A Most Dangerous Profession (29 page)

Robert shrugged.

Moira could hear Aniston’s teeth grinding. “Damn you!”

“Yes, quite.” Robert yawned and sat on the edge of the bed. “Early morning rescues are so tiring.”

“Don’t try anything,” Aniston snapped. “I don’t trust you, Hurst. Put your hands in your pockets and keep them there.”

Robert rolled his eyes but did as he was told. “Happy now?”

Aniston smiled. “I’ve finally gotten the better of you. The great Robert Hurst, brought low by me. I will relish telling the tale in White’s.”

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that—because I’ve already won.”

Aniston laughed. “Oh, really? How—”

A shot rang out, and Moira screamed and shoved Rowena behind her.

Aniston’s gun fired even as he looked down at his chest where a thin trickle of blood marred his shirt. He turned an amazed look at Robert.

One pocket of Robert’s coat was smoking slightly. He stood, leaning lightly against the window frame as he pulled his pistol out. “Never underestimate a Hurst.”

His face set and white, Aniston took a step toward Robert, but Moira stepped forward, her own pistol at the ready.
“Don’t.”

Aniston sent her a startled glance, his hand still gripped over his wound as blood steadily soaked his side. As it dripped through his wide-spread fingers, he looked down and turned even paler, visibly sagging.

Then, with a moan, Aniston crumpled to the ground.

Robert patted the pocket of his greatcoat where a wisp of smoke still rose. But it was the smaller hole at his shoulder that caught Moira’s attention. “No!” She rushed forward as he swayed.

The small circle began to turn red, blood seeping into the heavy wool. “We’d better leave,” he said in an odd voice.

Moira hurried to support him, wedging her shoulder under his good one. “Rowena, hold the door for Mr. Hur—” She stopped and looked up at Robert. “For your father.”

Robert’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

They made their way downstairs with difficulty,
for Robert was quickly weakening, blood now dripping upon the steps.

Moira feared they would be stopped by the servants. Instead, as they were halfway down the stairs, they met a burly, square-looking man followed by several others.

With one quick look, he summed up the situation. “Lor’ love ye, guvnor! Got yerself knocked to the nines, did ye?”

“Somewhat,” Robert agreed. “Who are these men?”

“I brought them wit’ me to be certain no one interfered wit’ our business. ’Tis a good thing, too, fer it took us all to round up Aniston’s mob. They’ve been taken to gaol fer the time bein’ and won’t be a bother.”

Robert managed a smile. “Very clever of you, Mr. Norris. I shall be sure to write a letter of thanks to the Bow Street Runners for sending their best in rescuing my daughter.”

Mr. Norris pinkened. “I’m glad t’ see ye got her back.” He jerked a thumb toward Moira. “I’m glad ye tol’ me that the mistress might be wearin’ a disguise, fer I almost mistook her for one o’ Mr. Aniston’s men. Is Aniston still upstairs?”

“Yes, he is injured. Perhaps fatally.”

Mr. Norris nodded his head toward the stairs.
“Griswald, Smith, go and see to Mr. Aniston. If he’s still alive, he’s not t’ escape, no matter how ye have t’ see t’ it.”

Two of the bigger men went past them on up the stairs, their heavy feet clomping upon the treads.

Mr. Norris turned to Moira and he said politely, “And now, mistress, if ye’ll stand back, we’ll help Mr. Hurst to his carriage. I know a good doctor.”

Moira carried Rowena downstairs, her heart filled with so many emotions that she couldn’t untangle them, but so worried about Robert that she couldn’t even cry.

And when they were in the carriages, on their way to the doctor, Moira began to pray.

Michael Hurst in a letter to his brother Robert, that same day.

I’ve just met William’s wife, and I hear that our sister Mary has also managed to wed. While I do not begrudge them their happiness, it seems that I might have been rescued faster had you not all been busy making love matches.

I hope that I never catch that malady, which steals away common sense and replaces it with fluff.

