A Most Dangerous Profession

chapter 7





A letter from Alexander MacLean to his brother-in-law, Robert Hurst.


The last time you came to visit Caitlyn, you wondered if there were some interesting research tomes in my library. Naturally your sister would not allow such an innocuous question to rest, and she has combed the shelves to make a list of all of the books that might be of interest to either you or any of your brothers. That is, she has combed all of the lower shelves. She left it to me to do the higher ones.

May I point out that the library is very large? And that this little task took me hours?

It would be easier to cut off my own leg than disappoint my wife, so I must ask that you refrain from ever wondering anything aloud in my house again. Like all of the Hursts, she has no concept of the word “no.”

The luxuriously large coach lumbered down a narrow lane through the Scottish countryside. The verdant hills had given way to mountainous crags that loomed in the distance, white tipped against the gray sky.

Grasping a ceiling strap, Robert stretched his legs, glad that they were within two days of reaching Balnagown Castle, where Sir Lachlan Ross resided.

The last week had been interminable, the roads at times nearly impassable, the days filled with grayness and rain, the inns damp and inhospitable, the food too wretched to think about. He sighed, weary to the bone.

Still, it was worth it: soon he’d have the third and final onyx box in his possession. He smiled. And then the real search for the Hurst Amulet will begin.

Michael had always said the amulet should be in the possession of their family and he’d become obsessive about it. To Robert, it seemed to be family folklore more than anything else. Almost everything they knew could be labeled as fable and hearsay.

Robert wondered if Michael believed the tales that said the amulet had magical properties. According to the story, the amulet had been created by an ancestor, a white witch of great beauty. Then it had been stolen from her by the laird of the MacLean family. In return, she’d cursed the family so that whenever one of them lost their temper, storms would fly. “Ridiculous,” Robert muttered.

Still, two of Robert’s sisters, Triona and Caitlyn, had married into the MacLean family and, through the years, he’d caught bits of conversations that indicated that the curse existed. But that was foolishness. He was a practical man, one who dealt with facts and not far-fetched nonsense like curses and magical amulets. All he knew was this: there was a family heirloom that, through the ages, had gotten lost. Records proved that it had ended up in the possession of Queen Elizabeth, who had given it to a foreign emissary for reasons unknown, though some suggested she’d grown fearful of it. After that, the amulet had disappeared.

Robert reached under the seat and pulled out his portmanteau. From a secret pocket on the side he removed first a small vial—a potion his sister-in-law had given him before he’d begun the mad chase after Moira, saying it would render the user unconscious, which he thought might be useful. He then removed a black velvet bag.

He replaced the vial in the secret pocket and opened the bag. Inside lay two onyx boxes, their odd engravings gleaming in the gray light. He spread the velvet across his lap and, flipping a few unseen latches, undid the boxes so that they lay completely flat. He placed them upon the velvet and turned them so that the inside surfaces were face up. Then, with a twist, he slid the two panels and clicked them together. They fit perfectly. He tilted the smooth surface so that the light found the etchings, which produced a map. Michael believed that the map would lead them not only to the lost Hurst Amulet, but to other treasures as well.

The map was why a sulfi had held Michael prisoner, demanding the return of the box he’d legitimately purchased. “It’s also why George Aniston wants these,” Robert murmured as he studied the map. It was the only reason Aniston would be persistent in trying to obtain them all; he had to know.

Did Moira know about the map? Robert traced a wriggling line that was perhaps a river. He doubted Aniston would share such information; if the man had any sense, he’d be cautious around a woman of Moira’s resourcefulness. She was much stronger and more devious than Aniston and, if cornered, would fight like a she-wolf.

Robert tilted the metal surface to a better angle, catching the gray light streaming from the window, noting that a mountain range appeared to take up almost half of the map. What country could this be? It certainly wasn’t Egypt; they had very few mountains there. Italy? Greece? Switzerland?

The final panel held the key. He sighed and refolded the boxes, then slid them back into the velvet sack and into his portmanteau. As soon as he had the final box, he’d sprint back to London. Hopefully William would have secured Michael’s freedom, and they’d all examine the map together. Michael’s knowledge of ancient maps should enable him to decipher the markings.

