Tanya Anne Crosby (3 page)

“Nay, Miss Chloe! The horse threw him—I swear it! We saw it with our own two eyes!”

“Who the devil is ‘we’?” she questioned.

Bloody shrew; she must be his wife.

“Och!” she snapped before Merrick could ask who she was. “He’s bleeding all over my dress!” And she promptly dropped him to the ground.

He landed with a sickening thud that rattled his very brain. His head clouded with pain. The last he recalled was the fuzzy image of her standing over him, examining her ruined dress, and the sound of her irate voice cursing the day he was born.

And then he did what no manly man should ever do; he passed out.

C
hloe had been employed seven months ago to nurse Lady Fiona, not her son. But it seemed more and more, even without this latest incident, that Lady Fiona charged her with some task that involved Lord Lindale.

It nettled her.

He nettled her.

Rotten knave.

Forced to nurse him throughout the night, while Lady Fiona sat, looking on from her invalid chair, she assured his fretting mother, “He’ll be fine.” She tried not to sound so heartless, but there just wasn’t a bone in her body that felt pity for the cur.

He lay in his bed, sleeping more peacefully than he had a right to. Chloe feared he’d cracked his skull—but the gash on his forehead was superficial, needing only two little stitches. He’d bear a small scar, but as far as Chloe was concerned, it
was his just due. The wicked should bear a wicked countenance.

God’s truth, it didn’t seem fitting that Lucifer should be the most beautiful angel, though in studying Lindale’s slumbering face, she could well believe it to be true. The thought made her frown, because she didn’t particularly like to admit that his countenance appealed to her.

His face bore the same chiseled look of those ancestors depicted in Glen Abbey Manor’s gallery. His hair was a dark, sun-kissed blond. Shaded darker by moisture from her cloth, it was brushed away from his face, revealing magnificently high cheekbones and a strong jaw shadowed with shimmering gold whiskers.

She studied the gold flakes. Odd, but she thought she remembered him clean-shaven this afternoon.

It must have been her imagination.

She examined the stitches upon his forehead, admiring her handiwork, and then turned her attention once more to his face. In stark contrast to his masculine features, his lips were full and his lashes lay thick and dark against his cheeks. Most women would die for lashes so long. Though he must have his father’s complexion, she decided, because Fiona was considerably fairer. Chloe wouldn’t know, because she’d never met Ian’s father—nor did his portrait grace Glen Abbey’s gallery.

“He looks so pallid,” Lady Fiona said, worry invading her usually cool tone.

“He’s fine,” Chloe assured her, though he did, in fact, seem a little peculiar. As she mopped his forehead, trying to put her finger on the distinction, Edward, Glen Abbey’s long-time steward, came into the room and whispered something into Lady Fiona’s ear.

Chloe didn’t bother to greet him. He wouldn’t acknowledge her anyway. Like Lindale, the steward didn’t seem to condone her presence at Glen Abbey Manor. Too bad. She didn’t particularly like him, either. He was secretive and abrasive and seemed to have far too much influence over Lady Fiona.

Lady Fiona gasped. “The constable?”

“Yes, madame,” Edward said.

“Whatever for?”

“He did not say, madame, though he wishes to speak with my lord.”

“How rude of him!” Lady Fiona declared, her mettle peeking out from behind her elegant facade. Chloe had often thought she should have been born a queen, not simply an earl’s daughter. “He certainly may not!” Clearly unsettled, her voice trembled slightly. “You may tell him that he must return at a decent hour when my son has had ample opportunity to recover himself.”

Edward bent once more to whisper something
Chloe couldn’t quite make out, and Lady Fiona replied, “Well! Take me to him at once and I shall tell him myself!”

“Yes, madame,” Edward replied, and complied at once, wheeling her from the room. The cumbersome chair scraped the door on the way out.

“Lord-a-mercy, Edward! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Of course not, madame.”

They left Chloe smiling to herself. Even in her condition, Lady Fiona’s mettle was an inspiration.

With Lady Fiona and Edward gone from the room, she allowed herself to study the contour of his body beneath the sheets. His chest was wide, his limbs long and muscular. He was nearly bare, she knew. They’d removed his shirt. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man unclothed—she’d nursed a few—but it was certainly the first time she’d been alone with one. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she lifted one corner of the blanket to peer beneath.

