Two of the bigger men went past them on up the stairs, their heavy feet clomping upon the treads.

Mr. Norris turned to Moira and he said politely, “And now, mistress, if ye’ll stand back, we’ll help Mr. Hurst to his carriage. I know a good doctor.”

Moira carried Rowena downstairs, her heart filled with so many emotions that she couldn’t untangle them, but so worried about Robert that she couldn’t even cry.

And when they were in the carriages, on their way to the doctor, Moira began to pray.

EPILOGUE

Michael Hurst in a letter to his brother Robert, that same day.

I’ve just met William’s wife, and I hear that our sister Mary has also managed to wed. While I do not begrudge them their happiness, it seems that I might have been rescued faster had you not all been busy making love matches.

I hope that I never catch that malady, which steals away common sense and replaces it with fluff.

Moira stood looking out the window. A warm summer wind swirled across the stone drive and made the grass ripple around the pond. It was an idyllic setting and fit Robert’s majestic house. Yet despite the day’s warmth, Moira couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold hand of fate hovered over them all—especially Robert, whose injuries were even more dangerous than they’d first realized.

Moira said another prayer of thanks for Mr. Norris and his quick actions. The rough man had indeed known an excellent physician, who was with Robert even now, a week later.

Moira rubbed her arms and started to turn from the window, when the sight of a carriage racing up the drive made her stop. As the horses clattered to the front door, a small hand slipped into Moira’s.

She smiled down at Rowena. “You’re up from your nap.”

“I didn’t really sleep. I kept thinking about . . .” Rowena glanced at the ceiling, her brow knit.

Moira nodded. “I know. Me, too.” She knelt beside her daughter. “But he’s very strong, and the doctor is with him.”

“He will be fine,” Rowena said, her gaze unafraid. “He told me so, so he will be. I just don’t want him to hurt.”

“Yes, but . . . He had a very bad fever, and the doctor says—”

“He will be fine,” the child said quietly. She put her small hand on Moira’s cheek. “He never breaks his promises. He told me so.”

Moira nodded helplessly, unable to fight a deep, icy cold fear. The doctor had been so grave, so serious. Moira was thankful for Buffon, who not only continually ran up and down the stairs seeing to Robert’s comfort, but also found the time to keep her informed of every development, good and bad.

It said something about Robert that his servants were so obviously fond of their master. They tiptoed about, whispering in concerned tones, and made certain the house was in perfect order for when he finally emerged from the sickroom.