When she finished, she opened the door. “I’m ready.”

Buffon entered again. “Excellent, madame. Your cloak is hanging in the wardrobe. Mr. Hurst is meeting us in the courtyard soon; the coach is ready with your trunks packed and loaded.”

She collected the cloak and pulled it around her.

“We must be very quiet and avoid any servants,” Buffon warned.

He opened the door and they slipped into the hallway, then through the castle. To Moira’s surprise, the entire place appeared to be deserted.

As they walked across the dark courtyard, Moira whispered to Buffon, “What happened to the footmen?”

“The ghost of Balnagown Castle left four kegs of whiskey in the servants’ quarters. Very large kegs.”

“How do they know a ghost left it?”

“He wrote a note saying it was to reward them for their excellent service.”

“They can’t have believed that.”

“Non, madame. But when one is faced with wonderfully aged casks of whiskey, one does not question where they come from. One simply enjoys.”

Her lips quirked. “That was very clever of you.”

“Thank you.”

Moira’s booted feet clicked on the mist-covered cobblestones; the scent of spring heather tickled her nose. Ahead was the coach, the horses’ breath puffy white in the night air.

A muffled pistol shot cracked across the silence, the sound obviously coming from inside the thick castle walls. Moira stopped and sent a wild gaze at Buffon, who continued walking toward the coach.

“It is nothing to worry about, madame.”

“But I heard—”

Another shot rang out.

Buffon took her elbow and gently tugged her on. “Ah, two shots. That is good.”

“Why?”

“Because it means that both participants in the duel got off a shot. It is only fair.”

She came to an abrupt halt, the blood leaving her face. “Duel?”

“Oui. Monsieur could not allow Ross’s insult to your honor.” Buffon glanced at the castle, the light showing respect on his face. “He has a Frenchman’s soul, that one.”

“Buffon, he could be dead or—”

“Monsieur? Pardon, but no.” He pulled her with him, saying in a calm voice, “There is no better shot, no better fighter, no better fencer. I daresay he would wield a battle ax equally well. Efficiently, with deadly force.”

Ahead Stewart stood by the open coach door, looking toward the castle. “Och, it looks as if someone kicked over an anthill.”

Indeed, havoc had broken loose. People were scurrying here and there, excited voices raised.

Moira pressed a hand to her chest. Robert, please don’t be hurt. Don’t be—

Robert appeared from a dark corner of the courtyard and strode toward them, tall and powerful, his black cape swirling about him. The mist seemed to part before him.

Moira closed her eyes and said a quick prayer of thanks.

“Stewart, get us off this mountain as fast as you can.”

“Ye know I’m good fer tha’, sir! Buffon, ye can ride with me.” The groom and Buffon disappeared on top of the coach.

Robert opened the door and assisted Moira inside, climbed in behind her, and banged the flat of his hand on the ceiling. Instantly, they lurched forward. They’d just reached the edge of the courtyard when the front door to the castle opened, spilling golden light across the black cobblestones.