A Most Dangerous Profession(53)

Perhaps that was part of their attraction: she was challenged by his closed façade, and he was challenged by the fact that she’d managed to escape him before and could do it again.

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his chin sinking into the folds of his cravat, his expression so relaxed that she had no doubt he’d soon be fast asleep.

How can he sleep right now?

But that was Robert; always cool, never deeply engaged.

She wished she felt the same about him. Despite knowing the danger of caring too much, she was deeply intrigued by him. Of course, it didn’t help that he looked like the romantic hero of every lending library novel she’d ever read: tall, handsome, and beautifully built. Even now, she imagined running her hands over his flat, rippled stomach and muscled arms . . .

She forced herself to look back out the window. She had to control herself if she wished to maintain her role for the next few days.

She cleared her throat. “Judging by this terrain, I should be able to keep Ross occupied for at least a three-hour ride, perhaps more.”

Robert tilted his head back to regard her from beneath the brim of his hat. “That would be a very good start, but don’t take any unacceptable risks.”

“For Rowena, all risks are acceptable.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Rowena will need you alive and well once this is over. From now on, you’ll leave the risks to me.”

Was that a flicker of relief in her green eyes? He couldn’t be sure; her expressions were quicksilver, gone before he had time to register them all.

“Tell me, ma chère, can you play an avaricious collector?”

“A collector?”

“Yes, of all things Egyptian.”

Her eyes brightened. “Ah. If I am excited by them, Ross will be encouraged to bring out his Egyptian antiquities.”

“Exactly. You will be unimpressed by all jewels, artwork, and statuary, unless they’re Egyptian.”

“I can do that. I had a maid once who was crazed about exotic animals. She frequented Astley’s so often that the ticket takers knew her name. Her eyes would glow when she talked about the elephant, the camel, and other beasts.” Moira clasped her hands together, a blissful expression on her face.

Robert laughed. “Yes, that will do very well.”

As quickly as it appeared, the blissful look was gone, replaced by a smug one. “Excellent. We will do this, Robert—I know we will!”

Robert’s smile froze. She’d said “we” as if they were a true couple. He’d been very cautious not to examine the future; it seemed a dangerous thing to do.

The coach turned the final corner and the castle was revealed, thick white clouds settling about the turrets. Moira once again leaned out the window. “It really is a beautiful place.”

Robert looked past her, impressed despite himself. The castle seemed to come from a fairy tale, several stories tall, with well-defined turrets adorned by the Ross flag. Every window seemed to be open, and the wind teased out red and blue velvet curtains, adding splashes of color to the gray stone exterior. But it was the setting that made it truly breathtaking.

The grass about the castle was a riotous mass of wildflowers. Red, yellow, purple, and blue flowers bobbed in the breeze, dancing as if under some sort of spell, while the clouds swirled above.

“I wish Rowena could see this,” Moira said, breathless.

Robert shot her a sharp look. For a moment, he wished he could show her Hurst House. Then he set his jaw and turned away. Hurst House was his secret and no one else’s.

He’d purchased it four years ago on a whim. He’d been traveling between Edinburgh and London when a chance wrong turn had brought him to a beautiful old house, built in the late sixteenth century, of white stone with narrow windows. He’d purchased it immediately and then modernized it, adding water closets, running water, a roof cistern, and a kitchen that would make the most demanding chef quiver with pleasure.

He wasn’t certain why he’d bought it, for it was fit to establish a dynasty. Yet he’d been intrigued, and continued to be so, working whenever he could with his man of business on the improvements. He hadn’t even told his family about it, knowing they’d tease him mercilessly for such folly. He didn’t blame them; had any of them purchased such a grand house, he’d have done the same.

He glanced at Moira again, wondering if she would like Hurst House’s bucolic setting as much as Balnagown’s. Hurst House was perched upon a low hill, majestic and gleaming, the white stone trimmed with thick green ivy, reflected in the series of glassy ponds that stretched before it, along with thick copses of trees.