Deception

By Ruth Ryan Langan

**** From New York Times Bestselling Author Ruth Ryan Langan ... A Historical Romance Classic. ****

"... delivers it all with page-turning romance!" -- Nora Roberts, New York Times bestselling author

Shane Driscoll, Lord Ashton, loves his free-wheeling lifestyle. Now his cousin and dear friend, King Charles, has decided that Shane must take a wife and settle down.
Claire Leyton, homeless and desperate, survives by her wits and her skill with a knife on the docks of England. When she picks the wrong sheep to fleece, Shane concocts a plan to use this clever actress in a bizarre plot to foil the king's plans. When the scheme goes awry, their lives and hearts hang in the balance.

"A popular writer of heartwarming, emotionally involving romances." -- Library Journal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruth Ryan Langan
• Release date: Nov 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311571908

Ruth Ryan Langan

New York Times best-selling author Ruth Ryan Langan, who also writes under the pseudonym R. C. Ryan, is the author of over 100 novels, both contemporary romantic-suspense and historical adventure. Quite an accomplishment for this mother of five who, after her youngest child started school, gave herself the gift of an hour a day to follow her dream to become a published author. Ruth has given dozens of radio, television and print interviews across the country and Canada, and has been quoted in such diverse publications as THE WALL STREET JOURNAL and COSMOPOLITAN. Ruth has also been interviewed on CNN NEWS, as well as GOOD MORNING AMERICA.

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Deception

Ruth Ryan Langan

Harlequin Books edition – 1993

Copyright 1993, 2014 Ruth Ryan Langan

Digital Publication 2014 by Ruth Ryan Langan

Cover design by Tammy Seidick Design

Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind Book Design

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

To Susan Catherine Thompson Langan

and Anna Beatrice Curley Ryan,

survivors both.

Strong women who serve as role models for generations.

And always to Tom,

the wind beneath my wings.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Samples

List of eBook Titles

About the Author

Ruth Ryan Langan

Historical Romance Classics

Now Available as EBooks:

Heart's Delight

Paradise Falls

Ashes of Dreams

Duchess of Fifth Avenue

Captive of Desire

Passage West

Nevada Nights

September’s Dream

The Heart’s Secrets

Destiny’s Daughter

Texas Heart

Texas Hero

Mistress of the Seas

Deception

Christmas Miracle

Angel

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Highland Barbarian

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Prologue

London, 1648

The bedchamber was stifling with the heat from the fireplace and the closeness of so many bodies. The jeweled, beribboned forms that crowded around the bed wore tight, worried expressions as the midwife, Clarissa, tried unsuccessfully to deliver the sobbing woman of her baby. Hour after hour she had struggled to turn the infant, who had assumed a dangerous position in its journey to be born.

An exotic, dark-haired young woman seemed to hold herself aloof from the pain and suffering. She sat beside the bed, her perfect features never altering as the auburn-tressed woman in labor cried and whimpered and moaned.

The midwife wiped a hand across her damp forehead and lifted her gaze to the young woman seated beside the bed. A quick shake of her head indicated defeat.

The young woman rose and, in imperious tones, commanded the bedchamber emptied.

My aunt weakens. You must all leave her. We will summon you when there is a change.

Within minutes the protesting contingent had retired to a luxurious parlor at the far side of the manor house, where servants hurried to see to their comfort.

The young woman leaned against the door and took a deep breath.

Well? she demanded.

Clarissa shrugged. I’ve done all I can. There’s no saving them.

The woman in the bed let out a shrill cry, and they turned their attention to her. The woman’s writhing and moaning were becoming more intense; the bed linens were soaked with her blood, and still the battle for life continued. And then, when it seemed that she must be torn apart from the effort, a tiny infant slid into the waiting hands of the midwife.

It’s a girl. The midwife sponged blood from the mottled, wrinkled skin and whispered with a trace of wonder, Praise heaven, she’s breathing.

Nay. The young woman caught Clarissa’s arm, digging strong fingers into her flesh. She must not survive.

A look of shock flitted across the midwife’s face before she composed her features. It would not do to question those born to wealth and privilege.

And how will you explain?

I shall say that you agreed to dispose of the mangled, disfigured infant. The master of the house will be too grief-stricken to question further.