It wasn’t as though he would ever know; he was fast asleep.

Her heart beat a little faster as she lifted the coverlet. A sprinkling of curly hair beckoned to the touch, but she didn’t dare. It began at his chest and tapered to a fine, silky line that drew her gaze lower, despite her sense of propriety. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, she was loathe to
admit, with tawny flesh that stretched taut over beautiful muscles. She just didn’t remember his skin being so dark.

Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated lifting the covers higher to peer lower. What a terrible waste of a man, she thought with disgust.

Merrick lay as still as he was able, in no rush to wake.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a woman’s nurturing touch—nor even the first time, for that matter. He’d had lovers, but this was somehow different.

As a child, it had been Ryo who’d cared for him when he’d been ill, and Ryo who’d reared him to manhood. Strength and honor had been instilled in him from the day of his birth, but he feared behind the mask, he was no more than a little boy who craved a mother’s love. It was never more apparent than it was this instant; he could have languished in the moment, never waking.

Her warm, sweet breath brushed his face and he turned toward it like a flower to the sun. When he opened his eyes at last, it was to find her bent over him, her face near his chest as she peeked beneath the covers, glimpsing him. Her private smile was the most sensuous smile he’d ever witnessed on a woman. It stirred his loins at once, rousing the one part of him that didn’t ache—at least not at that
instant. Her lips curved softly, admiringly, and he feared that if she didn’t drop the covers at once, she would witness, firsthand, the erection of a tent.

As a matter of self-preservation, he spoke. He couldn’t keep himself from baiting her. “Enjoying the view?”

She dropped the coverlet with a startled gasp.

He watched as a flush crept from the valley of her breasts and then tinted her face. Her lips deepened to rose, and he wondered if they would be warm to the touch…hot and soft.

Not for the first time, he had the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

Recovering her composure quickly, she tossed the cloth she held over his face, as though to escape his gaze. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re awake!” Though her color betrayed her, her tone was full of pique.

“I am,” Merrick assured her, removing the cloth. He smiled disarmingly—at least he thought it should be, but she seemed entirely unaffected.

“More’s the pity,” she lamented. “It appears not even the devil wants you,
my lord.
”

Her contemptuous tone didn’t escape him.

Grimacing, Merrick adjusted himself in the bed to give her better access. “What,” he taunted her, “no welcome-home kiss for your darling husband?” He had no idea where the question came
from, only that it spilled far too easily from his lips.

She gasped, as though offended by his quip, and took an appalled step backward. “How dare you speak to me as you would one of your strumpets! The fall must have addled your brain!”

But she didn’t answer his real question: who was she, dammit?

And then she added much too glibly, “I shall inform your mother that you’ve awakened,
my lord
—just in time for company! The constable will be quite pleased not to have to wait, after all,” she told him, and hurried to leave.

“Rusty lied,” he said before she could abandon him. “It wasn’t a fall.”

She stopped abruptly at the door, her curiosity piqued.

That waist—so tiny he thought his hands could easily span it. She turned slowly to face him.

Merrick weighed his words; he was hoping for an ally, but wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “The horse didn’t throw me,” he admitted.

One delicate brow arched. “Really?”

“I was, in fact, robbed,” he said.

Both her brows lifted now. “Really!” she said again, her face suddenly losing its animosity. In truth, she appeared even hopeful.

Merrick nodded, watching her closely. “Indeed.”

She took a step closer. “Hawk?” she asked, and the tone of her voice was suddenly awestruck.

Merrick stared at her, dumbfounded.

She lived with the rotten thief and didn’t realize who he was?

“Yes,” he said tersely, deciding that
Hawk
had obviously never shared his secret with his lovely wife.

She was somebody else’s woman.

He was struck, on the heels of that revelation, with a wave of envy as foreign to him as the bed in which he lay.

Chrissake, when in his life had he ever envied anyone anything?

His entire life he’d had everything at his disposal simply for the taking.

She straightened to her full height and seemed to be assessing him. “I don’t believe you,” she declared suddenly.

“Why not?”

“Because.” Her expression was smug now. “You should be so fortunate to exchange mere glances with the man. You aren’t fit to wipe his boots. That you breathe the same air is a blasphemy in itself.”

Merrick blinked at her declarations.

