It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels

by Grace Burrowes

  “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 to squeeze.

  And where the devil 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.” His head tilted and his expression was unmistakably one of concern. “Don’t ye recall anythin’ at all, Hawk?”

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

  “The driver took off during the scuffle,” the taller man standing before him said. “We tried to follow…”

  “By the time we got the horses,” someone 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 bloody twin, and that he’d be stuck at the mercy of his bumbling men while the thief made away with Merrick’s carriage, he’d have believed it a bloody 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, looking befuddled.

  He counted them—six—six ruffians against one. He was no match for them, 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.

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

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

  What bloody condition was that?

  And where the hell was home?

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

  It was evident they’d mistaken his identity, that much was certain. Merrick decided it might not be wise to enlighten them yet. Besides, home sounded damned good at the instant—no matter whose it might be. He slipped off the ring that bore the Meridian royal crest from his finger and pocketed it. He was weary, in pain, probably bleeding to death, and lost besides—not to mention intensely curious about his nemesis.

  He nodded, overcome by the situation. “All right, then, lead the way.”

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

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

  No longer.

  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, 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 had done to her; he was destroying innocent lives.

  Somehow, she swore, she was going to see that he paid for his sins.

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

  Riders approached. She recognized both at once. Escorted by Rusty Brown, Lindale wobbled in the 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 world know what sort of man was the lord of Glen Abbey Manor.

  Merrick never anticipated the welcome they received.

  They’d given him Hawk’s mount and he’d insisted upon riding though he could scarce 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 arrested.

  It seemed Hawk was their leader, though 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 couldn’t be mere coincidence that Hawk looked so much like him that he could have been his twin, but that he resided at Glen Abbey Manor, as well? The former was remarkable, the latter suspect.

  But he didn’t have time to consider the possibilities.

  No sooner had they ridden upon Glen Abbey Manor’s lawn when they were surrounded by chattering, rushing servants—or maybe it was merely a single woman. The ungodly sound she made was like a banshee shrieking in his ears. He tried to dismount, but his vision was skewed. Misjudging the distance to the ground, he tumbled from the saddle into waiting arms.

  His injuries must have been fatal because he found himself coddled at the bosom of the loveliest angel his imagination could never have conjured. 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 looked down upon him.

  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 flesh-and-blood woman, and he wanted suddenly to kiss her…until her words penetrated and he realized what she was saying.

  “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.

  He landed with a sickening thud that rattled his very brain. His head clouded with pain. The last he recalled 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 passed out.

  Chapter Three

  Chloe had been employed seven months ago to nurse Lady Fiona, not her 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.” She tried not to sound so heartless, but there just wasn’t a bone in her body that felt pity for the cur.

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

  God’s truth, it didn’t seem fitting that Lucifer should be the most beautiful angel, though in studying Lindale’s slumbering face, she could well believe it to be true. The thought made her frown, because she didn’t particularly like to admit that his countenance appealed to her.

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

  She studied the gold flakes. Odd, but she thought she remembered him clean-shaven this afternoon.

  It must have been her imagination.

  She examined the stitches upon his forehead, admiring her handiwork, and then turned her attention once more to his face. In stark contrast to his masculine features, his lips were full and his lashes lay thick and dark against his cheeks. Most women would die for lashes so long. Though he must have his father’s complexion, she decided, because Fiona was considerably fairer. Chloe wouldn’t know, because she’d never met Ian’s father—nor did his portrait grace Glen Abbey’s gallery.

  “He looks so pallid,” Lady Fiona said, worry invading her usually cool tone.

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

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

  Lady Fiona gasped. “The constable?”

  “Yes, madame,” Edward said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “He did not say, madame, though he wishes to speak with my lord.”

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

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

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

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

  “Of course not, madame.”

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

  With Lady Fiona and Edward gone from the room, she allowed herself to study the contour of his body beneath the sheets. His chest was wide, his limbs long and muscular. He was nearly bare, she knew. They’d removed his shirt. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man unclothed—she’d nursed a few—but it was certainly the first time she’d been alone with one. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she lifted one corner of the blanket to peer beneath.

