EPILOGUE.

As the theater curtain fell closed, the crowd flew to their feet as one. They whistled and stamped, yelled and shouted, and rained coins and flowers upon the stage.

The reaction from the boxes was equally enthusiastic, though more muted. In the largest box to stage left, Mary Hurst wiped her tears and then turned to her brother. "William, she is magnificent."

"Yes, she is." He knew that his grin was probably so wide as to appear ridiculous, but he didn't care. Marcail was now his, and nothing else mattered. They'd wed two days prior in a private ceremony in her grandmamma's garden, attended by Marcail's four sisters and all of his siblings. Neither of Marcail's parents had come, but both of William's had-a surprise that had made Marcail burst into tears of joy.

Nothing could have cemented her relationship with his family more, and William had felt like a giddy schoolboy ever since.

Tonight was Marcail's final performance for the season, before the theater changed their headline performance to an Italian opera. To William's delight, his bride had almost two free months ahead.

The Earl of Erroll came to stand beside Mary. "I've never seen Lady MacBeth better played. Will Marcail continue to act, now that you're married?"

"Yes, for as long as she wishes." He stood to go. "I must leave. We set sail on the morning tide to win Michael's release." He shook Erroll's hand. "Your cousin did well with the subst.i.tutions; they are very well made."

Erroll looked pleased. He and his cousin had had a falling out several months before. William didn't know all of the details, but had gleaned that Neason had been stealing some of the lesser artifacts and selling them on the black market.

"Neason is a good man," Erroll said now. "Just weak."

Mary nodded. "He is to return to New Slains Castle and live with us, as he should." She shot her fiance an arch look. "We have very big plans for him, don't we?"

"Very. Once Robert returns to London, he's promised to take Neason under his wing and teach him how to successfully-and legitimately-sell the artifacts we don't wish to keep."

William nodded his approval. "That's an excellent idea."

"Have you heard from Robert?" Mary asked.

"Not a word. He must still be on the trail of his elusive redhead."

"Do you think he'll find her?"

"He won't quit until he does. He believes she holds the final piece to our treasure map."

"In the meantime, I suppose all we can do is wait," Mary said in a disgruntled tone. "There are aspects of this affair that have not ended up to my liking." She scowled. "And George Aniston is one of them."

Some of William's happiness faded. Marcail had been right saying that Colchester would set Aniston aside when his dastardly actions were known. William had been determined to have the b.a.s.t.a.r.d locked away, but after talking to his solicitor, he realized there was no way to bring charges against Aniston without dragging Marcail's name through the mud.

William had decided that he'd administer his own form of punishment, but before he could do so, Aniston had packed his belongings and left town. No one knew where the man had gone.

Mary placed her hand on William's arm. "Aniston will get his just desserts. Fate always cleans up her messes. Now go and collect Marcail. I have no doubt she's being mobbed outside her dressing room."

William turned toward the door.

"And William? Promise you'll bring Michael home."

"Of course. Along with the redoubtable Miss Smythe-Haughton. I am most curious about her."

"She sounds like a veritable dragon," Mary said.

"Which makes one wonder." Erroll exchanged an amused look with William.

"Exactly." William left and quickly made his way to the dressing rooms, where Marcail stood surrounded by admirers, looking elegantly beautiful in a white robe.

He watched from the doorway for a while, noting that her expression, though smiling, was cool and distant.

He moved closer, and her eyes found his. A huge smile bloomed over her face and lit her violet eyes, and William needed no more encouragement. He slipped an arm about her waist and gently closed her dressing room door on the crowd.

Once there, with a chair wedged firmly under the doork.n.o.b, William tenderly and with great enthusiasm let Mercail know exactly what he thought of her performance by providing her with one of his very own.

Meet the irresistible Hurst sisters!

Sensible Catriona Hurst from

Sleepless in Scotland in the MacLean Curse series,

where it all began

Her lovely twin sister, Caitlin Hurst, from

The Laird Who Loved Me

also in the MacLean Curse series

Fearless Mary Hurst from

One Night in Scotland,

the first Hurst Amulet novel

And in October 2011, look forward to meeting

dashing Robert Hurst in Seduced in Scotland!

FROM Sleepless in Scotland "You are no gentleman!" Triona said, her voice trembling furiously.

He chuckled, the sound low and husky in the dark. "I never said I was, and you would be wrong to think I wish to be one."

She clenched her hands into fists. "I am done with this! There has been a horrible mistake."

"If there has, it would be your planning to trick a MacLean into marriage."

She swallowed a flash of temper. The man thought she was Caitlyn, and her sister's brash words and actions were reprehensible.

"My lord, allow me to introduce myself once and for all. I am Caitlyn Hurst's sister, Triona Hurst."

