A Most Dangerous Profession(8)

“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.





CHAPTER 3





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.

Thick 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?”