M
oira stood looking out the window. A warm summer wind swirled across the stone drive and made the grass ripple around the pond. It was an idyllic setting and fit Robert’s majestic house. Yet despite the day’s warmth, Moira couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold hand of fate hovered over them all—especially Robert, whose injuries were even more dangerous than they’d first realized.

Moira said another prayer of thanks for Mr. Norris and his quick actions. The rough man had indeed known an excellent physician, who was with Robert even now, a week later.

Moira rubbed her arms and started to turn from the window, when the sight of a carriage racing up the drive made her stop. As the horses clattered to the front door, a small hand slipped into Moira’s.

She smiled down at Rowena. “You’re up from your nap.”

“I didn’t really sleep. I kept thinking about . . .” Rowena glanced at the ceiling, her brow knit.

Moira nodded. “I know. Me, too.” She knelt beside her daughter. “But he’s very strong, and the doctor is with him.”

“He will be fine,” Rowena said, her gaze unafraid. “He told me so, so he will be. I just don’t want him to hurt.”

“Yes, but . . . He had a very bad fever, and the doctor says—”

“He will be fine,” the child said quietly. She put her small hand on Moira’s cheek. “He never breaks his promises. He told me so.”

Moira nodded helplessly, unable to fight a deep, icy cold fear. The doctor had been so grave, so serious. Moira was thankful for Buffon, who not only continually ran up and down the stairs seeing to Robert’s comfort, but also found the time to keep her informed of every development, good and bad.

It said something about Robert that his servants were so obviously fond of their master. They tiptoed about, whispering in concerned tones, and made certain the house was in perfect order for when he finally emerged from the sickroom.

Moira hugged Rowena and looked about the comfortable sitting room. She’d been amazed to discover that Robert owned a house near
Edinburgh, so close to her cottage. And such a house, too.
You are always a surprise, Robert. In so many ways.

Rowena’s gaze was on the drive, where the carriage had stopped. “Who is that?”

Moira looked to see a small, plump woman exit the carriage, assisted by a tall, distinguished man. “That’s your father’s sister, Mary, and her husband, Angus.”

Rowena watched the woman hurry up the steps, her husband’s broad strides easily keeping pace. “Do you think my father will be glad to see her?”

Moira rather doubted it. If there was one thing Robert detested, it was being fussed over.

Moments later, the couple were escorted into the sitting room. “My dear!” Mary came to take Moira’s hands. “I came as soon as I could. How is he?”

“The doctor said the situation is grave. He’s with Robert now.”

“I shall go up and see—”

“His valet won’t allow anyone in his room. Robert snaps whenever anyone tries to bypass Buffon. The doctor said it was dangerous to let Robert be upset, so it is best to stay away.”

Mary turned. “Did you hear that?”

Her husband nodded. “Some people don’t wish to be disturbed when they feel ill, Mary.”

“But
someone
must make certain he is well. He could be dying, and—”

“No,” Rowena said firmly.

Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you startled me! I didn’t see you there.” Mary blinked. “Oh my. You look just like—”

“Her father,” Moira interjected.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Mary cleared her throat. “I can see I’ve rushed in and made a muddle of this.”

“Excuse me,” came Buffon’s voice from the doorway.

All eyes turned to him, and he bowed. “Mr. Hurst would like to see his wife.”

“Wife?”

Moira suppressed a wince. “That would be me.”

Mary plopped her fists onto her hips. “Robert never tells me a thing!”

Her husband took her elbow. “Come, my love, let’s meet our new niece. Her mother will be busy for a while.” Though obviously reluctant, Mary allowed Angus to take her to sit down near Rowena, where they began to talk.

Moira followed Buffon to Robert’s door, where Doctor MacPherson met her.

“He’s better?”

The doctor beamed tiredly. “Yes. Last night I wouldn’t have given you a farthing for his chances. But he made a turn in the middle of the night when the fever broke. He’s not out of the woods yet, but he has a good chance now.”

