The Impostor's Kiss. Tanya Crosby Anne

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       Chapter Two

       “I an’s not really so terrible,” Lady Fiona said in defense of her only son.

      It was bad form to argue the point, but Chloe Simon heartily disagreed. Something in her expression must have alerted Lady Fiona to her sentiments.

      Fiona rebuked her. “A megrim is absolutely nothing to sneeze at!”

      Chloe tried not to screw her face. Megrim—humph! The milksop had excused himself only to hie out the back door. Chloe’d spied him with her own two eyes. She just couldn’t bring herself to relay the information to his doting mother. The self-indulgent sot couldn’t even put his vices aside long enough to celebrate his mother’s birth date.

      Poor Lady Fiona; her’s was a sad tale.

      Most folks knew that her father had gone about claiming his daughter had been swept away to marry a prince. Chloe’s father had told her that Lady Fiona had fallen in love with a commoner—a merchant—and had eloped with her father’s blessings. But that, in itself, Chloe found eternally romantic—loving someone so desperately you would risk everything for their love—but the tale didn’t end there. Less than a year after the couple had wed, in some port town that Chloe could not recall its name, Lady Fiona’s husband had been murdered on the docks. Left with a small bairn, she’d written her father with the news. The old earl had loved his daughter fiercely, and though he’d felt she’d shamed him, he’d welcomed her home. But the tale only worsened; the earl had died whilst Lady Fiona was en route home. She’d buried her father upon her return to Glen Abbey amid gossipy whispers. And the saddest part of all was that the earl had never had the opportunity to see his grandson. Lord Lindale might have been a different man under the old earl’s influence.

      Wasn’t it enough that he wasted every penny the estate earned? Did he have to show such blatant disrespect to the woman who had given him birth?

      No, he wasn’t so terrible, he was worse than terrible; of this, Chloe was absolutely convinced.

      Ian MacEwen, the fifth Earl of Lindale, was a pompous, spoiled, womanizing rogue, with a face God had 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.

      Unfeeling, self-indulgent oaf.

      She intended to meet him at the back door to give him more than a piece of her thoughts. She didn’t even care if it was bad form. His actions were absolutely unforgivable.

      She helped Lady Fiona into the sprawling bed.

      “Chloe, dear,” his mother persisted. “Ian has a great heart…”

      “I’m certain,” Chloe said as pleasantly as she was able, adding silently, Certain he had none at all. Offering Lady Fiona a sympathetic smile, she tucked the blankets about her limp legs, trying to make her as comfortable as possible.

      “He just doesn’t know how to show it,” Lady Fiona concluded.

      More like he didn’t know how to use it, Chloe thought to herself. In fact, if Lindale had ever, even once in his life, allowed his heart to guide him, Chloe would lick his dandy boots. She just didn’t believe it. “Shall I find you a book to read,” she asked, changing the subject, “or are you much too weary?”

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

      Chloe couldn’t help it. She just 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 suited for younger eyes,” Lady Fiona said.

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

      Fiona squeezed back, her delicate fingers gripping with more strength than it seemed possible she should possess in her deteriorated state. “Humph!” she argued. Her eyes glittered fiercely. “I’m indisputably crusty, my dear, and 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 tiny finger than most women had in their entire bodies.

      “Then I should bid you good eve.” Chloe relented and left Fiona’s bedside to put out the lamp upon the dresser. “Happy birthday.”

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

      Chloe screwed her face. It was entirely too dangerous to leave the lamp burning all night, but Fiona seemed fearful of the dark. Still, it always did seem to put itself out. “As you wish, my lady.”

      “Will you kindly please stop addressing me so formally!” Lady Fiona said. “You must call me Fiona. I consider you family, Chloe. Have I not made you feel welcome?”

      “Yes,” Chloe replied.

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

      “Sweet dreams,” Chloe said, and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Later, after giving Lord Lindale a bit of the devil, she would return to put out the light.

      God knew, Lindale didn’t deserve the respect of his peers, much less anyone else’s. Chloe could scarce bear to address him by his title, except with the contempt he deserved. As impertinent as it may be, except in front of his mother, she couldn’t bring herself to address him as “my lord.” He certainly wasn’t, as the title suggested, a leader of his clan. The old lairds would turn in their graves; he was an utter disgrace to the MacEwen name.

      Pain was Merrick’s first awareness. Voices surrounded him. Shadows flitted past his lids.

      “Hawk?”

      “Is ’e dead?”

      “No, y’ arse! Can ye not 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 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 upon the cold ground and that the bodies that belonged to the disembodied faces hovering above were half cloaked in bone-dampening fog.

      “He’s coming aboot!”

      “Are ye a’right, Hawk?” asked one man whose face seemed to suddenly dive down upon him.

      “Damn!” Merrick said, and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He tried to rise, but fell backward.

      “Bloody bastard. He left ye here to rot,” said the man.

      Another man stepped СКАЧАТЬ