A Most Dangerous Profession (13 page)

A diary entry from Michael Hurst the day he discovered the first onyx box.

I wasn’t impressed with the onyx box itself when I purchased it, for it was the parchment inside that excited me: a rare reference to the Hurst Amulet. I thought the parchment the true treasure, as there are dozens of such boxes and neither the piece nor its age were particularly notable.

But this morning, after I placed the parchment in a safe location, I prepared to toss the box into a crate to be sent back to England to be sold, and something caught my eye. One side seemed a little thicker than the others. To my surprise, it opened and revealed—I cannot trust myself to write it here, but I think I now know why I’ve been unable to find that damned amulet here in Egypt.

Someone removed it long, long ago.

M
oira wearily contemplated dismounting her horse, her legs trembling with fatigue. Her escape had been flawless; no one had seen her and she’d quickly caught up to Buffon’s coach, which had led her here.

But other errors had been made. First, she was much weaker than she realized, which had become apparent as the hours passed.

Second, she’d assumed that Robert’s valet, being of such a prim and precise nature, would travel timidly. But either he had the constitution of a workhorse, or his commitment to his employer’s appearance was fanatical, for Buffon had only stopped when forced by the needs of the horses. Which had left Moira riding much longer than she’d expected.

She patted her horse’s neck. “No doubt you’re as tired as I am, aren’t you, girl?” The mare whickered softly. “Well, there’s no rest until this saddle is off, is there?”

Gathering herself, Moira swung out of the saddle. As her boots hit the cobbled yard, she knew she’d made a mistake. Her knees buckled instantly, and if she hadn’t been holding on to the saddle she’d have fallen to her knees.

She set her teeth and forced her weak legs upright. They locked in place like a tin soldier’s; only by leaning against her mount was she able to stand.

Behind her, she could hear the altercation between Robert’s valet and a groom. Thankful for the diversion, Moira rested her forehead against her horse’s neck. “Now what do I do?” If she tried to walk, she feared she might fall. But she couldn’t stay here much longer; someone was bound to see her, and while her costume was good enough to stave off instant recognition, it wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny.

She’d just have to grit her teeth and try to make it to the stables. Once there, she could find a place to rest away from prying eyes.

She took a deep breath, pushed away from the horse and took its reins, trying to ignore her trembling legs. “Ready?” she asked the mare. “Let’s go.”

She managed three steps before her knees buckled again, pitching her forward. Moira threw out her hands to catch herself, but strong arms
swept her from the air, and she was tossed over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

Moira knew it was Robert the second she settled against his broad back, his arm around her thighs as he walked easily toward the inn. “Stewart,” Robert called as he walked past his astounded groom, “take care of the lady’s horse.”

The groom, a small, wizened man with an oddly shaped figure blinked. “Lady?”

Buffon, a tall, well-favored man and considerably younger than she’d expected, looked down at the groom with disdain and said with a heavy French accent, “
Oui,
it is a lady. Can you not see? Ah, but all you see are the trousers and not the shape, eh?” He flipped a dismissive hand toward the red-faced groom. “Pah, you English who cannot tell the difference between a man and a woman. I wonder that you manage to have children.”

As Robert carried her into the inn, the innkeeper stared in amazement.

“What a surprise,” Robert said smoothly. “It appears that my wife has come to visit.”

“But I—” Moira began.

Robert slapped her bottom. “She was supposed to stay put at the home of our acquaintance. She can stay in my room; there’s no need to prepare another.”

The innkeeper, clearly sensing more largesse, nodded. “Yes, sir! I put ye in room number two, at the end of the hall at the top o’ the stairs.”

“Good. We’ll wait in the parlor until then. My wife has recently been ill, and she’s still not strong. If you’ve some gruel and some bread, that would be most welcome.”

“Robert, no!” Moira protested. She lifted her head to tell the innkeeper, “I dislike gruel and would rather have something else. Do you have—”

“She’ll have gruel.” With that pronouncement, Robert went into the small parlor. Ducking the beams, he carried her to the fireplace and unceremoniously dumped her into a chair.

Seeing his grim expression, she said, “You shouldn’t have left me.”

The words sounded sulky, but she didn’t care. She was so tired, her back and legs afire, and now Robert had just ignominiously scooped her up and paraded her before the entire population of the inn.

“Idiot. You’re so tired you can barely sit upright.” He went to a small table and picked up a glass and brought it to her. “Here. Drink this.”

“It’s not more of your tonic, is it?”

“No, it’s brandy.”

She took the glass and, by dint of supporting her
wrist with her other hand, managed to sip it without trembling too badly. The first sip warmed her, the second smoothed her tattered nerves, and the third sip made her lean back in the chair and sigh. “Thank you.” Some of her tiredness seemed to melt away.

“You’re welcome.” He plucked her hat off and tossed it aside. “Now I can see your eyes.” He took the chair opposite hers, his dark blue gaze hard. “You’re a fool to have come all this way. Less than a week ago a fever nearly killed you.”

“Robert, this isn’t your fight; it’s mine. I will do whatever I must to get that box, and my daughter, sick or not.”

“She’s
my
daughter, too.”

Moira rested her head against the tall back of the chair. “This is too important for us to argue over. I came here to you, because I think we’ll do better if we work together.”

“I can get the box without your help. I’ve already made arrangements through Ross’s Edinburgh agent to purchase it.”

“As did I,” she replied. “Before I left town.”

Robert paused. “Mr. Gulliver?”

“At number four High Street. A rather unctuous man with a tendency to sneeze.”

Robert muttered a curse. “That arse sold the box to both of us!”

“Yes.” She took another sip of the brandy. “Did you ever wonder why Ross, who isn’t well known in the world of antiquities, possesses such a unique item?”

Robert shrugged. “I assumed he’d somehow recognized its value.”