Moira bit her lip to keep from weeping. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave him in Buffon’s hands. The man is a capable nurse.”

Buffon bowed, then opened the door. “
Madame
?”

Moira expected to find the curtains drawn and the room dark. Instead, sunlight streamed through the room, casting a bar of warmth across the large bed.

Robert sat propped up by pillows in his red silk robe, his face cleanly shaved, his hair neat.

But he still had a deep pallor and faint circles under his eyes.

“Buffon wouldn’t allow me to have guests until I was presentable.” His faintly caustic voice filled her with joy.

“Bless Buffon, for I don’t know if I’d recognize you without a cravat.”

“He has been impossibly bossy since my illness—which is to say, he is exactly as he was
before.” Robert patted the bed. “Come and sit with me. We have much to say to one another.”

She walked over, feeling oddly shy yet overwhelmed with the need to touch him. She perched on the edge of the bed. “This is certainly a large bed.”

“Yes, ten people could sleep in it and never touch. Unless two of them were us, of course.”

“Unfortunately, you tend to steal the covers,” she said primly, aching to throw her arms around him and hold him tightly.

“And you snore—very softly, but still.” His lips twitched. “I’d say we’re even.”

It was pure luxury to be able to banter with him, even this little bit.

“Where’s Rowena?”

“In the sitting room, talking to your sister Mary and her husband.”

“Oh no. If she’s here, my other two sisters cannot be far away.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they all come before dinnertime.”

“You’ll have to inform the housekeeper to open some rooms and have something on hand for dinner.”

“Me? Robert, I’m just a guest and—”

“No.” His hand closed over hers. “And that’s
what I wish to talk to you about. Moira, I don’t want to be left out of your and Rowena’s lives.”

Her heart twisted. “You love her. I saw that when I found you together in the nursery at Aniston’s.”

“Yes. When I saw her and knew she was mine, my heart—” He shook his head. “I never knew what it meant to be a parent. I will never look at my own the same again.”

“It’s an eye-opening moment, isn’t it?”

“One that you faced alone. That will never happen again. Moira, I love you. I think I always have. Even when I knew you were lying about who you were, I couldn’t stay away from you. And now that I’ve met our daughter, I can’t go back to being alone.”

He took her hand and pulled her closer. “I bought this house thinking I might find a place where I belonged. But it’s nothing but empty stone walls without you and Rowena inside it.”

Tears stung her eyes. “But . . . it’s not always fun and exciting being a parent. Sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Then we’ll face the difficulties together.”

“And if you get bored?”

His lips quirked. “I don’t see that being a problem. But if it happens, I suppose you’ll just have to
entertain me here in my boudoir.” His eyes twinkling wickedly, he kissed her fingers one by one.

“And if Rowena gets ill or—”

“—we run out of funds, or our family demands to move in with us, or any of the million things that could happen, then you and I will face them together.”

He put his hand on her cheek. “I love you, Moira MacAllister Hurst. I refuse to live without you. If you say no, I will ask again. And if you leave Hurst House, I will follow you once I’m able.”

Moira’s heart melted. “You really mean it.”

“With every breath I take. And I could die at any moment, so you’d better say yes now, while you can.”

“Yes, Robert Hurst. Yes, yes,
yes
—”

The rest of her yeses were lost in a kiss. One of the million or so she planned on sharing with him over the happy, blissful years to come.

Turn the page for a sneak peek
at the next delightful
Hurst Amulet novel
from
New York Times
bestselling author
Karen Hawkins

Coming soon from Pocket Books

London, England
October 12, 1822

Michael Hurst ignored the stir of excitement that flowed through the ballroom at his entrance. “Damn fools,” he muttered, tugging on his neckcloth.

His sister Mary sent him an exasperated glance. “Leave that alone.”

“It’s choking me.”

“It’s fashionable and you must look presentable. This ballroom is full of potential investors for your expeditions.”