The sound of thundering hooves announced an approaching rider. Robert banged on the roof. The coach immediately pulled to one side and stopped.

Robert leaned out the window, and smiled at the rider who’d just pulled up. “Ah, Leeds. You’re early.”

Leeds patted his lathered horse. “Ye expected me, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Miss MacAllister gave you the slip.”

“Indeed she did, sir. Ye said to tell you if—”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Three days ago, sir. Just as ye said it would, Aniston’s coach came fer her. And every day, she sent it away. The last day, she sent it off as usual, went back inside, and we ne’er saw her again.

“We thought she was still inside the George fer the day, but when she hadna come down fer dinner, I sent someone upstairs.” Leeds shook his head. “She was gone.”

“I warned you,” Robert said, feeling an odd mixture of irritation and excitement. He shouldn’t be excited, damn it.

“I don’t understand, sir. She made quite a point o’ sendin’ off the coach, tellin’ the coachman tha’—” Leeds caught Robert’s dry smile and broke off.

“That’s when she left, then. I daresay she sent the coach around the corner, then exited through the back door and went to meet it.”

“We were watchin’ the back door, sir.”

“Perhaps she found an open window, and met the coach down the road, away from the inn. No matter. If she’s escaped then you can be damned sure we’ll see her again, for she’s heading to Balna-gown Castle, too. What sort of coach did Aniston send?”

“It was a light one, sir. Made fer travelin’ swiftly, no’ comfort.”

Robert glanced down the road behind them. “If she left three days ago, and if she has a lighter coach, she could catch up, though we still have a day or two before we need to worry. At least she’s behind us, and there’s only one road into Tain, the closest village to the castle, so she’ll have to come this way.”

“Aye, sir. I rode hell fer leather once’t I knew she’d escaped.”

“Good man.” Robert noted the man’s exhausted face. “Tie the horse on back and join Stewart on the box. We’ll stop shortly to spend the night at some ill begotten inn. Stewart seems to know every damp bed this side of the Argyll River.”

Leeds grinned. “Aye, sir.”

Robert settled back into his seat. He wasn’t the slightest bit surprised by the news. So you didn’t listen to a word I said, did you, Moira? Some things never change.

He should be upset, but he realized that if she hadn’t followed, he’d have been disappointed. Since their meeting at the George, he’d been plagued with memories of the feel of her beneath him on the bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see her delicious body stretched out on the coverlet—every delicate hollow, seductive shadow, and beckoning curve. Because of those memories, he’d found sleeping very unrestful, but far more interesting than usual.

He yawned. He could do with a nap now. Smiling, he settled into the corner and allowed the rocking of the coach to lull him to sleep.

An hour later, a loud rumble awoke Robert. He lifted his head and listened, frowning. Surely that can’t be Moira.

A shout from the coach box made Robert unlatch the window and look out.

“ ’Tis her, sir!” Leeds yelled from his perch. “That’s the coach Aniston sent!”

The small vehicle was obviously built for speed. Though lighter, it also lacked the stiff springs that made traveling in Robert’s coach bearable and far more stable. Little fool. If you’ve been traveling like that for days, I’ll wager you’re a mass of bruises from head to toe. Serves you right, too.

“Shall we spring ’em, sir?” Stewart called.

Robert watched as the black coach drew nearer, its pace spanking. Aniston must have prepared the way with multiple teams if she’d sustained such a pace all the way from Edinburgh.

“Spring them!” Robert snapped. “And stay to the center of the road. Don’t let her pass.”

The coach lurched forward as Stewart hied the horses to a gallop. They were relatively fresh, as they’d been traveling slowly for the last two hours.

Robert’s coach rumbled to full speed; Moira’s coach approaching. He watched as the small coach began to close the gap, though there was no way to pass, as Stewart held the big coach to the dead center of the road.

“Take that,” Robert said, catching sight of Moira’s dark hair as she peered out of her window. He touched the brim of his hat, then settled back into his coach, chuckling. That will teach her.

