The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(62)

Granted, the inn had been raucous last night, and Ranald was a light sleeper. Perhaps he’d been kept awake all night and decided to have a lie-in, but that was very unlike him.

Anne had also not made an appearance.

One thing he’d learned living in the St. Claire home: Anne was an early riser. No doubt the cacophony had kept her awake too.

Not for the first time, he thanked the Gods that he could sleep through a cannon barrage.

Still, he was anxious to be going. Mary had been exceedingly difficult to find. Along the way, they had stopped at each posting station—many of the ostlers remembered them from last time, and how annoying was it to make this journey again?—but no one had any information whatsoever, which led Hamish to suspect they’d missed something critical.

Anne was anxious to find her sister and determined they do so before it was too late, but the journey was clearly taking its toll on her. It was obvious she didn’t care for extended travel.

Yet when she came down the stairs that morning—at long last—she had a smile on her face and a glow about her.

“Good morning,” she chirped.

Hamish stared at her. Was this Anne? Somber, cautious, sometimes gloomy Anne? “I . . . ah . . . did you sleep well?” he asked.

She responded with a wide smile. “Not a wink,” she said as she sipped the tea the server brought.

“Ach. Well. You can sleep in the coach.”

“Of course.”

Silence swelled between them, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her attention was elsewhere entirely. On Mary, he assumed.

“We should reach the border in a day or two,” he offered.

She smiled at him again. “Mmm.”

He had the suspicion she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, but there was no time to think on that because just then Ranald came bounding down the stairs.

“Finally,” Hamish said, leaping to his feet. “The carriage has been ready for hours.”

“Ach, my apologies,” he said, shooting a grin at Anne.

Curiously, she grinned back.

“Did you have trouble sleeping?” Hamish asked.

“Mmm.” Hardly an answer, and oddly reminiscent of Anne’s. Indeed, the two were still staring at each other. And smiling.

The little hairs on Hamish’s neck rose as realization dawned. He leaned closer and studied his friend. And yes. It was clear.

Ranald had had a bath.

And that meant only one thing.

Bluidy hell.

No doubt it was childish of him to be annoyed that his friend seemed to have no problem seducing one of the duke’s cousins, when for Hamish it had been a transgression. But he was annoyed. And more.

His logical mind reminded him that Bower’s situation was far different from his, but his heart told that irritating voice to shut up.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

He tried not to glare at them both as they boarded the coach but failed.

Fortunately, neither of them paid him any mind in the least, so they weren’t even aware of his pique.

Ranald was in a jovial mood all day—he and Anne chattered away like magpies—which was annoying when Hamish tried to nap. But his friend’s mood deflated to something sullen when they arrived at the next inn to discover that there were only two rooms available and that he and Hamish had to share.

Hamish didn’t even pretend sympathy.

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.”