Nothing would have pleased her more. "No."
He laughed, but his voice sounded rusty—as if it didn't occur often.
He shrugged out of his shabby coat and held it out to her.
"If you're going to the manor, you'll need this." "No."
"Trust me. Put it on."
The last thing she'd ever do was prance into the house wrapped in a man's coat. She'd never be able to explain it, but he was staring at her so keenly, his hot gaze drifting to her bosom and remaining there.
She peeked down to see what had captured his attention, and she was shocked by the state of her wet garments. The moistened dress was stuck to her breasts and delineated them so clearly that she might have been wearing nothing, at all. The bodice hugged every curve and valley, especially the pointy tips of her nipples in the center.
"Aah!" she shrieked, and she clasped an arm across her chest. "Shut your eyes, you despicable scapegrace!"
"No. I'm enjoying the view too much."
He reached out, his finger on her chin, and she stood, frozen, as he traced it down to the neckline of her gown. For a mad instant, it seemed that he'd burrow under the fabric, that he would touch her, bare skin to bare skin.
Her cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she whipped away, and he draped the coat over her shoulder, waving it like a flag, urging her to take it. Without further argument, she grabbed it and stuffed her arms in the sleeves, and she was overwhelmed by how his scent clung to the material. It was such an alluring fragrance that she could hardly keep from rubbing her nose in the weave.
Disgusted with herself, she stomped off, but she could feel him watching her. Just as she arrived at a bend in the trail and would have disappeared from sight, he called, "Miss Carstairs?"
Don't turn around! Don't turn around! She whirled around.
"What?"
"I hope to see more of you again. Very soon!"
Even though she was a sheltered spinster, she recognized the salacious innuendo underlying the comment. Burning with mortification, she ran all the way home, more of his rusty laughter ringing in her ears.
Two
“Is the family assembled in the parlor as I requested?" "Yes, sir."
"Then announce me. And be quick about it."
At his being forced to tarry in the foyer like a supplicant, Jamie Merrick's infamous temper flared. He glared at the reluctant butler who hadn't moved a muscle.
"How ... ah ... how would you like to be named, sir?"
"Lord Gladstone. How would you suppose?"
The butler's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He'd spent his whole life referring to Percy as Lord Gladstone, and Jamie's demanding the change had to sound as absurd as if Jamie had suggested he jump off a cliff.
"But he is . .. that is ... I am—" the butler stammered.
"Is Percy here?" Jamie interrupted.
"Yes."
So ... the sneaky weasel had mustered the courage to be present, which was a surprise. Percy was Jamie's
half brother, but they were nothing alike. Percy was too much of a coward to stay and fight like a man. After the failed murder attempt out in the forest, Jamie would have predicted Percy's flight from the property.
Jamie had met Percy on several unpleasant occasions. Initially, Percy had been hostile and threatening, but as the legal tide had turned, he'd grown fawning and conciliatory. Jamie was aware that it was a ruse, that Percy had many schemes fomenting in hopes of reclaiming the estate, but Jamie wasn't concerned about any of them.
Percy wasn't smart enough or driven enough to do what was necessary, so he'd never effect any real damage.
Still, Jamie had instructed Percy to vacate the premises before Jamie's arrival. The transition would be difficult, and having Percy around and underfoot would only make matters worse.
But then, Percy probably had nowhere to go. Jamie had offered him a cash settlement and a London house, which Percy had proudly and stupidly refused. He'd been incredibly ungracious about it, too, so Jamie wouldn't offer again. From this point on, Jamie had no intention of being courteous or sympathetic. He'd waited three decades for this moment, and he would revel in his triumph.
He stepped to the butler so that they were toe-to-toe, and he towered over the smaller man.
"I'll announce myself," Jamie seethed, "and save you the trouble. As opposed to you, I know my true title. But when I next ask you, you'd best proceed immediately, or you won't work here anymore. Am I making myself clear?"
The butler gulped. "Yes, Mr. Merrick."
Jamie raised a brow.
"I mean Lord Gladstone."
Jamie flashed a cold, lethal grin. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" "No, no, it wasn't." "You're excused."
The butler raced away, and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at his twin brother, Jack. "Worthless bastard," Jack muttered. "He's harmless."
