The Impostor's Kiss. Tanya Crosby Anne
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Название: The Impostor's Kiss
Автор: Tanya Crosby Anne
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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For the first time in his life, Merrick was speechless at the sight of a woman.
If he wasn’t dead, surely he must be dreaming.
And then his angel shouted in his ear, and he knew he wasn’t dreaming. She was a flesh-and-blood woman, and he wanted suddenly to kiss her…until her words penetrated.
“It serves the wretch right!” she declared, her breasts rising with indignation. “He’s not hurt! He’s just too muddled to ride! Rotten cad!”
“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.
And then he did what no manly man should ever do—he passed out.
Praise for new Historical author
Tanya Anne Crosby
“With remarkable insight and soul-stirring emotions,
Ms. Crosby…gives readers an enthralling glimpse into the human heart.”
—Romantic Times on The MacKinnon’s Bride
“With her talent for spinning engrossing yarns
and painting vivid characters and setting, Ms. Crosby will again capture your heart.”
—Romantic Times on Perfect in My Sight
The Impostor’s Kiss
Tanya Anne Crosby
To my mother and father, who in their most trying time have taught me the meaning of courage. And to my children, who remind me every day of the power of faith, hope and love.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
The Principality of Meridian, 1803
H ow could she have believed he would wed her?
Indulging in a rare moment of self-pity, Lady Fiona Elizabeth MacEwen sat upon the immense claw-footed bed that dominated her room. The fine silk bedcloth rumpled beneath her skirts. This room, where she’d been confined since the birth of her twins, was little more than a luxurious cell. In truth, she felt more like a prisoner than a guest.
Outside, there were no trees to shade the room from the heat of the day; the afternoon sun, diffused through gold-chiffon draperies, burnished the room with a gilded light that made one feel as though one simmered in the belly of a furnace. It was devilishly hot in this country—so unlike her beloved Scotland.
What had made her think someone like him would desire someone like her? He was a prince, after all, and she but an impoverished earl’s daughter. Julian Merrick Welbourne III would command a nation someday, while Fiona no longer even had a home left to take charge of.
What a despicable mess she’d made of her life.
Fiona fought her tears. Her father hadn’t raised a wilting violet—nor had he raised an imbecile. She understood why Julian was marrying that woman. As the only son of Meridian’s sovereign, he was expected to marry for the good of his country, not for love. She just didn’t comprehend how he could have forgotten his obligations to begin with.
Though perhaps he hadn’t?
Perhaps she’d never been more to Julian than a final rebellion?
That revelation made her feel used, abused and deceived.
Her eyes stung fiercely. Had he never loved her? Had he brought her to this place only to become his mistress?
She would rather die first than be any man’s jezebel!
A single tear slipped down her cheek. The worst of it all was not that she would never be wed to the man she loved…but that she would never be wed at all.
What man would marry her with two sweet little bairns in tow?
And worse, because of her damnable pride, Glen Abbey Manor—their ancestral home—was no longer her sanctuary; even if Julian released her, she had nowhere to go. Her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of her father—a mere guest in his own home.
They’d had so little to offer as a dowry and they’d both been so deliriously joyful over Fiona’s good fortune at marrying so well, that her dear papa had sacrificed everything to see her impossible dream come true. Trusting in the word of a gentleman, long before the impending nuptials, her father had handed over the deed to Glen Abbey Manor. For four hundred and twenty-two years her kinsmen had been proud to call the manor their home. From Creagach Mhor to the woodlands that spilled into McClellan’s valley, all of Glen Abbey was a part of their legacy, and the little church in the grove was rumored to have even sheltered the stone of scone when Edward of England had sought to steal it for his own.
If her father was left wonting, it wasn’t in honor or in charity. He’d shared his legacy generously, allowing the townsfolk, who’d settled СКАЧАТЬ