The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne

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      Drawing the black hooded mask down over his face, he landed cleanly upon the rooftop. Before the driver could shout, he had his blade at the Asian’s throat. Rusty Broun came down behind him, motioning for Ian to move below into the carriage. His blade replaced Ian’s at the driver’s throat. The rest of his men dropped to the ground, surrounding the vehicle, barring its path through the woods. Forced to slow down, the carriage careened sharply. Ian nearly lost his grip, but swung back and managed to open the door.

      Stunned by what he saw inside, he dropped to the ground, staring stupidly at the occupant.

      All thought of highway robbery vanished.

      It was like staring into a looking glass.

      His hesitation cost him a jab in the jaw.

      Ignoring the bone-splitting pain, he sprang into action and flung himself into the carriage, hurling the stranger backward and knocking the blade from his hand. The knife flew upward, smacked the rooftop and ricocheted downward, skimming the man’s head, drawing blood.

      The carriage bolted into movement.

      Ian struggled, pinning his opponent to the floorboard, slamming his head down. He tried to tell the man to stop so that he could remove his mask and reveal himself, but the man fought like a lion.

      Frustrated, Ian slammed his head down into the man’s face. “Stop!” he commanded.

      Finally, the stranger ceased struggling long enough to allow Ian to reach up and snatch the hood from his face.

      For an interminable moment, he stared down into uncannily familiar eyes.

      Bloody hell—the man could have been his twin.

      It just wasn’t possible. “Who are you?” Ian demanded, confused.

      “Who are you?” the man countered. Without warning, he bucked, renewing his struggles. Ian had little choice but to head-butt the fool again, but the devil hang him if he’d meant to butt so hard.

      The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and he ceased struggling at once, going limp. Ian checked for a pulse and exhaled in relief when he found it strong. There wasn’t much time before the man regained consciousness.

      Blast it all, what was he supposed to do now?

      Certain it was no coincidence that they shared the same face, he snatched off his hood and jerked the man up to quickly remove his coat, waistcoat and shirt. He switched shirts with the man while the carriage thundered over uneven terrain, drew his own hood over the man’s head, then shrugged into the man’s coat, leaving the waistcoat for later. He opened the door and yelled for the driver to stop.

      The man complied at once, and Ian dragged the former occupant of the carriage out onto the grass and laid him down.

      “You are not dead yet, denka-sama,” an unfamiliar voice remarked, unmistakable relief in his tone.

      Ian peered up at the driver. Somehow, the little bugger had managed to escape Rusty’s blade.

      Ian didn’t respond immediately.

      The shouts of his men were coming nearer now.

      They would find the man, he was certain, and whether the stranger revealed himself, or not, Rusty would know what to do with him.

      “Let us return home, denka-sama?” the foreigner asked. “We should never have come here.”

      Home.

      That’s where the answers to Ian’s questions lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow he knew it. Still, he stared down at the hooded stranger, undecided.

      “He is alive?” the driver asked.

      “Alive as you and me.”

      “Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good can come of this now!”

      “Over there!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.

      His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew they’d been discovered.

      “Go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage.

      At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion.

      He didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back.

      Instinctively, Ian knew the answers to Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.

       Chapter One

      One week later

       T he door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property.

      The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.

      Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner.

      It couldn’t be helped.

      Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss.

      But there was only one Ben.

      Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.

      No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father’s death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.

      Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation.

      Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.

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