“No. He purchased it because it is easy to reproduce.”

“Ah, he sells copies.”

“Yes. I recognized Mr. Gulliver, though he didn’t know me, since I was veiled. He used to go by the name of Comte Constanti. Before that, he was a well-known forger of Greek statuary.”

“Bloody hell. You knew this when I caught up to you in Edinburgh. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because you
left
me at the squire’s before we could discuss it.” She placed the empty glass at the table by her elbow, glad that her trembling had stopped. “If you had taken me with you, I’d have shared my information.”

“I was coming back to get you.”

“
After
you’d retrieved the wrong box.” She lifted her brows and waited.

Robert regarded her for a long moment. “I suppose you think I owe you an apology.”

“Several.”

“A pity. You’re not going to get a single one. You were ill and still aren’t well enough to travel.”

“Nonsense. I’m tired, but only because your valet apparently feels he is very important to your comfort and he pushed the coachmen the entire way. I rode almost nonstop, and I didn’t expect that.”

Robert sighed. “Buffon thinks I can’t pull a shirt on without his assistance.”

A soft knock preceded the innkeeper’s wife, who brought in a small tray with a bowl of gruel and a glass of milk. When she caught sight of Moira wearing trousers, she gasped.

Robert smoothly cut in. “My wife’s love of a good joke sometimes betrays her sense of decorum.”

“I see,” the woman said primly. She set the tray before Moira and said in a disapproving voice, “There, miss, some gruel fer ye.”

Moira looked at the thin, watery gray gruel and tried not to curl her nose. “That’s very kind. This will serve as a beginning. Do you have anything else to eat in the kitchen?”

The woman looked surprised. “Och, o’ course we do. We’ve a braised goose, some hard cheese, a bit o’ haggis, and—”

“The gruel will be enough for my wife,”
Robert broke in. “I’ll have some of the goose, please.”

“Actually, no goose,” Moira countered. “My husband’s stomach is a bit off, but fortunately he
loves
good haggis. And I’ve heard yours is excellent.”

“So I think, madam. I make it meself, and I add cracked pepper, too.” Her chin firmed. “Me husband’s mither says I have too heavy a hand wi’ th’ pepper mill, but I use th’ recipe from me beloved mither, and ’tis a guid recipe.”

Moira said in a warm voice, “I’m sure it’s quite tasty. We’ll have that, of course.”

The woman beamed. “Then ye’ll see fer yeself. Will there be anythin’ else?”

“No, thank you. I’m sure the haggis will be more than enough.”

Robert turned to countermand her order, but the innkeeper’s wife was already out the door. “Blast it! Now I’ll be stuck with that damned haggis.”

Moira’s gurgling laugh caught him unaware. He’d been shocked to see her in the courtyard, and even more so when she’d collapsed before him. He should have known she wouldn’t stay at the squire’s house, damn it. Even when choices weren’t available, Moira made them.

Robert watched her now, noting that the
corner of a bandage peeked from under her braid at her temple, a bit of a bruise showing at the edge. “How’s that hard head of yours?”

She made a face. “I had the devil of a headache this morning, but it’s better now.”

He didn’t believe a word she said, for though her color was better, there were delicate blue circles below her eyes, and the tension in her shoulders told him she was still in pain. “You look tired. You will go to bed as soon as we’ve had our delicious haggis.”

“We? I’m going to eat this miraculously healing gruel.” She lifted the bowl, put a spoonful in her mouth, and grimaced. “That is horrid.”

“If you don’t eat the gruel, then you have to eat the haggis. I won’t have you going to bed without some food.”

She replaced the gruel on the tray. “I’d rather have haggis. I couldn’t help requesting it; you should have seen your face when she mentioned it.” Moira chuckled.

Robert gave her a reluctant smile. “I shall eat it.”

“As will I.” She regarded him from under her lashes. “I wonder which of us will manage to eat the most?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Of course.”

Heat stirred in him at her challenge. “And the winner of this haggis-eating contest will get what?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . What do you suggest?”

He shrugged, though his body had an immediate answer. He wanted more of
her
. More of her caresses, more of her silken hair beneath his fingers, more of her body in his bed. “Bragging rights will be enough.”

“Fine, then. We’ll see who can stomach the most for bragging rights
and
for the thicker blanket in the coach tomorrow.”

His smile disappeared. “You will not be accompanying me tomorrow.”

“Of course I will. Why else do you think I traveled this distance?”

“Moira, no. You’re still injured—”

“I rode for hours and suffered no ill effects.”

“I had to carry you from your mount.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “My legs were stiff, that’s all. If I’d traveled by coach with you as
should
have happened, I wouldn’t be exhausted right now. A good night’s sleep, and I’ll be as strong as ever.”

“I’m not taking you with me, and that’s that.”

Her hands fisted on her knees, her green eyes sparkling. “Robert, have you forgotten that my daughter is in the hands of a madman?”

“That’s my daughter, too,” he said sharply.

“You don’t even know her. Don’t try to tell me that you care about her, for I won’t believe it.”

Robert muttered a curse. “That does not alleviate my responsibility, which I take very seriously. From the moment I became aware that Rowena was my child, she became my concern, like it or not.”

“That’s so generous of you.” Moira’s voice was laced with sarcasm.

“It’s all I have,” he said quietly. “I’m being honest, Moira. You can’t ask for more.” He could see her struggling to understand.

“You admit you have no feelings for her, yet you still wish to help gain her release. I don’t understand how you can feel one, but not the other.”

“She’s my family,” he said simply.

“So?”

He saw the puzzlement in Moira’s eyes.
How could she not understand that
—
Ah. Once again, I realize how little I know her.
“Do you have a family?”

Her expression closed, and she shrugged carelessly. “Doesn’t everyone?”