She sat upright, tightening her robe, her cheeks pink. “And what am I to tell Aniston?”

“The truth; that I informed you that it would be a wasted effort.” He lifted his brows. “Or you can tell me what that cretin holds over you, and I will deal with him for you. However you wish it.”

Her lashes dropped as she looked down at the robe sash between her fingers. “No. I will deal with Aniston. He is my problem, not yours.”

Robert shrugged. “Have it as you will.” He went to the door and unlocked it. “When I’ve retrieved that damned box, I’ll return.”

“I won’t be here,” she said sharply.

“Go where you will; I will find you nonetheless.” He smiled. “I always have.”

And with that he was gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

CHAPTER 7

A letter from Alexander MacLean to his brother-in-law, Robert Hurst.

The last time you came to visit Caitlyn, you wondered if there were some interesting research tomes in my library. Naturally your sister would not allow such an innocuous question to rest, and she has combed the shelves to make a list of all of the books that might be of interest to either you or any of your brothers. That is, she has combed all of the lower shelves. She left it to me to do the higher ones.

May I point out that the library is very large? And that this little task took me hours?

It would be easier to cut off my own leg than disappoint my wife, so I must ask that you refrain from ever wondering anything aloud in my house again. Like all of the Hursts, she has no concept of the word “no.”

The luxuriously large coach lumbered down a narrow lane through the Scottish countryside. The verdant hills had given way to mountainous crags that loomed in the distance, white tipped against the gray sky.

Grasping a ceiling strap, Robert stretched his legs, glad that they were within two days of reaching Balnagown Castle, where Sir Lachlan Ross resided.

The last week had been interminable, the roads at times nearly impassable, the days filled with grayness and rain, the inns damp and inhospitable, the food too wretched to think about. He sighed, weary to the bone.

Still, it was worth it: soon he’d have the third and final onyx box in his possession. He smiled. And then the real search for the Hurst Amulet will begin.

Michael had always said the amulet should be in the possession of their family and he’d become obsessive about it. To Robert, it seemed to be family folklore more than anything else. Almost everything they knew could be labeled as fable and hearsay.

Robert wondered if Michael believed the tales that said the amulet had magical properties. According to the story, the amulet had been created by an ancestor, a white witch of great beauty. Then it had been stolen from her by the laird of the MacLean family. In return, she’d cursed the family so that whenever one of them lost their temper, storms would fly. “Ridiculous,” Robert muttered.