To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 2

  The tone of the posts suggested that his father had somehow abused her. He wondered what terrible thing his father had done to this lady and was curious as to why the letters had never been dispatched. It was even more troubling that his father hardly left his apartments, reading these letters each and every night, sometimes weeping, and drinking himself into a stupor.

  It was Merrick’s greatest hope that he might find this woman and right an old wrong so that his father’s conscience might somehow be eased. At the very least, he wanted answers…and answers he intended to get.

  If ever they arrived at this mysterious little township. He felt as though he’d been traveling for years.

  With a sigh, he slumped back into the leather seat, closing his eyes, seeking patience. The journey seemed bloody endless.

  In truth, Merrick wasn’t proud to have snooped like a petty thief through his father’s personal correspondence, but he’d felt driven to discover what lay at the heart of his father’s misery. It was his duty to his father as much as it was his duty to his country. It was a blessing that Meridian was not of particular importance politically, as there were no provisions in their laws that would depose a sovereign for dementia. That was the first amendment Merrick intended to make. If by chance he ended like his father, he wanted them to pluck him from his sovereignty quicker than he could blink, and to confer it at once to his heir.

  Of course, in order to ascend to the throne, it also meant he must first get himself a wife—an ancient law he would sooner do away with. But for now, he must comply. And yet, the thought of that particular task sat like acid in his belly. He shook his head over the thought of all those silly little chits bouncing off their mothers’ skirts. The prospect of having to make witty banter with empty-headed misses until he chose a bride made his stomach turn violently. The anticipation of having to endure one of them for the rest of his natural life gave him a fright. And their mothers—gad—vultures, every one! Depressing as the task might be, he was glad to have escaped London for the time being.

  Somewhere beyond the carriage a bird call caught his attention and his eyes flew wide.

  It was not merely any bird, but a saker—or to be more precise, a very good imitation. He’d know that sound anywhere.

  He rapped on the carriage roof. “Did you hear that, Ryo?”

  The driver’s reply was petulant, as though he’d been stewing for the entire journey. “I hear nothing, Merricksan! I only do what I am told!”

  Merrick frowned at the response—sour old codger. But Ryo’s objections over Merrick’s intervention wasn’t his greatest concern at the moment. Unless his ears deceived him, he had, in fact, heard a saker’s call. It was, after all, his favored bird of prey.

  He’d been no more than twelve when Ryo first introduced him to the bold predator. And because it was more familiar to Oriental and Arab falconers, he’d never encountered anyone who’d owned one aside from himself. However, this was not the Orient, nor was it Meridian, and sakers didn’t fly wild in the north woods of Scotland.

  He sat forward, peering out the window.

  Somehow the night seemed blacker than it should. Shadows teased his eyes, and, for an instant, he had the strangest perception of looking down over his carriage, sleek and black as it wheeled its way along the leaf-strewn path. The image was fleeting, gone before he had time to blink his eyes, but it was enough to make him doubt not only his vision but his hearing, as well.

  He slumped backward, unsettled, his mood growing darker than the woods they traversed.

  They should have reached Glen Abbey Manor long before now… If he didn’t know better, he’d think Ryo was driving in circles, delaying their arrival.

  He rapped again on the carriage roof. “Chrissakes, Ryo, get us to a bed—any bed will do by now!”

  Ryo replied, “Grab your pants, Merricksan! We are going fast as we can.”

  “Not fast enough,” Merrick suggested. “And that would be ‘hold your knickers,’” he corrected the elder man, “not ‘grab your pants.’”

  “Same ting,” the elder man argued from his perch outside.

  “No,” Merrick persisted, amused despite himself. “You would, in fact, find yourself in gaol for grabbing your pants in public.”

  Ryo’s response was indignant. “Humph! Why should anybody care if I am grabbing my pants, but not if I am holding my knickers? Your Western language makes no sense to this old man.”

  Merrick refused to laugh, but his shoulders betrayed him, shaking softly with his mirth. Dammit all to hell, he was far too tired to be diverted. And he’d reduced himself to arguing semantics with a stubborn old Asian, who somehow, despite his position of servitude, never once lost an argument.

  Why the hell had he asked Ryo to drive, anyway? Or had Ryo insisted upon accompanying him?

  Somehow, Merrick was never quite certain of these things where Ryo was concerned. If Merrick asked to dine on steak, the bugger served him raw fish instead. If he requested brandy, he got bloody ale. If he begged for silence, Ryo would sooner hum some lively tune, only to be contrary. This was their relationship, and though at times it bedeviled the hell out of Merrick, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  At the instant, however, he was too tired to be anything but irritated. “God have pity,” he muttered.