The coach raced onward, hitting the deep ruts and rocking wildly. Robert took solace in the realization that Moira’s ride would be much rougher. They rounded a corner and he heard Stewart yelling. Robert leaned back out of the window and saw Moira’s coach swinging wildly to one side, trying to catch the gap between Robert’s coach and the ditch to shoot past.

It was an insanely dangerous thing; she had to be mad! Robert gripped the window ledge with both hands and shouted a warning that was lost under the noise of thundering hooves.

Good God, woman, there’s not enough room on this road for the two of us! He slid to the other side of the coach and looked down. A deep ditch lined the road, filled with icy water.

Grinding his teeth, Robert slid back to the other side as Moira’s team found the gap they were seeking and surged forward, coming abreast of Robert. He could see the steam rising from their coats, smell the mud churned by their feet. Moira was leaning out the window, yelling up at her coachman, her hair tugged from its pins and streaming behind her.

The coachman lifted his whip and snapped it over the lead horse’s ear, and Moira’s coach jolted forward. Stewart cursed loudly, jockeying for position in the narrow road. Her wheels came dangerously close—if they collided, they’d both be in the ditch.

Damn it, someone is going to get hurt! Robert grabbed his cane and pounded it on the roof.

Stewart obediently began to slow and Moira’s coach shot ahead. As she whisked by, Robert caught sight of her lips curved in a triumphant smile.

There was nothing he could do but sit back and watch her coach race briskly by. It rounded a corner and—

Crack!

Moira’s coach lurched, one wheel at an odd angle.

It was as if time held still. Robert saw that the wheel had broken, the axle exposed. The horses began to rear, trying to catch their balance as the coach swung wildly behind them. At the final moment, he saw Moira’s white hand clutching the door frame as the coach flipped over into the deep ditch.

His heart thudded sickly and he flung open the door of his moving coach. He was already on the ground and running toward the overturned carriage by the time his had pulled to a halt.

The black coach was upon its side, one wheel still turning. The horses were tangled in the broken traces, whinnying and jumping madly.

A shaken groom was pulling himself out of the ditch, icy water dripping from him, his cheek a bloody mess.

“Leeds, see to those horses!” Robert yelled over his shoulder.

Leeds was down in a trice and running to calm the frightened team.

Robert reached the overturned coach. It lurched drunkenly in the ditch, tilted almost on its top, but it seemed stable, stopped from rolling over by the trunk of a heavy oak.

He climbed onto the tilted carriage, opened the door, and looked inside. Moira was crumpled in the corner, her eyes closed, a streak of blood vivid on her temple. At the sight of her chest moving up and down in smooth rhythm, his heartbeat slowed and reason returned.

He swung his legs inside as Stewart ran up.

“Is she alive, sir?”

“Yes, but she’s injured. Find out where the closest village is. We need a surgeon.”

Stewart hurried off.

Robert let himself down into the coach, carefully setting his feet on either side of Moira’s crumpled form. Her yellow silk gown and pelisse made her paleness seem even more ominous. His heart thudded sickly when he saw that blood had soaked into her hair and spread to the coach cushions. “Damn it! You just had to best me, didn’t you?”

He looked around for a piece of cloth to bind her wounds. The inside of the coach was topsy-turvy, the cushions and the contents of the seat boxes scattered. A foot warmer rested near Moira’s head, the handle matching the shape of the bruise on her temple.

“That had better be all that’s wrong,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t have you die at my feet, damn it. Not after I spent so many years trying to find you, and now you just—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure who or what he was threatening, but he meant every word.

He yanked off his gloves and examined her wounds, his heart sinking at the deep gash on her head. He tore a flounce from her gown and was wrapping it around her head when her eyes fluttered open.

She blinked up at him, wincing as she turned her head.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Like the devil,” she murmured, her hand pressing to her forehead.

“There was a coach accident. Do you remember?”

She closed her eyes. “No. I don’t—” She grimaced.

“Does anything else hurt?”

“Just my head, but it—” Her brows knit in pain.

“Don’t move.” He looked above him at the open door. “Leeds!”

Leeds’s stocky face appeared in the doorway overhead. “Aye, sir.” He caught sight of Moira. “Och, they’s a lot o’ blood, isna’ there?”