And her mother? the midwife whispered. Will you dispose of her, as well?

There’s no need. She has lost too much blood. She’ll not survive. The niece turned away dismissively. I’ll see to her. Your business here is finished.

And what about my pay?

The young woman pressed several gold coins into the midwife’s hands.

Clarissa counted them, then lifted her head. And what am I to do with the babe?

With a shrug of her shoulders the other woman hissed, She will make a tasty meal for the forest creatures. Seeing the look of revulsion on the midwife’s face, she dropped another coin in her palm. This should reward your efforts.

As the midwife began gathering up the bloody linens, the young woman leaned over the bed and whispered, Sleep now, Rosamunde. Your labor is over.

The child...?

A girl.

Almost dreamily she whispered, I knew she was a girl from the first moment I felt her growing beneath my heart.

She is dead. The words were spoken almost exultantly.

Dead... oh no! The fates would not be so cruel. The woman choked back anguished sobs. I had so wanted a child to fill John’s life.

There will be other babies.

Nay. The woman caught her niece’s hand. Don’t try to shield me from the truth. I know that I am dying. And John will be alone. So alone.

The midwife caught the gleam in the young woman’s eyes as she murmured to her dying aunt, I shall see that John is never lonely, Rosamunde.

Thank you. The woman in the bed closed her eyes.

The niece summoned a servant. You’d best send for your master. He must bid farewell to his wife before she breathes her last.

A short time later, as the women in the parlor wept softly for their departed friend, the master of the house sat on the edge of the bed, beside himself with grief, his arms still wrapped around the only woman he’d ever loved.

He studied the lifeless eyes, two perfect emeralds that had lost their light, and the fiery hair that fanned out around the pale face. He buried his face in her neck and wept.

Beside him stood the cunning young woman who was prepared to comfort him. It was little enough price to pay for the land, the jewels and especially the title, which she had long coveted.

The midwife strode through the servants’ entrance, her arms filled with bloody linens. When she was far from prying eyes, she lifted a corner of a towel to reveal the sleeping infant. In the fading sunlight she could see that the tiny cherub had the same fine bone structure and unusual coloring as her mother.

It seemed a shame to destroy something so rare and perfect. She thought of her cousin Glynnith, who was barren. What a treasure this tiny creature would be. And no one would ever be the wiser.

She hastened along the path that cut through the countryside, eager to finish the deed.

Chapter One

London, 1665

A scruffy boy of nine or ten wriggled between the wooden barrels stacked on the wharf. He took a moment to catch his breath before declaring, Dandies just went into the Bloated Goat.

Greed shone in the eyes of the bedraggled group who sprang to their feet.

How many, Pug? asked a lad whose arms bulged with muscles from his years of loading cargo on the docks.

Five.

Five to our eight! came an exclamation. Let’s take ’em.

All wore swords, the boy cautioned.

Aye. But who’s to say if they know how to use them?

We’ll teach ’em, won’t we, Rogue?

There was a burst of raucous laughter from the group.

The one called Rogue stepped forward, touching a hand to the sword that gleamed in the moonlight. Aye. The voice was little more than a whisper. We’ll bloody well teach ’em. Let’s go relieve the dandies of their gold.

~ ~ ~

The tavern was crowded with sailors and dockworkers, craftsmen and tradesmen. At a long wooden table sat three men, conspicuous for their beautifully tailored jackets over satin breeches. Plumed hats hung on pegs overhead. The three, having consumed several tankards of ale, were engaged in pinching the serving wenches and swapping stories with the regular customers.

Their two companions sat alone in one corner, their heads bent close, their conversation muted.

You look none the worse for your year in the New World. I feared you had become a barbarian.

I have. A hearty laugh displayed white even teeth in a face bronzed by sun and sea. The speaker leaned forward. The American colonies are spectacular country, James. I fear I’ve lost my heart.

You would return?

I intend to. As soon as I meet with your brother and dispense with the formalities of another title, or whatever he has planned for the occasion at Westminster.

Because of the plague, my brother has left London to breathe the country air of Hampton Court. He said he hoped he could coax you to spend the summer there.

The lean, angular face softened into a smile. When the king coaxes, it is a royal command. He exhaled a breath. I had hoped to set sail within the month.

"A month? I suspect you’ll be an old man before you sail the Deception again, Shane. Charles has a plan, you know."