  Despite claims to the contrary, Ryo’s hearing was impeccable. The old man interjected without invitation, “Could be that Merricksan’s discomfort is divine retribution for disrespecting his elders.”

  Merrick countered, “Could be Ryo would be better served by minding his own affairs.”

  Ryo didn’t respond.

  Wise old man. He seemed to know precisely when to launch an attack and precisely when to withdraw. Although he couldn’t seem to resist a final kick of frustration to the carriage, Merrick noted. The impact of his foot rattled the vehicle.

  Ornery old codger; let him show his temper. It didn’t matter. Merrick was well armored in his conviction that he was doing his duty. Answers awaited him in Glen Abbey, and the devil and his hounds couldn’t keep him from discovering what they were.

  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.

  The carriage careened to a halt. The jolt sent Merrick flying, with an oath spewing from his lips. His first thought was that Ryo had never been so belligerent, but clarity came to him at once. His long-time servant might be impertinent, but he was neither militant nor disrespectful.

  Something was wrong.

  His gut said brigands; the dark night invited them. Automatically, he unsheathed the blade he kept at his boot. If Ryo’s life were not at risk, he would have spoken by now to alert Merrick, or at least to assuage him. Not a word came from that quarter and the trampling on the rooftop verified his suspicions. Outside, he discerned the sounds of men dropping from the trees—their landings crushing heavy twigs beneath their weight. Clearly, what he’d thought was Ryo’s kick of frustration must have been one of them dropping directly atop the carriage.

  God help them if they harmed Ryo, because Merrick would yank out their spines through their throats and make them spineless in truth. Crouching, prepared to defend himself, he waited for the carriage door to open. When at last it did, the masked thief seemed momentarily stunned by the sight of him. The fool froze where he stood, gaping into the carriage. Using the man’s stupor to his advantage, he reared back and boxed the man in the jaw with the butt of his blade. The impact made Merrick wince, but he hadn’t an instant to dwell on it. The thief recovered swiftly, flinging himself into the carriage as Ryo suddenly whipped the horses into flight. His weight drove Merrick backward as the carriage bolted forward. Flying from Merrick’s grasp, the blade flung itself against the carriage roof then ricocheted to the floor, skimming Merrick’s forehead on the way down. He struggled to retrieve it as a warm tide flooded into his eyes, but the thief caught his arms, pinning them. The man slammed his thick head against Merrick’s face, and, for an instant, Merrick’s vision faded. The roar of carriage wheels sounded like thunder in his ears. Shouts faded with every turn of the wheels.

  “Stop!” the thief demanded.

  Merrick thought he might be shouting at Ryo to halt the carriage, and silently praised Ryo’s fearlessness.

  Suddenly the thief reached up and snatched the hood from his head, unveiling himself to Merrick. To Merrick’s utter shock, the face revealed to him was his own, and he froze where he lay, his vision going grey at the edges. Stupefied, he stared up into familiar eyes.

  Chapter 2

  “My son is not so terrible,” Lady Fiona said.

  Perhaps it was in bad form to argue that point with a devoted mother, but Chloe Simon heartily disagreed.

  Ian MacEwen, the fifth Earl of Lindale, was a pompous, spoiled, womanizing rogue, with a face God wasted on so frivolous a man. And Lady Fiona—God bless her—was blinded by a mother’s love. It seemed to Chloe that, no matter the magnitude of his sins, her atrocious son could do no wrong. For Chloe’s part, however, his latest discourtesy had, once and for all, relegated him to the realm of the unredeemable.

  Something in her expression must have apprised Lady Fiona to her true sentiments, because Fiona rebuked her. “You mustn’t be so overcritical, dear. A megrim is nothing to sneeze at.”

  Chloe tried not to screw her face. Megrim—humph! The milksop excused himself only to sneak out the back door. Chloe watched him depart with her own two eyes. She simply couldn’t bring herself to relay that information to his doting mother. The self-indulgent sot couldn’t even put his vices aside long enough to celebrate his mother’s birthday. Instead of excusing himself with a megrim, he ought to have simply told her he didn’t care. At least it would have been more honest.

  Poor Lady Fiona; hers was a sad tale.

