“What is that?” he asked, pointing to a small cottage they passed along the way.
Chloe grit her teeth. “That,” she apprised him, “was the home where I spent my whole life.”
He turned to regard her suddenly, his look far too innocent, considering his question. “How quaint,” he said, peering at her very curiously. “It’s rather close to the manor, is it not?”
Chloe held her tongue. It was all she could do not to fly at him and scratch out his eyes as she remembered the afternoon of her father’s funeral. “Yes, it is, my lord.”
“Why do you not stay there and simply make the trek each morn to tend my mother?”
Chloe gave him her most cutting glance. “I would if I could, but it is no longer my own.”
“Why? Did you sell it?”
Chloe tilted her head, giving him a disbelieving glance. “Do you truly not remember anything, my lord?”
He seemed to weigh his answer before giving it. “Some things, perhaps, not others.”
Chloe peered out from the carriage and watched as the cottage faded behind them, along with her life’s dreams and all her happy memories. “I lost possession of that cottage the day after my father’s death,” she informed him.
“Why?”
“Because I could not produce the deed.” She turned and cast him a pointed glance. “The cottage is now yours, my lord. Because I could not prove it was a gift—from your grandfather to my father. It reverted to you when I failed to produce evidence.”
Lindale’s smile faded. He nodded, seeming to realize the insulting nature of his question to her. “I see,” he said, and Chloe averted her gaze, peering out the window as the carriage lumbered off the main road, onto another, narrower, bumpier road that led to Rusty’s small farm.
They rode in silence, except for the rattling of their teeth as they traveled over the rugged dirt road.
“Was it me who came to evict you?” he inquired after a moment’s contemplation. His brows were furrowed.
Chloe couldn’t look at him. “Of course not. As always, you sent Edward to do your worst.”
“Really,” he said, but it didn’t appear to be a question at all, and Chloe didn’t feel the need to respond.
If he felt badly, then good. He should feel badly. Memory loss, or not, he had done what he had done, and he was who he was. There were no excuses. But she really shouldn’t allow herself to be fooled by his new, charming disposition. He was still the same person, she reminded herself, and he’d surely return to his old self again as soon as his memory returned.
There was a long length of weighted silence, during which time he appeared to be considering her disclosure.
“Tell me… why could you not produce the deed?” he asked after what felt like an eternity.
Chloe turned to meet his gaze, wanting to see his reaction. “Because it was stolen, my lord.” She spat the word with all the contempt she felt over the thievery. And, make no mistake, it was burgled. She knew that beyond a shadow of doubt.
No remorse registered upon his face.
Chloe cursed his memory loss that he couldn’t give her any satisfaction. She wanted him to feel horrid over what he’d done. She knew good and well it was him who’d stolen that deed; no one else had anything to profit from its disappearance. “While I was at my father’s funeral,” she added without blinking, and she willed him to see the hurt he had caused.
This time his brows rose ever-so slightly, registering not the guilt she wanted but something more like… consternation?
* * *
“They blamed it on Hawk, but I know with certainty that it wasn’t him.”
Merrick’s mood plummeted.
“Why?” he pressed.
Chloe arched a brow. “Because he wouldn’t take from people in need only to give it to the likes of you.”
Merrick felt her accusation like a kick to his belly. No wonder she loathed him! If she thought him responsible for the fall of her fortune, there was little wonder she spoke to him at all—much less remained under the same roof.
Unless…
Suddenly, it made sense—her foray into the steward’s office, her unwavering animosity toward Ian and her very presence at Glen Abbey Manor. She was hoping to recover the deed to her cottage.
It was a fruitless effort, Merrick could have apprised her. If, in fact, Edward was responsible for the theft, he would have burned that evidence long ago.
That’s what Merrick would have done.