A dark brow arched. A plan?

His companion studied him across the table. You must know that he didn’t simply send for you to bestow more titles, honors and land upon you, Lord Ashton.

You know I detest that title. Shane paused. Why did the missive hint that I was being summoned back to London to accept the thanks and honor of a grateful king?

Because that is the way of my brother. The man threw back his head and chuckled. But once he has you back home, he intends to see that you remain.

How will he hold me? He must know by now that there are not enough titles, or land, to keep me in England.

James, Duke of York, gave a slow smile. He and his brother, Charles II, shared a deep affection for this man. Shane Driscoll, Lord Ashton, had always been more than a cousin. He was the adventurer they could never be. It was Shane who had sailed around the world before his twenty-first birthday. It was Shane who had been instrumental in the naval attack against the Dutch and had sailed to the New World to help capture for England the Dutch territory, New Netherland, since renamed New York.

The man whose name was so honored now studied his cousin, Shane. Charles is indeed grateful for your loyalty. He wishes to reward you handsomely. But he also has other plans. He lowered his voice. As we all know, Charles has a weakness for beautiful women.

He is not alone. Shane chuckled. As I recall, you and he have sometimes shared mistresses.

The Duke of York shrugged. No matter. At the moment, Charles is searching for the most beautiful woman in the realm.

I suppose a king has that right.

James smiled. You misunderstand. He does not want her for himself. He intends to dangle her in front of you, Shane, to keep you here in England.

A frown furrowed Shane’s brow. He waved aside the serving wench who approached and leaned closer, keeping his voice just above a whisper. Tell me you jest.

Nay, Shane. Charles has decided that your adventuring days are over. He wants you by his side at court. And the best way to ensure that you stay is to find a woman who will rule your heart.

Why does he not simply order me to stay?

He could. James shoved back his chair and retrieved his plumed hat from a peg overhead. But you would make his life so difficult, he would soon order you away. And then you would be off again, sailing the seas, seeking adventure, while he and I were forced to find our pleasures—elsewhere.

As he made leave to go, Shane stood and placed a hand on his arm. Why did you warn me of the king’s plan?

James gave his cousin a charming smile. Because I always loved watching you and Charles match wits. He pulled on his hat and turned toward a door leading to a private room in the rear of the tavern. When the door was partially opened, Shane could see a young woman lying on a bed hung with heavy draperies.

With his hand on the door James turned back. I’ve sent word that I shall arrive at Hampton Court with my entourage within a fortnight. His smile grew. My brother may be king, but in this contest I shall place my gold on you.

When he was gone, Shane emptied his tankard, all the while brooding about what he’d learned. If the king commanded it, he would have no choice but to stay in England. And his heart now lay in the Colonies. He had long ago found the pomp and ceremony at court to be too confining for his adventurer’s soul. He would suffocate if he had to remain in England and play the role of counsel to the king.

But James’s observation was correct. Charles had always hated fighting. Shane, on the other hand, thrived on it. Whenever the two had sparred as boys, it was always Shane who had won. The reason was simple. He had a single-mindedness that wore the others down.

But a mistress. Shane found himself cursing his cousin’s devious plot. He was as fond of beautiful women as the next man. But he didn’t believe the female was born who could distract him from his love of the sea and his love of adventure. Still, he reminded himself, the curse was in his blood. His father, a fierce Irish warrior, had found himself helplessly in love with the beautiful Lady Catherine, cousin to James I and Charles I of England and Scotland. Their love had bridged two lands beset with violence and hatred, and burned brighter than any he had ever witnessed. His father had even relinquished his role as warrior to be by the side of the beautiful Catherine. To this day Shane could recall the tenderness between his father and mother and found himself wondering if such a love would ever touch his heart.

He shook off such thoughts and forced himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. Bless James. Forewarned was forearmed. If Charles intended to present him with a mistress, he would have to outmaneuver the sly fox.

A plan began to take shape. With a laugh he signaled for the serving wench to fill his tankard. As he sipped, he found himself chuckling. Of course. The solution was simple. He would have to find a woman who was also a clever actress. There must be hundreds of women here in London who were hungry for gold.