  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 the touch, but she didn’t dare. It began at his chest and tapered to a fine, silky line that drew her gaze lower, despite her sense of propriety. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, she was loathe to admit, with tawny flesh that stretched taut over beautiful muscles. She just didn’t remember his skin being so dark.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated lifting the covers higher to peer lower. What a terrible waste of a man, she thought with disgust.

  Merrick lay as still as he was able, in no rush to wake.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I am,” Merrick assured her, removing the cloth. He smiled disarmingly—at least he thought it should be, but she seemed entirely unaffected.

  “More’s the pity,” she lamented. “It appears not even the devil wants you, my lord.”

  Her contemptuous tone didn’t escape him.

  Grimacing, Merrick adjusted himself in the bed to give her better access. “What,” he taunted her, “no welcome-home kiss for your darling husband?” He had no idea where the question came from, only that it spilled far too easily from his lips.

  She gasped, as though offended by his quip, and took an appalled step backward. “How dare you speak to me as you would one of your strumpets! The fall must have addled your brain!”

  But she didn’t answer his real question: who was she, dammit?

  And then she added much too glibly, “I shall inform your mother that you’ve awakened, my lord—just in time for company! The constable will be quite pleased not to have to wait, after all,” she told him, and hurried to leave.

  “Rusty lied,” he said before she could abandon him. “It wasn’t a fall.”

  She stopped abruptly at the door, her curiosity piqued.

  That waist—so tiny he thought his hands could easily span it. She turned slowly to face him.

  Merrick weighed his words; he was hoping for an ally, but wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “The horse didn’t throw me,” he admitted.

  One delicate brow arched. “Really?”

  “I was, in fact, robbed,” he said.

  Both her brows lifted now. “Really!” she said again, her face suddenly losing its animosity. In truth, she appeared even hopeful.

  Merrick nodded, watching her closely. “Indeed.”

  She took a step closer. “Hawk?” she asked, and the tone of her voice was suddenly awestruck.

  Merrick stared at her, dumbfounded.

  She lived with the rotten thief and didn’t realize who he was?

  “Yes,” he said tersely, deciding that Hawk had obviously never shared his secret with his lovely wif
e.

  She was somebody else’s woman.

  He was struck, on the heels of that revelation, with a wave of envy as foreign to him as the bed in which he lay.

  Chrissake, when in his life had he ever envied anyone anything?

  His entire life he’d had everything at his disposal simply for the taking.

  She straightened to her full height and seemed to be assessing him. “I don’t believe you,” she declared suddenly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Her expression was smug now. “You should be so fortunate to exchange mere glances with the man. You aren’t fit to wipe his boots. That you breathe the same air is a blasphemy in itself.”

  Merrick blinked at her declarations.

  Two things struck him in that instant. One, she had absolutely no notion of her connection with Hawk. And two, she didn’t seem to like her husband very much.

  In fact, he’d like to have agreed with her assessment of Lindale, but her accusations seemed somewhat more personal than they should have, considering that she wasn’t even talking about him. She was talking about Lindale—who was, in fact, Hawk. Be damned if the inanity of the situation didn’t amuse him, despite that her vehemence was directed, for the moment, squarely at him. “Is that so?” he asked her wryly.

  “Yes, of course. Hawk is everything you are not.”

  He sat, not bothering to cover his bare chest. Why trouble himself? She’d already had an eyeful.

  She gasped, and turned to go, suddenly and conveniently embarrassed by the sight of him.

  “And just what is it that I am?” he asked, baiting her. He didn’t want her to leave just yet.

  She turned to face him, lifting a hand to her face, covering her eyes as she spoke to him. The flush in her breast returned, followed by the one in her cheeks. But she didn’t cow. Her mettle brought a smile to Merrick’s lips. “I shall be most pleased to make you a list,” she told him, and then added, “After you do me the courtesy of covering yourself, my lord.”