His deep laugh was not pleasant. "Yes, the convenient mystery twin. Really, is that the best story you can come up with?"

"It's the truth. I realize Caitlyn's behavior has been terrible. I, too, was shocked when I discovered her plan to trick you into-"

He laughed, the sound rolling over her like a dash of cold water. "Come, Miss Hurst, we both know there is no 'sister Triona.'"

"It's the truth," she replied in a waspish tone, clenching her hands. "If you'd light a blasted lamp, you'd see for yourself!"

Still chuckling, he settled into the corner of the rumbling coach. "There's no need for such games, my dear. I am master of this trick now." He yawned. "Because of your silly plan, I had but an hour of sleep last night and was up with the sun. You may entertain me with your faradiddles when I awake."

Triona ground her teeth. The wretch was going to sleep? "Look, MacLean, I refuse to just sit here while you-"

"You don't have a choice," he replied, an edge of impatience to his voice.

"I'm not going to accept this simply because you-"

"Enough."

His dangerously low, flat voice doused her irritation with cold reason. She was alone in a dark coach with a man she knew very little about, and what she did know wasn't promising. Her grandmother's tales about the MacLeans' storm-inducing temper and Aunt Lavinia's warning about the man's pride told her challenging him directly would be a poor decision.

To some extent, she was defenseless-though a woman of intelligence could always find some sort of weapon. She flexed her foot, thinking that her pointed boot could be used to good effect. It wasn't much, but it replenished her sense of calm.

If she wished to escape this little adventure unscathed, she must use her wits. She'd have to make her move when the carriage was still and there might be other people nearby-decent people, she hoped, who would help a woman in distress. "My lord, I suggest we find the nearest inn and repair there to discuss this unfortunate happening."

"There is no inn on this stretch of road, but I plan to stop within the hour. Meanwhile, I've ridden all day and I'm tired, so I am going to sleep." His voice deepened as he added, "Unless, of course, you are offering to entertain me with more than senseless babble?"

"Entertain? How could I-" Realization dawned, along with a flood of heated embarra.s.sment. "I'd rather eat mud!"

He chuckled, the sound as rich as it was unexpected. "Then hush and let me sleep." He shifted deeper into the corner, though his long legs still filled more than his fair half of the s.p.a.ce. "Sleep, Caitlyn or Caitriona or whatever you call yourself. Sleep or be silent."

Fuming, Triona hoped the lout would be in a more accommodating mood once he'd slept. She tugged the blankets around her from neck to toe and settled into her own corner.

As soon as they reached someplace with a lantern, MacLean would realize his error and send her home. Meanwhile, all she could do was rest. The mad race to reach London, then the disappointment of failing to find Caitlyn twice over, had exhausted her. Her body ached from the roughness of the ride, too.

She turned toward the plush squabs, slipped her hands beneath her cheek, and willed herself to relax.

Yet she found herself listening to the deep breathing of her captor and wondering dismally where Caitlyn might be. Had her sister changed her mind at the eleventh hour? Or had something befallen her?

Worried for both Caitlyn and herself, Triona shifted, exhausted yet unable to rest. Her knee ached, her body still thrummed from MacLean's kiss, and her lips felt swollen and tender. She lifted a hand to her mouth, shivering at the way it tingled.

No one had ever dared kiss her before. Father's stern presence had protected her from many things, she realized, and in a way, it was rather sad. She was twenty-three years of age and had never been stirred by pa.s.sion.

Triona frowned, realizing she was sorry for her lack of experience; a moral woman should be scandalized. She couldn't dredge up a bit of outrage, though.

The kiss had been ... interesting. MacLean had been thorough and expert, a trait even an inexperienced kisser could recognize, and she thought she might enjoy kissing under different circ.u.mstances. She might enjoy it a lot, in fact. After all, what harm could come from a simple kiss?

She yawned. The rocking coach and the deep, soft cushions cradled her as they raced through the night, MacLean's deep breathing soothing her. Soon, sleep claimed her and hugged her into blissful nothingness.

Triona awoke, slowly becoming aware of the rocking of the coach, the creak of the straps overhead, and the incredible warmth engulfing her. She stirred, rubbing her fingers against the rough pillow beneath her cheek. She frowned at the roughness; then her fingers grazed something hard. She opened her eyes to find herself in a carriage, enveloped in dim light from a dim lantern, and blinked at the object at her fingertips.

It was a b.u.t.ton. A mother-of-pearl b.u.t.ton.

On a pillow?

Bemused, her gaze traveled from the b.u.t.ton upward, to another b.u.t.ton, to a wide collar and a snowy white cravat, and farther-past a firm chin covered with black stubble, over a sensual mouth, to a pair of amused green eyes. MacLean!