A Most Dangerous Profession (4 page)

“As small as they are, I’d guess perfume or some other precious liquid.”

“Yes, they’re too small for olive oil.”

“Which would have been plentiful in this time and not held in such valuable containers.”

He pulled out his monocle and regarded another vase, his shoulder warm against Moira’s. “Hm. 1200
A.D
., I’d say.”

“No, I think they’re older than that.” She caught the tremor in her voice and stepped away from him. “Look at the third one,” she said quickly. “There’s etching on it.”

He held the etched surface toward the light.

A distant door opened and closed, footsteps echoing down a hallway and then disappearing.
Moira barely heard the noise as she leaned forward to see the etchings.

Robert turned as she moved and met her gaze. Their faces were level, her eyes inches from his. How could she have forgotten how compelling his eyes could be? Framed in thick lashes, the deep and mysterious blue of a sapphire, they captured her imagination and stole her composure. She wanted nothing more than to lean forward and . . .

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. Firm and masculine like a Greek statue’s, it drew her like the sparkle of a diamond. Her breath came heavier as she leaned toward him, her lips closer and closer to his—

He turned and replaced the small vase. “It’s beautiful; you rarely see alabaster of this purity.” He lifted his monocle to examine it better. “You may be right; the etching does seem to indicate an earlier era.”

Robert was surprised his voice sounded so normal, as his heart was thundering in his chest and his cock stood at full attention. But that was the way it always was with Moira. She infuriated, confounded, and seduced him, all at once.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but he would have to watch himself closely to keep from falling for her tricks. He’d almost allowed himself
to kiss her; it had taken all of his strength to turn away. Yet even now, he was tense with desire and far too aware of her.

She leaned forward, her red, silken hair already falling from its pins, one thick strand curled over her shoulder. “Did you see the inscription on the bottom of the box that holds the vases?”

Even saying something businesslike, she sounded seductive. He forced himself to turn his gaze on the ivory box and its contents. “I don’t see an inscription—ah. Wait.” He moved to one side so that the light caught the faint lines. “I thought this might be Roman, but I can see now that it’s Greek.” He peered at it through his monocle, then finally turned to her. “It’s an unusual—”

The room was empty.

“Damnation!” He raced to the door and almost ran into Mr. Bancroft, who was just entering.

“Ah, Mr. Hurst!” The man’s gaze flickered to the table behind Robert. “I see Mrs. MacJames showed you the box and vases. Astonishing, aren’t th—”

“Where is she?”

Mr. Bancroft blinked and then peered past Robert. “She isn’t here? But I thought—”

“She left. Did you see her?”

“No. I just came in from the terrace, and the hall was quite empty.”

Robert cursed. He whirled back to the room, his gaze sweeping over the long windows. Could she have gone through them? No, he would have heard them open.
Where the hell is she? She can’t disappear in a puff of smoke. She had to
—His gaze locked onto a faint line in the patterned wallpaper. In a trice he was at the hidden door, searching for the latch. “How do you open this?”

Bancroft had followed him across the room and now shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d never noticed that doorway, and—”

Click.
Robert had found the hidden latch and the door swung open, a hidden entrance for servants who might need quicker access in order to efficiently meet their master’s and mistress’s needs.

Robert ducked his head and raced into the small hallway, which quickly grew dark. The passage was narrow, the flagstone floor worn smooth with use, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread let him know where the final door would open. He had to duck his head so as not to hit the wide timbers that occasionally appeared as he made his way. He rushed along and turned a corner, the light disappearing completely. But Robert maintained his speed by the simple expediency of trailing his hands along each side.

Urgency pressed him forward. He couldn’t let her escape.

“Mr. Hurst!” Bancroft called after him. “When you see Mrs. MacJames, please remind her that the items must be ready soon and . . .” The voice faded as Robert ran down the twisting hallway.

The fool. Moira MacAllister was gone and would never reappear. She
had
to know something about the onyx box; he’d seen a flicker in her gaze.

Robert cursed as he stumbled down a step, twice bumping his head painfully when an especially low beam crossed the ceiling. The hallway ended at a small door that swung open to reveal the kitchens.

At his entrance, several undercooks turned and stared in astonishment.

One stepped forward. “Pardon,
monsieur,
but you are lost, no?”

Robert brushed a cobweb from his shoulder. “Did you see a woman come out this door?”

“
Oui
,” gulped the cook. “She ran through and went on to the stables.”

“How do you know she was heading for the stables?”

“Because she took an apple for her horse.”

Robert muttered his thanks and ran out the door. The stables were set across the small
cobblestone courtyard, and he rushed inside and collared the first groom he saw. “Have you seen Mrs. MacJames?”

At the man’s blank stare, Robert added, “An attractive redhead.”

The groom’s expression cleared and he said in a thick Scottish brogue, “Och, tha’ one. She had a mount already saddled and took off like the hounds o’ hell were after her.”

“Blast it!” Robert looked out the stable doors toward the long drive that led up to the house. “Send someone for my carriage. I left my groom walking the horses in the drive and—”

“Lor’ love ye, guv’nor, but ye’ll no’ catch her in a carriage. She dinna go down the drive, but tha’ way.” The man nodded over Robert’s shoulder.

He turned and his heart sank as he faced the wide fields that led into a thick copse of woods.

“Aye,” the groom continued, admiration coloring his voice. “She took tha’ horse right o’er the fence and through the field. Tha’ lassie rides like the wind. She’s a crackin’ good horsewoman.”

“She’s a royal pain in the ass.”

The groom chuckled. “Och, most women are.”

Robert walked out toward the high fence that bordered the field, his gaze on the copse of trees. The wind stirred their leaves, but no other
movement enlivened the moment. He fisted his hands, struggling to contain the anger that threatened to choke him.