  Most folks knew her father went about claiming his daughter was set to marry a prince. But Chloe’s father had told her something entirely different. He said Lady Fiona fell in love with a commoner—a merchant, perhaps. She eloped without her father’s blessings. But that, in itself, Chloe found eternally romantic—loving someone so desperately you’d risk everything for their love. Alas, the tale didn’t end there. Less than a year after the couple had wed—away in some port town Chloe couldn’t remember the name—Lady Fiona’s husband was murdered on the docks. Left with a small bairn to care for, she’d written her papa with the news. The old earl loved his daughter, and though he’d felt she’d shamed him, he welcomed her home. But then, the tale only worsened; the earl died whilst Lady Fiona was en route home, and when she returned, she buried her father amidst gossip and whispers. The saddest part of all was that the earl never had the opportunity to meet his grandson. Perhaps Lord Lindale would have been a different man with the old earl’s influence.

  Wasn’t it enough Lindale wasted every penny the estate earned? Must he show such blatant disregard for the woman who gave him birth?

  No, he wasn’t “so terrible,” he was worse than terrible.

  Unfeeling, self-indulgent oaf.

  She intended to meet him at the back door to give him more than a piece of her mind. His actions were unforgivable.

  She helped Lady Fiona into her bed.

  “Chloe, dear,” his mother persisted. “Ian has a good heart… you must endeavor to forgive him.”

  “Yes, I’m certain,” Chloe said as pleasantly as she was able, adding silently that she was quite certain he had none at all.

  Offering Lady Fiona a sympathetic smile, she tucked the blankets about the sweet lady’s limp legs, trying to make her as comfortable as she was able.

  “He simply doesn’t know how to show it,” Lady Fiona persisted.

  More like, he didn’t know how to use his wicked heart, Chloe countered, if only to herself. In truth, if Lindale ever, even once in his life, allowed his heart to guide him, Chloe would lick his dandy boots. She simply wouldn’t believe it. “Shall I find you a good book to read,” she asked gently, changing the subject. “Or are you much too weary this eve?”

  Lady Fiona waved her hand in dismissal, her kind blue eyes glittering with… disappointment?

  Chloe couldn’t help it. She couldn’t lie about her feelings. She didn’t like Lady Fiona’s wayward son and never had.

  “Reading, my dear, is a pursuit better left for younger eyes.”

  Chloe stood, squeezing Lady Fiona’s hand, and said, “You are not old!” She certainly didn’t look it. At fifty-six, Fiona was still quite beautiful, her skin as vibrant and youthful as it had been the day Chloe first met her. The shocking white in her hair was the only trait to betray her age. And even from the confines of her chair, the set of her shoulders was even, revealing a lean waist and a youthful frame.

  Fiona squeezed her hand back, her delicate fingers gripping with far more strength than it seemed possible she should possess in her deteriorated state. “Humph!” she argued, her eyes glistening. “I’m crusty, my dear, that’s the truth!”

  Her inelegant description of herself brought a reluctant smile to Chloe’s lips. Nothing could be further from the truth; Lady Fiona had more elegance in her small finger than most women possessed in their entire bodies.

  “Then I should bid you good night,” Chloe sa
id, and left the lady’s bedside to put out the lamp on the dresser. “Happy birthday,” she said.

  “No,” said Fiona, waving Chloe away from the lamp. “Please leave it. It will go out on its own.”

  Chloe twisted her lips. It was dangerous to leave lamps burning all night long, but Fiona seemed fearful of the dark. “As you wish, my lady.”

  “Chloe, dear, will you kindly stop addressing me so formally,” Lady Fiona rebuked. “You must call me Fiona. I consider you family. Have I not made you welcome?”

  “Oh, yes!” Chloe replied. “Very much so.”

  Lady Fiona gave her an admonishing look, but said dismissively, “Good night, dear.”

  “Sweet dreams,” said Chloe, and she left the room, pulling the door gently closed behind her. Later, after giving Lord Lindale a bit of the devil, she would return to put out the lamp. It really wasn’t any trouble. But she sighed wearily, loathing the thought of tangling with Fiona’s son.

  God only knew, Lindale didn’t deserve the respect of his peers, much less his mother’s—and certainly not hers! Chloe couldn’t bear to address him by his title, except with the contempt he deserved. The old lairds would surely turn in their graves because Ian was an utter disgrace to the MacEwen name.

  Pain was Merrick’s first awareness.

  Voices surrounded him.

  Shadows flitted past his heavy lids.

  “Hawk?”

  “Is ’e dead?”

  “No, y’ arse! Canna ye hear him moaning like a wee one?”

  Merrick opened his eyes to find strange faces peering down at him—faces with hoods drawn back and even a few missing teeth. At first he thought he might be dreaming, so hazy was his vision. It took him a groggy instant to realize that he lay on the cold ground and that the bodies that belonged to the disembodied faces hovering over him were half cloaked in a bone-dampening fog.

  “He’s coming aboot!” said one of the men excitedly.

  “Are ye a’right, Hawk?” asked another.