“Yes,” Robert said tensely. “Is there a village nearby?”

“Nay. A farmer stopped by and said there’s no town fer another ten miles, but the local squire’s no’ far off. Stewart’s gone there fer help.”

“Bring my portmanteau from the coach. I’ve medicine in it.”

“Yes, sir!” Leeds was gone in a trice, quickly returning with the portmanteau. He lowered it through the doorway to Robert.

“How are the horses?”

“Two are scraped up and one is lame, though I dinna think ’tis serious.”

“Good. Unhook them and rub them down as well as you can. The ones that aren’t injured will need to be walked while we wait for help.”

“Aye, sir.”

“As soon as someone comes from the squire’s house, we’ll rig up a sling and get Miss MacAllister out of here.”

“Yes, sir!” With that, Leeds was gone and Robert pulled the vial from the secret compartment in his portmanteau.

“I don’t need a sling; I can climb,” she said faintly.

“For once in your blasted life, you’ll do what I tell you to do.” According to Marcail, the potion in the vial would make a person sleep. With any luck, it would put Moira to sleep long enough that they could move her without causing her too much pain. He held the vial to the light and wondered about the dosage. His sister-in-law hadn’t said, and he was leery of using too much. He’d start with a sip and go from there.

He slipped his arm under Moira’s shoulders, lifted her gently, and held the vial to her lips. “Drink some of this.”

“What is it?”

“It will help the pain. Careful, it probably tastes horrid.”

She sipped it cautiously, then took a bigger sip. “It’s sweet.”

“Good.” He held the vial to the light. She’d taken half of it, but perhaps that would be enough. “Let me know how you feel.”

“Very well.” She closed her eyes.

He waited, studying her profile, noting her pale skin. Outside, Leeds instructed the men to walk the horses. A moment later he heard his own carriage being moved up the road, probably to keep the lane from being blocked.

She sighed, and he glanced at her again. To his surprise, the tense expression on her face had relaxed and her breathing was smoother.

“Moira?”

She opened her eyes, offering a sleepy, almost seductive smile. “Yes?” Her voice was low and rich and slid over him like a pair of warm hands.

Bloody hell, what’s in that potion? He cleared his throat. “Feel better?”

“Ohhhh, yessss.” She closed her eyes again, her lips still curved in a smile. “Muuuuch better.”

Good God, whatever was in that vial was potent.

She laughed, the sound sultry. “I can’t believe the coach didn’t take the corner. It didn’t look that sharp. I shouldn’t have pressed the driver.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

She peeped at him through her lashes. “If it had been anyone else but you, I’d have never made the attempt. You are my one weakness.”

Oh ho. Apparently the potion also reduces inhibitions. That’s interesting. “I don’t wish to be anyone’s weakness.”

“Well, you are. You, Robert Hurst, are my one, big, grand weakness.” She blinked slowly, her thick lashes casting shadows over her eyes and making them appear deep forest green. “I wonder how many other women think that about you? Probably hundreds.”

“I doubt that,” he said absently, noting that blood was beginning to soak through the bandage on her head. Damn it, where’s Stewart?

“I don’t doubt it,” she returned, her lips turned into a sulky pout. “How many women have you seduced since I left? A dozen? Two dozen? Or are your conquests too numerous to count?”

He started to reply, but she continued, “I used to think about you with all of those conquests whenever I missed you.”

“You missed me?”

“Dreadfully. I don’t know why, because you weren’t in love with me. You never pretended you were. But I—” She blinked, as if realizing that she’d said too much.

“Moira, does your head hurt anymore?”

She paused, then smiled. “No! Not at all.”

That was good news. He would have to thank Marcail for the tonic, and ask her about the interesting side effects.

“In fact,” Moira added, “I feel wooooonderful.”

“That’s good because we will need to move you soon. It might hurt.”

“That’s all right. It can’t be worse than having a ba—” She stopped, her eyes slowly locking with his.

Silence stretched between them. Finally, he said, “Baby.” He was unable to believe the words he’d just said. “Our baby.”

“No. My baby,” she replied stubbornly.