"You should have skewered him with your dagger as an example to the others."
Jamie chuckled. Typically, Jack was the pragmatic, rational sibling, while Jamie was the wild, impulsive one. If Jack would voice such a remark, he was more unnerved by events than he let on.
Jamie and Jack were close as any two brothers could ever be. Jack could read Jamie's mind, could finish his sentences. Jack was the only person in the world who understood what Jamie had been through. Jack was the only person in the world Jamie cared about or trusted.
"Are you ready?" Jamie inquired.
"Of course."
"Watch my back."
"Don't I always?"
Jamie's wry expression reminded them both that Jack had been nowhere in sight when Percy had risked an assassination, but Jamie wouldn't judge Jack too harshly. Neither of them had anticipated the attack, and in a way, Jamie was glad Percy had acted.
Jamie had been preoccupied with Anne Carstairs, so he hadn't been paying attention. With Percy's desperation so blatantly exhibited, Jamie would be more cautious.
"Let's get this over with," Jamie said.
He marched down the hall, Jack directly behind him, and they entered the parlor. The Merricks weren't expecting him to appear without a grand pronouncement, so he was able to scrutinize them without their noticing.
They were attired as the rich, lazy nobles he detested. The four women had on fancy gowns and ribbons, while Percy wore a fussy, expensive outfit that had likely taken his tailor a month to sew. In contrast, Jamie was in frayed woolen trousers, dust-covered boots, and a shirt that he'd pilfered from a dead sailor.
He didn't even have a coat—Miss Carstairs had robbed him of it—so he didn't have the advantage of pretending he'd been taught how to dress. He'd have to meet them in his shirtsleeves, and if they didn't like it, they could all go hang.
On the sofa off to the right, Anne Carstairs was whispering with her sister. Anne had had no clue as to his actual identity, and he was eager to see the look on her face when she heard who he was.
With her hair tidied, and her garments clean and dry, she was even prettier than she'd seemed out in the forest, and he frowned with dismay. He'd enjoyed their encounter much more than he should have, and the realization had him so vexed that he noted he was distractedly massaging his wrist, which was always a sign of extreme distress.
It was an old habit, picked up after he'd almost had his hand chopped off when he'd been caught stealing some bread for Jack when Jack had been ill and starving. Jamie had been very young, just seven or eight, and already a dangerous, cynical criminal, but the near loss of his appendage had been a frightening affair, the terror of which had never totally faded. All these years later, he still occasionally had nightmares that the blade was about to slice down.
He couldn't comprehend why the incident had remained so vivid in his memories. The episode was nothing out of the ordinary. His childhood had been one long trial of misery and woe, a violent and tragic saga of betrayal and duplicity. As a result, he never attached himself to others, never bonded or befriended. His father's cruel decision to forsake him and Jack had seen to that.
Although Jamie's mother had married the despicable swine, Jamie had been treated as a shameful, dirty secret, had been discarded like a pile of rubbish.
He often wondered if his father knew—when he'd cast them out—the sort of existence he'd sentenced his sons to endure. Had he plotted for them to die as a consequence of the indescribable torture and strife they'd suffered? Or had it all gone horribly wrong? Maybe he'd meant for them to be raised by some kindly widow down the road, but without his being aware, they'd been kidnapped, instead.
On considering the notion, Jamie scoffed. He'd discovered the hard way that children were expendable, so most likely, his monstrous father had intentionally delivered them to what he'd prayed would be their abrupt demise.
During Jamie's slavery and servitude on the High Seas, he'd seen and done things that would have killed the average person a thousand times over. He'd survived the ordeal, but not without a steep cost.
He was a callous man, a brutal man, who'd learned early on that it was pointless to trust or hope, and he didn't like it that Anne Carstairs had rattled him so easily.
She'd been humorous and sweet, bumbling and in need of male protection, which had stirred his masculine instincts in a disturbing manner. He hadn't planned to like anything about her, had wanted their introduction to be cool and formal, but circumstances had determined that they'd commence on a different footing.
Time would tell how the alteration would affect their relationship, but he was certain it would be to his benefit. He always got his way. He always came out on top.
