On and on Lady Anne went, describing in endless detail all of the things she thought would amuse a woman of the world, which she plainly thought Moira to be. Though she longed to scream, Moira murmured, “How delightful!” at appropriate intervals.

Lady Anne took this for encouragement. While her hostess babbled on, Moira planned her escape. If Robert thought he could just leave her behind, he was a fool.

She interrupted, “I beg your pardon, Lady Anne, but I think I should return to my bed.”

“Oh, dear! It’s your first day up and you must be tired, yet here I’m babbling on and on.” Lady Anne stood. “I’ll leave you to rest. If you want anything, just ring the bell and Firtha will see to it.”

“Thank you. That’s so kind of you, but I think I’ll sleep for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Very well, my dear. If you’re up to it, we dine at seven.”

“I look forward to meeting the squire. Do you think I might have a bath before dinner?”

“Of course! I’ll send one up now and Firtha will come back at six to help you dress. No late city hours for us here in the country!” With an arch look Lady Anne finally left, Firtha following with the luncheon tray.

Moira waited for the door to close. Then she crossed to the wardrobe, collected a small trunk, and placed it on the bed. It was a large and heavy case, made with iron bands and a heavy wood bottom, all covered with leather. She reached inside, flipped two hidden latches, and removed a thin false bottom. Inside was a complete suit of clothing befitting a gentleman of fashion, a dark wig, a packet of hairpins, and a fat pouch of coins.

She counted the coins, replaced the items, and returned the portmanteau to the wardrobe floor. Perhaps Robert had done her a favor. A lady of fashion traveling in a coach would need two days to reach her destination. A gentleman on a good horse traveling ventre à terre could make the same trip much quicker.

But she was still weak from her illness, so rest was crucial. She slipped back into bed. She’d sleep the rest of the afternoon to conserve her energy, then eat dinner with the squire and his wife. But as soon as her host and hostess were abed, she’d make her way to the stables, and borrow a horse. To assuage her conscience, she’d leave her hosts a letter and a generous portion of the coins.

She snuggled under the covers and curled onto her side, examining her plan for flaws.

It will work. She settled against her pillows and almost immediately fell asleep, dreaming of riding pell-mell across the moors, chasing a black-haired devil with eyes of blue.

CHAPTER 10

A letter to Michael Hurst from his sister Lady Caitlyn Hurst MacLean, two years ago.

Of all the Hursts, you are the most like our grandmother, Mam. No one believes in magic and amulets more. Do you remember the tales she used to frighten us with when we were children? Not for her the soft stories of princesses and knights and good deeds. No, she always told the stories where witches ate bad little children and evil kings ruled their countries by placing a horrid curse upon those who dared rebuke them.