A Most Dangerous Profession(74)

Sir Lachlan awoke with a start in his firelit room, panting hard in the grip of a nightmare where the delicious Moira Hurst turned from a sweet temptress into a pistol-wielding goddess of fury.

Ross pressed a hand to where his heart hammered against his chest, wishing his head didn’t pound so as well. He’d drunk far too much port, egged on by that fool Hurst.

Ross was done with them both. In the morning, Moira and that fop of a husband would be gone, fake box in hand. Who would be smirking then?

Well before the Hursts were awake, he’d leave for his hunting just in case Moira had been right about her husband’s ability to spot a fake. Ross had no patience with fusses, and—

A faint noise tickled his ears, Frowning, he lifted up on one elbow as the ice-cold end of a pistol pressed against his forehead.

Startled, Ross found himself staring at Robert Hurst. The man was sitting in a chair that had been pulled beside the bed. Gone was the fanciful fop who’d irritated Ross since arriving; in the fop’s place was a man who knew how to hold a pistol steadily.

“Good morning, Ross,” Hurst said, his usual bored tone replaced by a deep intensity that made Ross’s stomach tighten uneasily. “Having a bad dream?”

Ross cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to tell you good-bye. Oh, and don’t worry about the onyx box. I fetched it myself.”

Ross’s gaze fell on the box sitting in plain sight on Hurst’s knee. It wasn’t the fake one, either. Damn it! “How did you find that?”

Hurst’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. “When I buy something, I expect to get it. And when I don’t, then I make certain I do.”

It suddenly dawned on Ross that this stern, powerful man had been hiding his true self all along. “You play a deep game, Hurst.”

“Not as deep as you. Move your left foot.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Hurst stood, his pistol never wavering.

Ross moved his left foot and touched something hard. “What’s that?”

“The matching pistol to this one. Do you recognize these pistols? They’re quite beautiful.”

Ross pushed himself upright. “They’re my dueling pistols. So you’re stealing them, too.”

“No, I’m not the thief here,” Hurst said insultingly.

“You can’t prove a damn thing, and you know it.”

“I don’t need to. Pick up that pistol. It’s loaded with one bullet. Just like this one.”

A coldness settled in Ross’s head, making his headache all the worse. “Pick . . . pick up the pistol?”

“Yes. Pick it up and rise.”

Ross looked at how Hurst stood, his body relaxed, the pistol unwavering. This man has killed before.

Hands damp, Ross asked, “And if I don’t?”

“Then sit there and die in your bed. No one touches my wife without her permission.” Hurst’s voice was so icy that Ross had to fight a shiver. There was power in that voice, and a deadly cold determination to exact revenge.

Pale with fear, Ross tried to clear his throat. “Hurst, please. I didn’t—”

“Careful, Ross.” The soft voice almost purred. “I’m in a foul mood and another lie will make it worse.” The pistol cocked loudly. “You don’t want that, do you?”

“N-No.”

“Good. Well, Ross—will you pick up the pistol, or be killed in cold blood in your bed?” Hurst smiled coldly. “The choice is yours.”

Ross tried to swallow but couldn’t. He wished with all of his heart that he’d never met the Hursts. But it was too late for that.

“Madame?”

Fighting her way up from a deep sleep, Moira opened her eyes to find Buffon standing beside the bed. The Frenchman was fully dressed, one of her gowns over his arm.

She blinked rapidly. Where was she? And why was Buffon—Ah, yes. She was in Robert’s room.

Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she began to sit up, then realized she was naked. “Oh—!” She clutched the sheets to her, her face and neck ablaze.

Buffon had already turned his back and was facing the door, standing as if at attention. “There is fresh water on the washstand. The chemise and gown I’ve placed upon the chair are from your trunk. Monsieur asked that you dress quickly, for we must go before the footmen return.”

She frowned. “Where is Robert?”