Page 112 of The Highlander Is All That

In fact, it served Ranald right.

Although, when he woke up in the middle of the night, Ranald was nowhere to be found.

Anne was ill the next day, though she insisted they push through. They were too close to their goal to wait any longer, she announced. And though Ranald was palpably concerned, he knew better than to argue with her.

Thank God for small favors.

Hamish was impatient too.

This leg of the journey seemed to be the longest, probably because they were all anxious at what they might find. Or not find.

When they arrived at Gretna Green, the first thing Ranald did was set Anne up in a room at the inn—because she had become decidedly green—and then the two men headed for the church to see if a woman of Mary’s description had been recently married. If the answer was no, Hamish wasn’t sure what to do next. They could have passed Mary and Jamison on the road, or the lovers could have gone to Paxton Toll or one of the other border towns known for elopements.

Unfortunately, no one at the church recognized Mary from the miniature Anne had brought, which was disheartening.

How terrible would it be to have to report to the duke that they’d lost one of his ducklings?

“What now?” Bower asked, rubbing at his beard with his palm. After nearly a week of travel, they were both unkempt.

“Blacksmith?”

His friend sighed and nodded, and they plodded over to the shop, which was also known for performing weddings. They had a little more luck here as the blacksmith, peering at the miniature through one eye, said, “Aye. I think I remember her.” But he couldn’t give them any information on where Mary and Jamison might have gone.

That was one of the benefits of elopement. The secrecy of it all. And though Gretna Green was a smallish village, it had become somewhat of a destination of late, bringing in hundreds of couples seeking to circumvent Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act.

In the end, they got nowhere.

As they headed back for the inn, tired and dispirited, Ranald sighed. “I doona know how I’m going to tell her.”

“Esmeralda?” Hamish asked.

His friend shot him a puzzled glance. Then his expression cleared. “Nae. Anne. She’ll be devastated. She’s been so worried about her sister.” His tone was ragged and through the words, his adoration for Anne was clear.

“Ah.” Hamish said nothing more. Though he longed to scold Ranald for his indiscretion, he had no room to talk after what had transpired between himself and Elizabeth.

At the thought of her, a pain shot through his chest and he swallowed heavily.

She would be married by now.

Lady Twiggenberry.

What a horrible notion. It made his stomach churn. His heart ache. His head throb.

He tried to push her from his mind—she’d made her decision, and he would respect it—but it was difficult.

Ranald dragged his feet all the way back to the inn, but when they stepped into the common rooms, they heard a sound that made them both perk up. It was a trill of laughter—Anne’s laughter, to be precise—which was surprising in itself. Anne was somber and serious on a good day, and lately she’d been bordering on morose . . . when she wasn’t staring into Ranald’s eyes and mooning.

Bower shot Hamish a curious glance, and they both bolted for the common rooms . . . where they stopped short and stared.

At Anne and Mary, sitting at a rough-hewn table in the wilds of Scotland . . . having tea.

Anne spotted them and leaped to her feet. “Oh, look, Ranald! I’ve found her.”

Ranald? Hamish nibbled his lip.

“Can you imagine? They are staying at this very inn!”

“That is wonderful,” Ranald said, opening his arms to Anne and twirling her around.