They rode the remainder of the way in silence, while Merrick considered the course he should take. Somehow he must prove to Chloe that Ian was not responsible for all her miseries, but before he could do that, he must first determine that to be the case. His gut told him that his brother might, in fact, be a thief, but he hadn’t a heart as cold as the one it would take to sweep a girl’s home from under her feet.
He also needed to know what involvement his mother had in this. And he needed to discover a way to reverse the decline of this town’s welfare. His own family matters, he sensed, were at the heart of all that was foul here.
“We’re here,” Chloe said, as the carriage stopped before a small stone house.
Having heard their approach, Rusty’s wife met them at the door. She gave Chloe a hearty welcome, and then silently thumbed Merrick in the proper direction when he asked about Rusty, though not before giving him a wary glance. Wiping her hands on her apron, she watched from the porch as he made his way through the oat field, looking for her husband, and he heard their whispers the instant he turned his back.
He found Rusty at work with his three young daughters trailing behind him. The youngest appeared to be about four. In her hands, she carried a crude doll. The middle child appeared to be about six. Her fingers were curled possessively about the handle of a small bucket. The oldest was probably about seven. In her hands, she held clumps of weeds, which she tossed into her sister’s bucket.
“We’re helping, Papa, aren’t we?” she said, looking at her father, obviously seeking his praise.
“Yes, lass,” Rusty assured. “You’re a fine wee helper, ye are.”
The youngest of the three noticed Merrick first and startled. She tugged desperately at her father’s pant leg. “Papa, papa!” she exclaimed, pointing at Merrick.
Rusty spun to face him, surprise evident in his expression. “Lord Lindale!”
“Who is that, Papa?” his middle daughter inquired.
Instead of ushering his children away or shushing them, the big, burly man swooped down to lift up his youngest into his arms. She squirmed and squealed to be let down. “So ye think you’re too old to be held?” Rusty asked her, pretending offense. He plastered a big, puckering kiss on her sweet round cheek, then answered her question. “That, my wee sprite… is Lord Lindale.” He gave Merrick a nod. “He’s the man kind enough to allow us to rent this fine piece of land.”
Merrick felt an inexplicable stab of guilt.
Rusty set his daughter down, patting her upon the head. With big blue eyes, she peered up at Merrick and asked innocently, “Can you make the dirt grow more food? We are hungry and our sister Ana went to heaven, but we don’t wanna go to Heaven yet.”
Rusty’s other daughter shook her head very adamantly, seconding her sister’s sentiments. “She din’t like to eat anyfing but carrots. But Papa can’t only grow carrots.” She peered up at her father. “Right, Papa?”
Merrick didn’t know what to say to the child.
A glance at Rusty revealed a pale face and eyes that were visibly glazed. He scratched his forehead, trying to make the effort a casual one, and then averted his gaze, but Merrick saw the control he struggled to maintain and turned his attention to the girls to give the man time to compose himself.
He got down on one knee, at their level, and said solemnly, “We’ll see what we can do about getting you more carrots.”
* * *
Chloe watched from the porch, with Emma, Rusty’s wife, as Merrick fell to his k
nees to speak to one of Rusty’s daughters. Something about his body language made Chloe smile softly, despite the pall their conversation had cast over her mood.
“What does he want?” Emma Broun asked.
“I haven’t the first clue,” confessed Chloe. But she dearly hoped it had nothing to do with that document he’d shredded.
Then, again, she hadn’t actually inspected the paper—she hoped he hadn’t anticipated her request and disposed of something else entirely.
Chloe turned to find Emma studying her. “You like him?”
“Oh, no! I certainly do not!”
Chloe didn’t mean to sound so vehement, but she simply couldn’t have anyone thinking she had feelings for Lord Lindale. Even if he weren’t a cad, he was not for her. He was an earl; she was nothing more than a physician’s daughter.
Emma turned her attention toward Lindale, his body language easy and not the least bit unfriendly. “In any case, I think ’e likes you, Miss Chloe.”
Chloe shook her head. It was entirely Emma’s imagination.