Two things struck him in that instant. One, she had absolutely no notion of her connection with
Hawk. And two, she didn’t seem to like her husband very much.

In fact, he’d like to have agreed with her assessment of Lindale, but her accusations seemed somewhat more personal than they should have, considering that she wasn’t even talking about him. She was talking about Lindale—who was, in fact, Hawk. Be damned if the inanity of the situation didn’t amuse him, despite that her vehemence was directed, for the moment, squarely at him. “Is that so?” he asked her wryly.

“Yes, of course. Hawk is everything you are not.”

He sat, not bothering to cover his bare chest. Why trouble himself? She’d already had an eyeful.

She gasped, and turned to go, suddenly and conveniently embarrassed by the sight of him.

“And just what is it that
I
am?” he asked, baiting her. He didn’t want her to leave just yet.

She turned to face him, lifting a hand to her face, covering her eyes as she spoke to him. The flush in her breast returned, followed by the one in her cheeks. But she didn’t cow. Her mettle brought a smile to Merrick’s lips. “I shall be most pleased to make you a list,” she told him, and then added, “After you do me the courtesy of covering yourself,
my lord.
”

He ignored her request. “Make me a list, then.”

“Are you decent?”

More so than he’d like to be. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I warrant it’s nothing you haven’t seen numerous times before,” he told her pointedly, and waited for her to deny it.

She parted two fingers slightly to peek through and closed them again with a soft gasp. “You are so crude!”

“Crude?” But she didn’t deny his allegation.

“And rude!” she added, but she didn’t turn to go, he noticed. In fact, he thought he saw her peeking again through those long, delicate fingers.

“Go on,” he encouraged. As a test to see if she was looking, he let the coverlet drape further.

She gasped softly and his smile deepened. “You are selfish, arrogant, spoiled, ungrateful, vulgar—shall I continue,
my lord?
”

“I think I get the idea,” he relented, though with a half smile.

“Yes, well, then…I am leaving now,” she informed him tersely. “Because I cannot bear to remain in your presence another instant,
my lord!
”

“What about Hawk?” he prompted, his lips curving slightly upward when she made no move to go.

“Hawk?” She sighed. “He, of course, is beloved, kind, compassionate, generous, charitable, noble, brave—” With every endearing adjective,
she lost a note of shrewishness; her tone became even wistful.

Merrick’s smile vanished completely. “I thought you were leaving,” he said. Her defense of the bugger irritated him more than it should have.

“I am leaving,” she assured him.

“He’s nothing but a common thief,” Merrick told her. “There is absolutely nothing noble about him. The man robbed me and left me to die where I lay.”

He thought she rolled her eyes, but they were still covered and he couldn’t quite tell. “You were scarce in danger of bleeding to death,” she assured him, unmoved. “It was merely a scratch.”

“Really?” His fingers sought his wound for validation. “Scratches don’t require stitching,” he protested. Damn, but was he looking for pity? He didn’t deserve the contempt she was giving him.

Hawk did.

“Oh, yes, it should scar quite nicely,” she said, sounding smug as she turned her back to him at last.

Heartless vixen.

“And as long as we are discussing the matter so freely,” she added, casting him a glare over her shoulder, “I believe justice was served last night—a lesson to you for running out so rudely on your mother’s birthday celebration. Now, if you’ll ex
cuse me, I shall go and inform the constable that you are quite eager to see him.”

His mother’s birthday celebration?

Her declaration rendered him speechless.

As though his eyes were drawn to it, he glanced across the room, noticing for the first time the portrait of a woman in her youth. It was the same woman in the portrait his father had guarded so fiercely. She was unmistakable in her elegance. He blinked, glancing back at the fiery angel paused in the doorway, and was struck at once by the truth.

It was no accident of nature that he and Hawk looked so remarkably alike that no one seemed able to tell them apart.

Pure emotion barreled through him, the force of it so intense that he was glad he was lying down. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

She marched from the room, leaving Merrick to stare after her, stunned by his epiphany.

Hawk was his bloody brother.

And his mother…she was still alive.

Ryo had known, damn him to hell. That was why he’d tried to keep Merrick from Glen Abbey Manor. It was also why he’d delayed their arrival as long as he’d dared and then had bolted away at the first opportunity…thinking Merrick was still aboard, no doubt. He was like to be halfway to London by now…with Merrick’s brother in tow.