With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  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 said, 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.

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

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

  Yet another man stepped forward, throwing his hood back as he offered Merrick a grimy hand. Even with his impaired vision, he spied black dirt beneath the nails.

  Pride warred with good sense. He could bloody well get to his own feet without assistance from the enemy. Ignoring the outstretched hand, he struggled to his feet.

  “Sorry, Hawk. There was naught we could do,” the first man explained.

  Merrick frowned. Why did they keep calling him Hawk? Couldn’t they bloody well see who he was?

  Reaching up to feel for a wound at his head, he discovered a hood covering his face. Christ be damned!

  No wonder he wasn’t seeing straight! He snatched off the hood, glaring at the men surrounding him, expecting them to apologize for the confusion—a more motley crew he’d never met. Cursing, he tossed the bloodied hood away. But a downward glance revealed himself dressed in strange clothing, as well. Instinctively his hand went to his head where he found his forehead sticky. The tinny scent of his own blood stung his nostrils.

  “Where’s that slimy bastard?” he demanded of the moron who’d extended his hand. At the instant he wanted only to wrap his hands about the robber’s throat and squeeze.

  And where was Ryo?

  “He got away,” the toothless man declared.

  Merrick’s brain was so muddled he forgot he’d asked a question to begin with. “Who?”

  The toothless man’s brows collided as he answered, “The slimy bastard,” he said. “You asked where he’d gone.” His head tilted and his expression was unmistakably one of concern. “Dinna ye recall anythin’ at all, Hawk?”

  No. Dammit. The last thing he remembered was refusing to answer that thug’s questions. He’d demanded his own answers, but the man whacked him on the noggin instead. That was the last of his memory.

  “Bloody driver took off during the scuffle,” the taller man said. “We tried to follow…”

  “By the time we got the horses,” another interjected, “you were gone.”

  The veins at Merrick’s temples throbbed. If someone had warned him yesterday that he’d be robbed by a bandit who looked enough like him to be his twin, and that he’d be stuck at the mercy of his bumbling men while the thief made away with his carriage, he’d have believed it a jest. But there was nothing amusing about this situation, and the laughter that burst from his throat was manic.

  The men all stared at him, befuddled.

  He counted them—six—six ruffians against one. He was no match for these men, no matter what idiots they might be. He couldn’t defeat so many—weaponless, to boot.

  Merrick’s laughter stopped abruptly. Dizzied by his outburst, he took a step and nearly fell.

  “Ye dinna look so well, Hawk. We should take you home.”

  Merrick opened his mouth to speak but the man interjected very quickly. “I know ye dinna think it wise to be seen together, but I canna allow ye to stumble home in this condition.”

  What bloody condition was that?

  And where the hell was home?

  “We’ll tell ’em you took a fall from your horse,” he said, fumbling for a story. “And… yes… we’ll tell them we came across you on the road and offered to see ye home.” He nodded. “That’s what we’ll say.” And then to the others, he added, “Go on home, lads. I’ll see to this myself. It wouldn’t look good if we went there together.”

  Where was there?

  Evidently, they’d mistaken his identity. Merrick decided it might not be wise to enlighten them just yet.

  At any rate, home sounded damned good at the instant, no matter whose home it might be. He slipped off the ring that bore Meridian’s royal crest and pocketed it. He was tired, in pain, probably bleeding to death, and lost besides—not to mention intensely curious about his nemesis.

  He nodded, overcome by the situation. “Very well, then, lead the way.”

  Chloe tried, but couldn’t get little Ana’s face out of her head—that poor, sweet child—God rest her soul. Chloe had struggled to save her, but she had simply lost the will to live. She understood now how her father must have suffered over the loss of every patient.

  Pacing the hall as she awaited Lindale’s return, she stopped to cast malevolent glances out the window. Truth be told, she’d awaited this moment a long time, biding her time, minding her tongue.

  No longer.

  And the more she paced, the angrier she got.

  What sort of man passed a hungry child on the street, ignored her outstretched arms, and spent his money on women and drink instead?

  What sort of man took a father’s last coin, when his child lay suffering on her deathbed?

  What sort of man stole a young girl’s home, and her dreams, when her da was fresh in his grave?

  Ian MacEwen was that man. And though it might seem irreverent of her, Chloe wasn’t inclined to wait on God to see justice done. It was no longer a matter of what he’d done to her; he was out there, destroying innocent lives. Somehow, she swore, she was going to see that he paid for his sins.

  Hearing voices at long last, she raced to the window and thrust aside the silk draperies. They were so ancient they were brittle in her grasp, and she looked at them in disgust, wondering where all the money went—not for the upkeep of this house or its mistress, that much was certain!

  Riders approached. Chloe recognized both men at once. Escorted by Rusty Brown, Lindale wobbled in his saddle like a common pub brawler. So furious that she didn’t care who witnessed her tirade, she lifted up her skirts and marched
toward the door, determined to let the entire world know what sort of man the lord of Glen Abbey Manor was.

  Home, he thought. Modest, but sprawling, even if it appeared as though it hadn’t been cared for in a score of years. Eager to get back onto his own two feet, he never anticipated the welcome they received.

  They’d given him Hawk’s mount and he’d insisted upon riding though he could scarcely remain in the saddle. His head throbbed and he was dizzy and sick to his belly besides. He tried to listen to every word of his escort’s prattling, storing away details for later. In the morning he fully intended to see these men were arrested.

