. He’d never once noticed that ring missing from Ian’s finger. He’d been so self-involved, and so concerned with Merrick fulfilling his duty to Meridian, that he hadn’t paid a single moment of attention to what his son was saying, or, more importantly, what he wasn’t saying, or wearing.

  With trembling hands, he lifted up the note. It read “My dearest brother, wear it in good health.” And it was signed J. Merrick Welbourne III.

  Merrick had disowned himself.

  All these years, fear of loss had led Julian to commit atrocious acts that now tormented him. And yet his son had so easily discarded his position, along with everything that went along with it.

  Stunned, he
stared at the ring, trying to determine what could be so bloody important that a man could walk away from everything.

  It was almost more than he could bear.

  “Ryosan!” he shouted.

  As though he’d been waiting just outside the door, Ryo popped his head in at once.

  Julian could feel his face heating. “What is this?” he demanded to know, pointing at the filthy handkerchief cradling the royal insignia ring.

  Very calmly, Ryo approached the desk. “It appears to be denka-sama’s ring,” he said, announcing the obvious.

  Julian stood. “I know what the hell it is,” he returned, smacking his hand upon the desk. “What I want to know is how it arrived here.”

  Unaffected by his anger, Ryo’s deep black eyes twinkled. “It was delivered this morning, before the funeral, by a man who called himself Rusty Broun. It was addressed to Ian, but since denka has gone, I thought it best be given to you.”

  As the import of the missive fully penetrated, Julian sank back down into his chair.

  Both of his sons had abandoned him.

  He was completely alone.

  Everything that mattered in this world was in Glen Abbey—everything, including Fiona.

  “Where did I go so wrong?” he asked aloud.

  “Saru mo ki kara ochiru,” Ryo said in his native tongue.

  The words penetrated, but Julian hadn’t a blessed clue what the man was trying to say. Everything with Ryo was a bloody riddle. “Even monkeys fall from trees?” he translated, confused.

  “Even experts make mistakes,” Ryo corrected him. “It is what you do with the mistake once you become aware of it that is the true measure of a man’s character.”

  Julian blinked, trying to make sense of the events of the past months… of the emotions assailing him now.

  He’d met Ryo during a diplomatic visit to Siam when Merrick was only five. The Asian had come to serve him after his own master threatened to have him beheaded for thievery. In fact, it had been a very, very inquisitive little Merrick who’d taken the master’s carved ivory dragon’s egg. Having hidden the fascinating bauble with the express purpose of spiriting it away to Meridian, Merrick had watched, wide-eyed, as Ryo’s master had accused him, then sentenced him to death in the very same breath. Ryo had known the thief’s true identity, but he hadn’t revealed it. And Merrick had scurried away then, returned at once with the egg in hand, confessed his crime before Ryo’s master, and begged that Ryo be spared. Though they wouldn’t have harmed him, Merrick couldn’t have known that, and he’d earned himself a lifetime servant and friend for confessing to a crime that would have resulted in most men’s heads being served on a platter—quite literally. Saved from his fate, Ryo had pledged to become Merrick’s sensei, teaching him the ways of the world. The two had been inseparable ever since.

  Julian stared at the ring.

  Perhaps he should take a lesson from his son.

  Perhaps it wasn’t too late to confess himself.

  It might even earn him his sons’ forgiveness.

  At the very worst… well, it could be no worse than the fate laid before him now: to live the rest of his years alone, without anyone who mattered.

  At best… well, he couldn’t count on that… but it was certainly worth a try.

  “Prepare the carriage,” he commanded Ryo.

  Ryo’s eyes glinted. “Where shall we go, heika?”

  “To Glen Abbey,” Julian said.

  The last time Fiona saw her sons together they were mere infants, twin little golden-haired cherubs sharing the same crib and the same sweet little smile.

  Now, they were grown men, uncannily similar in appearance—only side-by-side was it possible to see that Ian was slightly larger of build, that Merrick’s skin was slightly lighter, Ian’s hair a little more sun kissed. But instead of seeming distant and cold toward one another, or even merely cordial, they were like true brothers, she mused, debating philosophies, sharing secrets, teasing one another and laughing heartily. It was as though by wearing the other’s shoes, each brother had come to know the other in a way that even years together could not have accomplished.

  Now, both had women who adored them, women whom they adored in return. It was all a mother could hope for—someone to love her sons as much as she did.

  What was more, both Chloe and Claire seemed to be becoming fast friends, and Claire had begun to accompany Chloe on sick visits to the villagers’ homes. At the moment, the two were busy planning Chloe’s and Merrick’s wedding.

