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?”

The woman blinked rapidly and then coughed loudly. “Och, I jus’ falled.” She waved Moira on, as if annoyed to have been awakened, then tucked herself into a tighter ball in the middle of the walk.

Moira returned her pistol to its sheath and continued on her way. As she reached the corner, the huge clock that overshadowed the square tolled, deep and melodious.

I’m late! God, no! Her heart thudded sickly in her throat as she dashed down the street to the churchyard. Beside the low iron gate sat a large black coach, malevolent in the mist. Moira pressed a hand to her chest, her heart beating with a lonely, deep ache.

I must be calm. I must control this situation and stay strong.

Hands fisted at her sides, she walked across the courtyard. As she approached the coach, she pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair. The mist parted and the coachman yelled for her to halt.

The crest seemed to leer down at her, a red sun overlaid by a stag wearing a circlet of white heather. She hated that crest, yet longed to see it with all of her heart.

The coachman climbed down from his seat past two burly footmen, and went to the door. He knocked briskly upon the curtained panel. A moment later, it swung open and a man stepped out.

George Aniston was dressed like the veriest dandy; his blond locks combed just so, his cravat an impressive size and set with a glittering ruby, his knitted trousers striped in the current fashion.