  Clearly, “Hawk” was their leader, but that particular fact didn’t surprise Merrick much. What did surprise him was the regard with which Rusty seemed to address him. The man seemed determined to instruct him in what to say and how to behave once they reached, of all places, Glen Abbey Manor.

  And now his curiosity was more than roused.

  It might’ve been mere coincidence that Hawk looked so much like him he could have been his twin, but that he resided at Glen Abbey Manor, as well? The former was remarkable, the latter suspect. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to consider the possibilities. No sooner had they ridden onto the lawn when they were accosted by screaming servants—or perhaps it was only a single woman. The ungodly sound she made was like a banshee shrieking into his ears. He tried to dismount, but his vision skewed. Misjudging the distance to the ground, he tumbled from the saddle into lean, but strong arms.

  Bloody hell, his injuries must have been fatal because he found himself coddled at the bosom of the loveliest angel.

  The scent of roses enveloped him in a sensual cocoon. Delicate hands pressed his cheek against velvety breasts, while a face as beautiful as heaven itself peered down upon him. For the first time in all his life J. Merrick Welbourne IV was speechless at the sight of a woman. If he wasn’t dead, then surely he must be dreaming.

  And then his angel shouted at him and he knew he wasn’t dreaming. She was flesh-and-blood woman, and he wanted suddenly to kiss her… until her words penetrated the fog in his brain, and he realized what she was saying.

  “It serves the wretch right!” she declared, her breasts rising with indignation. “I don’t believe he is hurt for one minute. He’s merely too muddled to ride. Rotten cad!”

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

  “Who is ‘we’?” she questioned.

  Bloody shrew; she must be Hawk’s wife.

  “Och!” she snapped before Merrick could ask who she was. “He’s bleeding all over my dress!” And she promptly dropped Merrick to the ground. He landed with a sickening thud that rattled his brain. Once again, his head clouded with pain, and the last thing he remembered 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 swooned.

  Chapter Three

  Chloe was employed to nurse Lady Fiona, not her wretched 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. Don’t you worry.” She tried hard not to sound so heartless, but there simply wasn’t a bone in her body that felt pity for the cur. Clearly, he wasn’t drunk—not this time, but she still resented having to care for him. Nor did it change the fact that he’d abandoned his mother on her birthday, only to go out carousing.

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

  Certainly, it didn’t seem fitting that Lucifer should be the loveliest angel, though in studying Lord Lindale’s slumbering face, she could well believe that to be true. But the thought made her frown, because she didn’t like to admit that his countenance appealed to her.

  His face bore the same chiseled look of his ancestors depicted in Glen Abbey Manor’s gallery. His hair was a dark, sun-kissed blond. Shaded slightly 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.

  Pursing her lips, she studied the gold flakes. Odd, but she thought she remembered him clean-shaven this afternoon. But it must have been her imagination.

  Very gingerly examining the new stitches on his forehead, admiring her handiwork, she turned her attention once more to his face. In stark contrast to his masculine features, his lips were full and his lashes thick and dark against his rosy cheeks. Most women would die for such lashes. And he must have inherited his father’s complexion, she decided, because Fiona was considerably fairer. Of course, Chloe wouldn’t know, because she’d never met Ian’s father, nor did his portrait grace Glen Abbey’s gallery.

  “He looks pallid,” worried Lady Fiona.

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

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

  Lady Fiona gasped. “The constable, you say?”

  “Yes, madame,” Edward said darkly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “He did not say, madame, but I believe he wishes to speak with lord Lindale.”

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

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

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

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

  “Of course not, madame. I beg your pardon.”

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

  Now, alone with her charge, and with Lady Fiona and Edward certain not to return for a while, she allowed herself to admire the contour of Lindale’s body beneath the sheets. His chest was wide, his limbs long and muscular. He was nearly bare, she knew. They’d removed his shirt. And, no, it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man unclothed—she’d nursed more than a few—but it was certainly the first time she’d been alone with this man. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she lifted one corner of his blanket to peer beneath—in the interest of science, of course.

  Really, 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 her touch, but Chloe wouldn’t dare. It began at his chest, tapering to a fine, silky line that drew her gaze still lower, even despite her sense of propriety. He was, indeed, a beautiful specimen of a man. She was loath to admit that. His tawny flesh stretched taut over such beautiful muscles, but she didn’t remem
ber his skin being so dark.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated lifting the cover a little higher to peer a bit lower—not that she would see much more. He was still wearing his trousers, but what a terrible waste of a man, she thought with disgust.

  Merrick lay still as stone, in no rush to awake.

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

  As a child, it was Ryo who’d cared for him when he was ill, and Ryo who’d reared him to manhood. Strength and honor had been instilled in him from the day of his birth, though he very much feared that behind his mask, he was no more than an ordinary 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 his covers, ogling him. Her private smile was the most sensuous thing he had ever witnessed. It stirred his loins, rousing the one part of him that didn’t ache—at least not at this very instant. Her lips curved softly, admiringly, and he feared that if she didn’t drop those covers at once, she would witness, firsthand, the prompt erection of a royal tent.

  As a matter of self-preservation, he spoke. But 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, tinting her face. Her lips deepened to rose, and he wondered if they would be warm to the touch… hot and soft.

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

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