Or was it.
He did seem to like kissing her. She could tell by the way he was always ogling her mouth. Unbidden, she thought about the kiss they’d shared, and her cheeks warmed. She was heartily glad Emma was no longer looking at her. But, to her dismay, her body responded at once: Her breasts tingled as she watched him speak to the girls and she licked her lips gone suddenly dry.
The taste of him lingered.
Sweet lord, she was afraid Emma might be right. The fall hadn’t merely addled his brain, it put strange thoughts into his head. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she vowed to guard her heart.
* * *
Merrick turned his attention to the youngest child. “My, that’s a fine doll you’ve got there,” he said. “What’s her name?”
The little girl threw an arm over her eyes so that she couldn’t see him, obviously too embarrassed to reply.
“She doesn’t like strangers,” the eldest daughter explained, taking her sister’s hand protectively. “It used to be called Mairi, but now we call it Ana.”
“We painted her hair red,” said the middle child, seizing the doll from her little sister. “But it din’t look good… see.” She held it out for Merrick’s inspection, pointing to the doll’s bright, red head. The worn-out little doll was made of burlap, with a string tied about a small round rock to simulate the head and neck. There were no arms or legs and the face was also painted, very likely, by their mother, though the hair was clearly, but lovingly, painted by a different hand—one of theirs, or perhaps all of them. The toy certainly had seen better days, and he thought about all the things he’d taken for granted as a child… all the toy swords, the jeweled crowns, the wooden sailboats and rocking horse, the toy coaches…
The oldest explained, “It was s’posed to be the color of my Papa’s and Ana’s, but it wasn’t, so we washed it.”
Unfortunately, in their effort to eradicate their artwork, the eyes and mouth had faded along with the scrubbed head, but Merrick refrained from pointing out that fact.
The oldest daughter peered up at her father and, sensing his distress, sweetly offered him her free hand. Instinctively, she seemed to understand that he needed her tender touch. Rusty quietly accepted her loving offer, his eyes haunted in a way only a father’s could be after losing a child.
Rusty robbed to feed his children—these children—and somehow that revelation muddied the line dividing right from wrong.
Staring down into the dirty, but lovely little faces of Rusty’s three girls, Merrick was suddenly relieved he hadn’t had Rusty arrested. It didn’t make thievery right, but here and now, looking at his girls, it didn’t seem entirely wrong, either.
Merrick was at a loss for words.
He wanted to know more about the daughter Rusty lost, but couldn’t very well ask the man, not when he was certain he was already supposed to know.
Fidgeting, the middle child kicked her bare feet against the ground, turning Merrick’s attention to the land Rusty seemed so grateful for, and Merrick examined the topsoil. It was thin and the ground was hard, nearly impossible to till. Poor Rusty must break his back only to coax a seedling from it.
Our sister Ana went to heaven, but we don’t wanna go there yet…
Christ bedamned. His heart hurt over at the memory of those innocent words. Merrick wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, examining the silt that sifted like sand through his fingers…contemplating his brother’s involvement in these people’s lives. It must have been only seconds, but it felt like hours.
His brother dirtied his hands for these people… in more ways than Merrick could imagine. This was his family’s land; these people had likely relied upon his ancestors for support. These were not the sort of folk who traveled far from their homes. They were born and raised here, died here.
Ian must feel entirely responsible for them.
Merrick stood then, his view of the world somehow drastically skewed during those few seconds.
In Meridian, he sat within his nice, comfortable office, calculating investments and drinking port, completely oblivious to the fact that somewhere in the world, a child was dying of starvation, and there was something he could do about it.
Perhaps he couldn’t save the world, but every life mattered.
“Katie, sweetling…” Rusty’s voice broke. “Go now, take your sisters with ye. Let us talk.”
