It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

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

  If ever they arrived at this mysterious little township.

  With a sigh, Merrick slumped backward into the leather seat and closed his eyes, seeking patience. The journey seemed bloody endless.

  Merrick certainly wasn’t proud to have snooped like some petty thief through his father’s personal items, but he’d felt driven to discover what lay at the heart of his father’s misery. It was his duty to his father just as much his duty to his country. It was a blessing 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 and to confer it at once to his heir.

  Of course, to pass on his legacy, it meant he must first get himself a bloody wife.

  The thought of that particular task sat like acid in his belly. He shook his head at the thought of all those silly little chits bouncing off their mothers’ skirts. The prospect of having to make witty chatter 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, all of them! He was glad to have escaped London for the time being.

  Somewhere beyond the carriage a birdcall caught his attention and his eyes flew open.

  Not just any bird, but a saker—or to be more precise, a very good imitation of one. He’d know the 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 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. He’d recognized the cry at once; the saker was his favored bird of prey.

  He’d been no more than twelve when Ryo had 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 from 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 upon 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 merely 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. “Chris-sakes, get us to a bed—any bed’ll do by now!”

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

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

  “Same ting,” the older man argued from his safe 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, though his shoulders betrayed him, shaking softly with his mirth. Dammit all to hell, he was 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 old 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, just to be contrary. This was their relationship, and though at times it bedeviled the hell out of Merrick, he wouldn’t truly have it any other way.

  At the instant, however, he was far 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 his disrespecting his elders!”

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

  Ryo didn’t respond.

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

  Crotchety 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 them.

  Ready to strike when the leader gave the word, seven men watched from their perches within the trees as the unfamiliar vehicle approached—for the third time. Dressed in black from head to heel, they allied with the night.

  They needed this loot, but something about the carriage left the leader ill at ease. Though unmarked, it was far too well-heeled to leave itself so vulnerable. Either the occupant was foolish…and lost…or the carriage was bait. He cupped his hand over his mouth to call out a signal, but indecision froze his lips.

  Twice before he’d let it pass, but the carriage’s presence was like a frosted pitcher of ale laid before a thirsting man. It didn’t matter that it might be laced with poison, its sparkling contents were tempting beyond reason.

  “His direction’s as bad as me minny’s haggis,” remarked one of his men.

  “A week ago I’d ’a given the use of my cock for that bloody 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 was here tonight; he had three more little birds waiting at home with their mouths open wide and their 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. They followed him blindly, consumed with hope. Good men, all of them, they’d leave this place if they could, but where would they go? To London to feed off sewer scraps? Who would take them in with their wives and their bairns?

  No, he had to do something.

  Christ Almighty, what should he do?

  Silence was his answer, a ponderous, weighted silence that trampled heavily over bracken and snapped twigs below.

  The carriage was nearly upon them.

  Anticipation was as thick as the lowering fog.

  As yet they hadn’t killed for their loot—never intended to—but tonight they may be forced to wield their weapons if the approaching vehicle was a trap.

  Someone could die.

  Though how many more children would die without their aid?

  The image of little Ana’s suffering face spurred his decision once and for all. 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. He landed cleanly upon the carriage rooftop. Before the driver could call out a shout, he had his blade at the foreigner’s throat.

  The carriage careened to a halt.

  The jolt sent Merrick flying, 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 shouted, Brigands; the night invited them. 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 ensuing disturbances verified his suspicions. Outside, he discerned the sounds of men, he surmised—dropping from the trees—their landing crushing heavy twigs beneath their weight. What he’d thought was Ryo’s kick of frustration upon the roof must have been one of them dropping directly atop the carriage.

  God help him, if they harmed Ryo, Merrick swore he’d yank out their spines through their throats and make them spineless in truth. 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, staring into the carriage. Using the man’s stupor to his advantage, Merrick reared back and boxed him in the jaw with the butt of his blade. The impact made even Merrick wince, but he hadn’t an instant to dwell upon 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 was flung against the carriage roof then ricocheted to the floor, skimming Merrick’s head on the way down. He struggled to retrieve it as a warm tide flooded into his eyes, but the thief had caught his arms, pinning them. He slammed his thick head against Merrick’s face and, for an instant, Merrick’s vision faded. The roar of carriage wheels was like thunder in his ears. The sounds of shouting 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 fearless ingenuity.

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

  Chapter Two

  “Ian’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 ou
t 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 forward, throwing his hood back as he offered Merrick a hand.

  Pride warred with good sense. He could bloody well get to his feet without assistance from the enemy. He ignored the outstretched hand and struggled to his feet.

  “There was nothing we could do, Hawk,” the first explained.

  Merrick frowned. Why the devil did they keep calling him Hawk? Couldn’t they bloody well see who he was? He reached up to feel for a wound at his head and discovered a hood covering his face. Christ, no wonder he wasn’t seeing straight! He snatched off the hood and glared at the men surrounding him—a more motley crew he’d never met. Cursing, he tossed the bloodied hood to the ground. 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.