  She’d left her sons to discuss their restoration plans for Glen Abbey, as they were overseeing the manor’s reconstruction together. Once the manor was restored, they intended to begin construction on a new hospital. Chloe was beside herself with joy over the prospect.

  Fiona dismissed the distant sound of hammers and saws as she immersed herself in the peace of her rose garden. A butterfly flitted past, then landed gently upon a bright green leaf. For Fiona’s part, she was relieved only to have salvaged her roses from the fire. The garden was her tribute to a distant time, when love was hers to cherish and hopes were still as high and strong as Meridian’s mountain peaks.

  But enough about losses.

  She was eternally grateful for the second chance to see her sons live out their lives and to know her grandchildren. Chloe was expecting a Christmas baby. And she was both saddened and relieved to learn that Edward had passed away—she refused to dwell upon that, however. There were no dark clouds on the horizon on this fine, brisk day. Whatever fate Edward earned, his burdens were his own to bear. Julian had never once hinted that they were related by blood, and now that she understood the cross he bore, she understood the reason for his betrayal.

  Noticing a hint of bright red amidst the green foliage, she hurried toward the promise of a bud. In all her years of trying to coax her tiny, exotic roses to bloom, she had merely a handful of successes. This bright morning, with the sun warming her shoulders, the mere possibility of finding a healthy blossom elated her.

  She bent to inspect the tiny bud, breathing in the scent of greenery and a wee hint of rose perfume.

  This time, instead of plucking the blossom, she would leave it to grow. Maybe in whisking past buds indoors to coax her blooms from the protection of her vases, she had prevented their flourishing. No, this time, she planned to watch the bud stretch wide so that butterflies and bees could dance upon its petals. She would leave it to soak in the dew and to dry in the sun… and perhaps next year she would be rewarded with more flowers.

  No more secrets.

  No more fear.

  No more sorrow.

  This was a new day.

  “Fiona?” a distantly familiar voice intruded.

  Fiona’s stomach twisted violently. She stood and turned to face the man she had both loved and feared for so many years.

  For the longest moment, she could only stand there, gaping, her heart hammering painfully.

  She had not looked into those pale blue eyes in nearly twenty-eight years, but she knew them still… and they still held her enthralled.

  Though he was still handsome, his face was a bit too gaunt. Elsewise, he was largely unchanged, except for a few lines etched about the eyes and mouth.

  But she was not the same.

  She was a mature woman and she’d lived a lifetime without him. She didn’t need him now. She turned away, giving him her back, her tone steady, despite her shaking limbs. “What are you doing here, Julian?”

  “Forgive me,” he begged.

  An aching moment of silence passed as Fiona refused to look at him.

  The ache in his voice was clear as the day. “I suffer a ringing in my ears that will not cease to torment me,” he said, his voice breaking.

  Oh, God… it was hardly the first thing she had expected him to say to her. A sob caught in her throat. Her legs felt weak. Tears pricked at her eyes.

  She had once sent him a portrait signed in that very fashion, wanting him to know how much she
missed him, how terrible the distance rang between them.

  Her throat grew thick, and despite her resolve to keep her barriers intact, his statement penetrated her defenses. Fat tears welled in her eyes as she turned to face him.

  “I have been a fool,” he said, his eyes glistening. “A stupid fool. Can you ever forgive me, Fiona?”

  For a moment, Fiona was again that young girl who would have given anything to hear those words from his lips. She had to remind herself that too many years had passed. She could never so easily dismiss the pain he had brought upon them all. “Do Merrick and Ian know you are here?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” he told her. “But you have my word I’ll not interfere. I have resolved to accept whatever decisions our sons have made, and I am desperate to prove myself to you… if only you’ll allow it.”

  Fiona shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

  What had he expected her to say? Too many years had gone by to simply fly into his arms.

  “I have something to give you,” he said, producing a package from behind his back.

  It looked like an ordinary hatbox—an old one, at that. Did he think he could ply her with presents?

  Fiona lifted her chin. “I don’t need gifts from you,” she assured. “I have everything I could possibly desire.”

  Nearly everything, a little voice countered.

  “Alas, this was yours to begin with,” he persisted. “I am only returning it.”

  The only thing Fiona wanted returned was the deed to her ancestral home—at least, what remained of it. She tilted her head.

  He took a step forward. “Will you accept it?”

  She hesitated a moment, then accepted the package from his outstretched hand, still afraid to hope. Eyeing him suspiciously, she held the box in one hand and opened the lid with the other, revealing a familiar piece of parchment lying atop what seemed to be a collection of letters. Her heart tripped at the sight of it, and she peered up at him, surprised. “The deed to Glen Abbey?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Why now?”