Robert didn’t know what to say. His worst fears had been realized. This was why he’d searched so long for her, why he’d never given up.

I have a child. Good God, what do I do now? “Where is this child?”

Moira’s lips quivered, and tears filled her eyes.

The truth hit him like a blow to the stomach. “Aniston. He’s taken—”

Moira held out a hand, as if to stop his words.

“Damn that man! That’s what he is holding over you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. He stole her from my home while I was gone seeing to the sale of some land.”

“You were living in Scotland all of this time?”

“Yes. I bought a small house in a village near Edinburgh within two weeks of our last meeting. I had tucked away a good bit of money and we had very few needs. She and I were so happy there—until Aniston stole her away.”

He had a daughter. “How long has that cretin had her?”

“Almost six months now. Sh-she’s growing up without me, and I don’t even know if she’s safe or—” Moira pressed a hand to her mouth.

“And you’ve tried to rescue her.” It wasn’t a question; he knew her too well.

“I’ve tried everything. Aniston keeps her locked away somewhere and only rarely allows me to see her. He is very careful to come fully armed and with a number of men. Once I tried to escape with her, but he caught us and never again allowed me to see her unless we were guarded. If I wish to see her, I must do as I’m told. Aniston thinks he’s defeated me.” Her eyes flashed emerald fire. “But I will never give up trying.”

Robert closed his eyes, fury surging through him. Aniston had their daughter—his daughter. When I finally get my hands on that—

But now was not the time for useless fury. Moira was injured.

“We will deal with Aniston later,” he managed to say through clenched teeth.

“We can’t.” A tear slid from the corner of her eye and trailed down her cheek. “I have to get this box and return it to him. I saw her just last week and the nurse hits her, and I—” A sob wracked Moira’s body.

When he next saw Aniston, Robert would take great pleasure in ripping the man apart.

Moira gulped a sob and Robert noticed that the bandage he’d made for her head was now soaked through with blood. He cursed and ripped two more flounces from her gown and tied them more tightly over the other bandage. They slowed the flow immediately, though she winced. “I’m sorry if that’s uncomfortable. You’re bleeding. It had to be done.”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Only Rowena.” Moira’s voice was softer than a whisper.

“You matter as well, ma chère. Once I kill Aniston, Rowena will need her mother more than ever. Meanwhile, we need to get you to a doctor.” He glanced impatiently at the door swinging open over their head. “I wish Stewart would return.”

“Robert, you understand now why I must have that box? I have no choice.”

“We’ll talk about the damned box when you’re better.”

“You are so kind,” she said. “Few people know that about you, but I do. So kind, and so afraid anyone might see it.”

“That’s the tonic talking,” he said. “I don’t know what’s in it, but it makes you very silly.”

“You’re always kind to me,” she said drowsily as she captured his wrist and brushed her lips over the back of his hand.

A wave of lust answered her innocent gesture and he pulled his hand free. “Stop that.”

She smiled. “You understand me. No one else ever does.”

“We understand one another. Although I wonder why you didn’t tell me about our daughter before now.”

“You didn’t want a child.”

“No, but I—”

“I did.” Her gaze met his, clear and honest. “So I didn’t tell you about our daughter because I wished to keep her to myself, without any interference from you.”

Robert frowned. He should be thankful to hear the truth, regardless of how damning it was to his pride.

This tonic had many uses indeed. It would have taken him weeks, perhaps months, to get so much honesty out of her. “Moira, shouldn’t that have been my decision, too?”

Her brows lowered. “Robert, if I’d told you, you would have been upset and thought it a trick and always wondered if she was really yours.”

Moira was right; he would have wondered. “Is she?”

“Yes.” Moira yawned, suddenly looking very sleepy. “You can see it now, but not when she was younger. She grows more like you every day, which is . . . most unfair. Since I’ve been the one . . . doing all of the . . . work.” Moira’s eyes closed as the tonic claimed her.

“Even asleep, you are the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met,” Robert told her. With relief, he heard Stewart’s voice and another one, loud and aristocratic. Help has arrived.

His head spinning with the shocking fact that he was a father, Robert climbed from the coach to organize Moira’s rescue.