He drained the tankard. With a roar of laughter he set it down on the scarred wooden table. What fun he would have with Charles. By the time he arrived at Hampton Court, he would have a beautiful, beguiling mistress of his own. And when the king was convinced that Shane Driscoll had lost his heart as well as his wits, he would dismiss him. And Shane would pay her off and send her on her way. Then he would be free to pursue his life as he chose.

He nodded to his companions, who pushed their way unsteadily from the table and followed him.

~ ~ ~

The air blowing off the Thames was cold and damp. Gauzy curtains of mist hung over the docks, hiding the dirt and decay and casting halos of light across the water.

The ragged band waited in the darkness, tensing each time the door to the tavern opened. They wore little more than thin, tattered shirts and oversize breeches, their caps pulled down low on their foreheads to hide their identities. Several had tied rags around their mouths, as well.

They carried both knife and sword, and for good measure a number of them carried a second knife in their boot. Old Foxworth had trained them well. They knew how to disarm a man in the blink of an eye and how to take his valuables without taking his life. There Foxworth had drawn the line. Though there was little distinction between theft and murder in the mind of the local constabulary, their mentor, Foxworth, preached that no man was entitled to take another’s life unless the only choice was yours or his.

It was old Foxworth, too, who had named Rogue. After watching his newest recruit handle sword and knife, he’d proclaimed Rogue his most apt pupil. The others knew that Rogue was the old man’s proudest achievement.

The one called Rogue watched through narrowed eyes as the men in plumed hats strode from the tavern.

I count only four.

Maybe one of their party has found a pleasant diversion, Pug whispered.

The others, knowing the reputation of the wenches at the Bloated Goat, nodded their assent.

Pug, slip inside and see where he’s gone. We wouldn’t want him to catch us by surprise.

The boy flattened himself to the ground and crawled away.

You always find a way to coax Pug away from the battle, one of the group complained.

He’s just a lad, smaller than our swords, Rogue whispered. There will be plenty of time for him to join in the fighting.

The others returned their attention to the four men who were making their way toward them.

Wait for my signal, Rogue whispered.

There was a moment of expectant silence as the ragged party peered through the darkness. By the way the four dandies walked loosely and talked gaily among themselves, it was apparent that they had no sense of danger. Surprise, Foxworth had said, was a most important weapon.

Now, Rogue whispered.

Shane Driscoll and his companions looked up to find themselves facing seven attackers, all brandishing swords. As Shane unsheathed his weapon he cursed the ale he’d consumed in the Bloated Goat; it caused his reflexes to be slower than usual.

He fought back two swordsmen, then turned to aid his companions, who were struggling against the uneven odds.

These aren’t dandies, came a cry as one of the attackers felt the sting of a sword, they’re bloody soldiers!

Aye. The king’s own, came a muffled response, followed by a deep laugh.

Working quickly, Shane and his men inflicted painful, practiced wounds, driving off five of the villains. Shane began to relax. The odds were now in his favor.

His sluggishness was soon forgotten when a sword tip pierced his shoulder, causing an explosion of pain.

By the gods. He turned to face his attacker, a youth who brandished a sword better than the rest.

Do you need help? one of his men called.

Nay. See to the others. I’ll teach this whelp a lesson. Shane drove the youth back against the wall of an inn and moved in for the kill. But as he lifted his sword the youth deftly leaped aside, leaving Shane’s sword to cut through air.

Come on, Rogue, they’ve beaten us, one of the attackers called as he vaulted a wall and disappeared into the darkness.

Rogue, is it? Shane lunged forward, catching the youth off guard. His sword tip sliced through a sleeve but missed flesh. Frustrated, Shane edged closer, all the while blocking off his attacker’s escape. You’re good with a sword, lad. But all you can do is sting. You lack the strength to finish the job. His teeth shone white in the darkness as he gave a dangerous smile. Hold still for a moment more and I’ll show you.

Both were breathing hard as Shane lifted his sword and took a step closer. When he brought the blade down, the figure in front of him ducked, swerved and darted away. But at the last moment Shane leaped through the air and landed on the youth, sending them both sprawling. In the darkness they struggled, scrambling hand over hand, until at last Shane had the youth firmly pinned.

Shane’s three companions gathered around, their swords lifted should the youth attempt an escape. Getting to his feet, Shane hauled the slender figure upright, then turned an anxious gaze on the bloodied arms and faces of his friends.