“Yes, Papa,” Katie said, seizing both younger siblings by the hands to lead them away. “Come on,” she said sweetly, her childish voice curiously adult-like. She turned her big blue eyes toward Merrick and waved good-bye. The two younger sisters followed her lead. All three waved as they scurried away toward the house where their mother stood waiting upon the porch along with Chloe, watching from afar.
It occurred to Merrick as he watched the children go: this was a simple life, but Merrick could be happy if these were his own children and Chloe their mother. She stood there on the porch, completely oblivious to his scrutiny, hair blowing in the breeze, arms crossed and smiling fondly as she watched Rusty’s children run giggling toward the house.
God’s truth, if it would save their precious lives, he would steal for them, too.
He couldn’t stand here and do nothing. He needed to contact Ryo and it occurred to him that there might be a way to kill more than one bird with a single stone.
A ring stone, to be precise.
If he could help it, Merrick intended to make certain they never had to steal again… except, perhaps, one last time. “I need you to do something for me,” he told Rusty.
“Anything, Hawk,” Rusty said without hesitation.
“Very good. This is what I need you to do…”
Chapter 9
“An invitation?”
“Yes, Miss Chloe,” said Aggie the following day. The staff was kept at a frugal minimum and each servant labored furiously to accomplish the long lists of tasks assigned to them. Aggie was one of the few who hadn’t been dismissed.
“From who?”
“Lord Lindale!” Aggie exclaimed, giggling.
“You must be mistaken,” Chloe said, confused.
The girl nodded enthusiastically, her youthful face aglow. “An invitation to dine!” She was no more than seventeen, Chloe surmised, and lovely with strawberry-gold curls and sun-kissed cheeks. She didn’t mean to, but she gave the girl a frown for sounding so utterly delighted by the prospect.
Lindale had doubled her salary. Now he was wooing her. He must be after something, but what? What could he want from her? Chloe had nothing left of value to her name.
And why, pray tell, the sudden interest? He’d never spared her more than a few polite exchanges during the seven months she’d been in residence, and now, suddenly, he seemed to be pursuing her.
It didn’t make sense.
Neither did the gooseflesh that erupted on her skin.
No, she couldn’t possibly be flattered by the invitation. She ref
used to be bought. At any rate, even if he wanted nothing more than her company, she told herself, it didn’t mean she could suddenly forget his previously sour attitude and general discourtesy.
“Thank you, Aggie,” Chloe said, accepting the proffered envelope. It was sealed. Chloe furrowed her brow. “How did you know it was an invitation?”
Aggie gave an excited little nod. “Because ’e said so, Miss Chloe.” She smiled winningly. “I really, really do think ’e likes you!”
Poppycock! Lindale only liked himself. Chloe’s brow furrowed. He’d probably already used up every available woman in Glen Abbey, she thought to herself, and Chloe was to be his final conquest—or so he believed. Well, not if Chloe had any choice in the matter—and that was the one thing she did have. Choices. One always had choices, no matter the circumstances.
She tore open the invitation with a vengeance and sat upon the bed to read it. It read simply: “The Right Honorable the Earl of Lindale requests the pleasure of your company this evening for dinner. Please arrive in the foyer to be escorted at eight, prompt.”
Chloe chewed her bottom lip. Damn and blast. She supposed it must seem a dream come true, a physician’s daughter to be the invited guest of an earl. And Lindale was quite the handsome suitor, after all. He was absolutely adored by the ladies—all ladies—and his lineage was impeccable. He was, as some would say, a most eligible bachelor. But Chloe was not impressed. Indeed, he must have a motive, but what on earth could it be?
She couldn’t very well refuse him.
Could she?
Should she?
A glance at Aggie found the girl awaiting her response with bated breath.
Chloe hated to disappoint.
If she embarrassed Lindale with a refusal, would he ask her to leave the manor? He was, after all, the true master of this house. It wasn’t as though she wanted his affections; he couldn’t hurt her any more than he already had. Besides, she was interminably curious.
The Impostors: Complete Collection Page 8