"I am Jamieson Merrick, Earl of Gladstone," he said, causing them all to jump. He gestured at Jack. "This is my brother, Jackson Merrick."
There was an astonished silence as they evaluated Jamie—and obviously found him lacking. Slowly, they rose, but no one curtsied or bowed, and the moment grew awkward.
Fat, sluggish Percy slithered forward, feigning amity and support, but his malice was transparent and couldn't be fully disguised. Jamie felt as if they were two cocks in the ring, about to fight. Unfortunately for Percy, he would lose any confrontation, though he didn't seem to fathom that he would.
As usual when Jamie bumped into Percy, he was astounded by the strong Merrick bloodline. Their kinship was undeniable. They were the exact same height, had the same startling blue eyes and facial features, but Percy was bloated from sloth and indolence, his body flaccid, his hands soft. If Percy had ever worked a day in his life, if he'd ever known an instant of adversity, he'd have slimmed down and they could have been triplets, but for the fact that Percy's hair was blond while Jamie's and Jack's was black.
"Welcome, Jamie!" Percy struggled to keep his smile in place. "I see you've arrived. Where is your entourage? What? No company of soldiers? No phalanx of guards?" He chortled as if he'd been making a joke. "With all my money flowing into your pockets, I know you could afford to bring them."
"I have no need of a battalion to take possession of my own property. And it's Lord Gladstone to you."
The gibe was too much for Percy, and he could barely contain his rage. "Don't push your luck."
"Why shouldn't I?" Jamie goaded. "I'm the luckiest man alive. By the way, you've allowed a poacher to roam about in my woods."
"A poacher? Oh my. What makes you think so?"
"He shot at me."
"I take it he missed."
"Pity, isn't it?" Jamie chided. "He should have aimed a little more carefully. From now on, I'll be more vigilant, so he'll never have another chance."
Percy was innocence itself. "Why are you so convinced he was shooting at you? Couldn't it have been a regrettable error?"
"Is there a reason you're still here?" Jamie countered. "If I didn't know better, I might suspect you of trying to kill me."
"Dearest long-lost brother, how could you raise such a dreadful accusation?"
"I can't abide your foolishness. Even if you do away with me, Jack is next in line. We were born nearly a year before you were. Will you slay us both? Have you the nerve?"
A muscle ticked in Percy's cheek. "I wish you no harm."
"You've become a third son. Perhaps you should join the church or the army. If it would guarantee I'd be shed of you forever, I'd pay for your commission myself."
With the taunt, Jamie could see that Percy's motives were revealed, their cards on the table. Percy had arranged to have him murdered—either by his own hand or by hiring another—and Jamie wouldn't underestimate his half brother again.
Rudely, Jamie spun away from Percy, dismissing him, and focused on the others in the room—all female. Aging, senile Edith Merrick, the Dowager Countess of Gladstone, studied him vaguely, clearly not understanding who he was or what was happening.
Her daughter, Ophelia—Percy's twin and Jamie's half sister—understood completely, and her loathing wafted out. Sarah Carstairs looked as if she'd like to be rendered invisible, while Anne Carstairs was about to collapse in a stunned heap.
Where she was concerned, he seemed to have a second sense, and the sight of her blushing and squirming was so enjoyable. She was sincerely wondering if she could tiptoe to the door and sneak out undetected, but he wanted her to know that he was in charge of her and she had no secrets.
He grinned, and her embarrassment was so thorough that if she'd burst into flames he wouldn't have been surprised.
"Hello, ladies," he began. "Here is my plan. It matters not to me if you like it or no, and I won't hear any argument. You may concur and acquiesce—or you may leave my home at once."
They rippled with fury, but none dared berate him. The papers regarding the transfer of tide had been signed so recently that there'd been no opportunity to discuss their fates. They had to be terrified, and he hated to have them fretting, but at the same juncture, he couldn't have them harboring any illusions about his intentions.
"Tomorrow morning," he continued, "I shall marry one of you."
"You can't be serious," Ophelia huffed.
"Oh, but I am. I have a Special License with me, and whichever woman I select, she will be my countess. The running of the household will fall on her shoulders, and whether the rest of you are permitted to stay at Gladstone will be up to her." He glared at Percy. "You're excluded, though. Despite what my wife may decree, you will not remain."