She’d escaped yet again.

With a muffled curse, he turned on his heel and strode to his carriage.

A letter from Robert Hurst to his solicitor on the first anniversary of his marriage.

Enclosed you will find payment for researching the questions I had regarding my unfortunate marriage. While there are options available to release me from it, all of them seem likely to result in public embarrassment.

I do not find that acceptable.

Therefore, I’ve decided not to pursue any action at the moment. My “wife,” after tricking me into giving her my name, has since blessed me with her absence. If I must be saddled with such a scheming gypsy, at least she has the good sense to stay far, far away.

T
hick fog hung over the degenerate alleys and narrow dockside streets of Edinburgh, as if to hide their shame. Dampness clung to the cobblestone, trailing up walls and wisping against Moira’s skin like clammy, ghostly fingers.

She tried to shake the gloominess from her mind, but the dank mist suited her feelings exactly. It had been over a week since her run-in with Robert Hurst, yet those few moments had changed something, made her vulnerable in a way she hated. Without even trying, he’d made her feel as weak-kneed as a new bride. Moira was many things, but weak was not one of them. And right now, she had to be stronger than she’d ever been before.

Robert was still here in Scotland, trying to discover her direction. He’d never find it, though.

She was always thorough in hiding her trail.

She tugged her hood over her head, hiding her face in the shadows, and paused on a corner to
squint into the mist. She’d already gotten lost once; she couldn’t afford to do so again.

From an alleyway came the sound of raucous, drunken laughter as two men stumbled into the street. One of them noticed her and made a comment that sent his companion into guffaws of laughter. She ignored them and hurried on, her head down.

She turned a corner and pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped around a ragged figure crumpled on the ground, reeking of gin and unwashed flesh. She paused and looked at the poor figure. Did the man or woman—it was difficult to tell among the rags and matted hair—need assistance? Had they been attacked and perhaps left for dead? There were thieves and worse about.

She slipped her hand to the small pistol strapped to her waist under her cloak. It was a lovely pistol with delicate scrolling etched along the grip, the barrel slender and short. The pistol was so small that it was of use at only very close range. Still, she was more than proficient in its use and had found it more than sufficient for protection. With a careful glance into the shadows, Moira bent to shake the bony shoulder.

The figure stirred, revealing a woman’s dirty face.

Moira knelt beside her. “Are you well, missus?”

The woman blinked rapidly and then coughed loudly. “Och, I jus’ falled.” She waved Moira on, as if annoyed to have been awakened, then tucked herself into a tighter ball in the middle of the walk.

Moira returned her pistol to its sheath and continued on her way. As she reached the corner, the huge clock that overshadowed the square tolled, deep and melodious.

I’m late! God, no!
Her heart thudded sickly in her throat as she dashed down the street to the churchyard. Beside the low iron gate sat a large black coach, malevolent in the mist. Moira pressed a hand to her chest, her heart beating with a lonely, deep ache.

I must be calm. I must control this situation and stay strong.

Hands fisted at her sides, she walked across the courtyard. As she approached the coach, she pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair. The mist parted and the coachman yelled for her to halt.

The crest seemed to leer down at her, a red sun overlaid by a stag wearing a circlet of white heather. She hated that crest, yet longed to see it with all of her heart.

The coachman climbed down from his seat
past two burly footmen, and went to the door. He knocked briskly upon the curtained panel. A moment later, it swung open and a man stepped out.

George Aniston was dressed like the veriest dandy; his blond locks combed just so, his cravat an impressive size and set with a glittering ruby, his knitted trousers striped in the current fashion.

His petulant scowl made him look half his age. “You’re late.”

“The mist confused me. If I could have come by carriage—”

“You know the rules.” His voice was as youthful as his figure, his face as smooth as a schoolboy’s. When she’d first met him, she’d made the mistake of thinking him weak, foolish, and lacking in capabilities.

She’d only made that mistake once.

“So the box wasn’t there, was it?” he asked.

“You don’t look surprised.”
Of course, he already knew it wasn’t there.
She hid the bite of disappointment. Knowledge was power, but with Aniston she could never get ahead. He always knew. It was one of the things that made him so dangerous.

“After you left town, I received word that the artifact I seek was sold to a collector in the highlands.”

“So Bancroft never had it.” Anger simmered through her. “You sent me on a wild-goose chase.”

He shrugged. “I can send you on any sort of a chase I wish. I
own
you.”

No, you don’t.
No one
owns me. Ever.
She burned to rage at him, but there was more at stake than her pride. She said in a tight voice, “I could have done more good elsewhere.”

“Perhaps. I sent you to fetch a different onyx box almost a month ago. If I remember correctly, you failed at that small service, too.”

He called making her an accessory to blackmail a “small service,” and she feared that to him, it was nothing more.

She met his gaze evenly. “Don’t blame me for that. You didn’t tell me Miss Beauchamp had William Hurst with her.”

The heavy lids drooped over the icy blue eyes. “I didn’t expect that development. Still, I would have thought that for someone with your . . . skills, a little surprise like that wouldn’t have been insurmountable. And then there was the time you told me that you’d found one of the boxes in a collection in Edinburgh, but then found you were mistaken.” His gaze narrowed. “I still find that tale difficult to believe.”

“It wasn’t the same style of box. It was gold and
onyx, but far too large.” She met his gaze steadily though it cost her dearly. She hadn’t dared tell him the truth–that she’d had one of his precious boxes in her grasp and it had disappeared from her lodgings. Of course, now she knew what had happened, but at the time she’d had no good explanation as to why the box had gone missing and couldn’t risk him thinking that she’d sold it, or worse, and so she’d lied.