Are any seriously wounded?

Nay. We’re none the worse, came the response. If we hadn’t been drunk, they wouldn’t have laid a sword on us, nor would they have escaped.

At least we’re all alive. Now, Shane said through gritted teeth, I’ll teach you a lesson or two about attacking innocent men. Richard, he called to his second-in-command, strip the lad and whip him within an inch of his life. Then I’ll decide if Rogue, here, will live or die for this foolhardy attack.

With pleasure, Richard said, stepping forward.

The youth tensed and would have bolted if Shane hadn’t held both arms in a death grip.

Without a word Richard bound the youth’s hands and feet, then withdrew a knife from his belt and sliced away the tattered shirt. As it fell away Shane gave an involuntary gasp. Even in the faint light that filtered through the mist, it was obvious that Rogue was a female. Dirty, bedraggled, but nonetheless a female.

God in heaven. Shane drew in a breath and continued to stare at the lean, perfectly proportioned young body, which from the waist up was clad in a flimsy chemise that revealed far more than it covered.

One of his men yanked the cap from her head and thick auburn tresses spilled down her back in a tangle of wild curls.

Hard to believe; Richard spat, taking a step back, that one puny female could have inflicted such damage to our person.

And a beautiful female at that, one of the men said with a trace of admiration.

Aye. Rubbing his bloody shoulder, Shane eyed the young woman speculatively. She was more than beautiful. She was stunning. The fiery hair, though dirty, was the kind of wild tangled mass that made men long to touch and women long to take shears to. The coarse, tattered chemise revealed a pale column of throat and high, firm breasts. But the choice was hers. Shane watched the way her chin lifted defiantly. Leaning close he snarled, I see no sign of remorse, lass. Do you not yet realize that you’re among the king’s own soldiers, who care not whether their victims be male or female?

The girl held her silence, but something sparked in her eyes.

What’s your name? Shane demanded.

Go to bloody hell. Her voice was low, breathless.

The other men sucked in their breaths; it wasn’t often they met a woman who could swear like a sailor.

Shane, too, was shocked by her choice of words, but he was even more stunned by the sound of her voice. Was it the exertion of battle? he wondered. Or would her voice always have that breathless quality?

Your name, lass. His own voice shook with impatience.

Rogue. She arrogantly tossed her head.

Catching her chin in his hands, he said through gritted teeth, Rogue. Very well. Let’s see if you’re as fearless in defeat as you were when you thought you had us outnumbered.

Her eyes narrowed.

Aye, she was a rare beauty. And defiant as her name.

He took a step back and motioned to his second-in-command. Flog her. Then I’ll decide if she should live or die for her offenses.

He saw the stricken look on the others’ faces as Richard raised the hand holding the leather whip. His glance darted to the woman. She had compressed her lips together in anticipation of the first blow, but she made not a sound.

Richard swallowed, prepared to do Shane’s bidding. In all the years they’d been together, it had never before occurred to him to question a command. But the thought of flogging a woman was repugnant to him. Before bringing the whip across her naked flesh, he hesitated and looked to his leader.

You would disobey me? Shane’s voice throbbed with anger.

Nay, Shane. But she’s a—

Give me the whip. Without waiting for a response, Shane took the strip of leather from his friend’s hand and stepped closer. Woman, these lashes are for the blood that spilled from my shoulder and for the pain you caused my men.

He had no doubt that the fury burning inside him could drive him to flog the woman without remorse. But something caught his eye. In the dim light he saw the fading marks that lined her back. From the looks of them she had already been beaten mercilessly in the past.

The anger inside him died as quickly as it had sprung to life. He dropped his hand to his side and studied the woman, who had never flinched or begged for mercy.

Standing so close, he could easily see what she looked like. The men’s breeches she wore were little more than rags, but they molded long slender legs and rounded hips. From the waist up her exposed flesh was pale and luminous, her breasts lush and firm.

A slow smile touched the corners of his mouth as a new thought intruded. Beautiful, fearless, defiant. Was she not exactly what he needed?

He had a far better punishment for the lass than a whipping. Aye, a much better punishment.

What a fine joke he would play on Charles. And with an untamed street urchin who had the face of an angel.

Richard looked bewildered. Shane’s temper was