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.
Mary boggled at the sight of her sister in the baron’s arms, but had better manners—or better sense—than to remark upon this. Hamish followed her lead.
Of course, once the celebration ended—which it did quickly—Ranald turned to Mary and frowned. “Young lady,” he said, and apparently those two words were intended to say it all.
Mary, utterly unchastened, grinned. “You know I had to,” she said.
“I know nothing of the sort.”
She batted her lashes. “I did it for Elizabeth.”
Anne took Mary’s hand. “Never say it. Elizabeth was crushed with guilt.”
“Oh, all right.” Mary huffed an unrepentant sigh. “I did it for myself. I love Jamison. With all my heart and I always will.”
Anne blanched. “But Mary, darling. How will you live?”
Mary shook her head. Her curls—so like Elizabeth’s—bobbled. “He’s more than just a footman. He has skills. His father used to manage a farm in Surrey. Jamison is wonderful with horses. We shall make our way. Somehow.” She smiled again and, somehow, glowed.
If this was what love was—blind, hopeful folly—Hamish wanted no part of it.
“Speaking of Jamison,” Ranald said in a gruff tone. “Where is he?”
Mary batted her lashes. “Hiding from you.”
“Ach,” Hamish grumbled. “You’ve married a winner.”
“Nonsense.” Mary sniffed. “I told him to hide until I could explain everything to you. I knew you would be rash.”
“I am no’ rash,” Ranald barked.
Anne frowned. “Is it too late to annul?” she asked.
Mary answered with a laugh. “Far too late for that.” She set her hand on her stomach and Anne seemed to go green again. She hurriedly took a sip of tea, presumably to calm herself.
They did that a lot with tea, these St. Claires. And yet they dared complain about his whisky.
“What I want to know,” Ranald said, taking a seat by Anne’s side, “is how we missed you on the King’s Road. No one saw you, the entire way.”
Mary’s grin was impish. “Because we weren’t on the King’s Road. We took a packet from London to Solway.” Mary sighed. “It was so romantic.”
“I can imagine,” Anne said in a sarcastic tone.
“I don’t get seasick like you.” Mary patted her hand. “I loved every moment.”
“Well,” Ranald said on a huff. “What do we do now?”
“Return to London, I suppose,” Anne said. “We have Victoria and Elizabeth to think about.”
“And Esmeralda,” Ranald reminded her, and they shared a smile.
“Elizabeth is married by now,” Hamish muttered. He glanced around for the innkeeper to see if there was any whisky or ale in the offing.
“Oh, she’s not,” Mary said cheerily.
He stilled. He turned his head slowly and pinned Mary with a tight look. “What?”
“There was a message waiting,” Anne said.
“How on earth the messenger passed you, I have no clue,” Mary said, almost accusingly.
Hamish cleared his throat. “We, ah, went slowly.”
“We stopped at every inn, looking for you, young lady.” Ranald’s glower had no effect.
Because, again, the youngest St. Claire was completely unaffected by the censure. “At any rate, Elizabeth is not married.”
“Why not?” Well, that did not come out the way Hamish intended. “I mean, what happened?”
Mary’s grin was toothy. “Twiggenberry tried to force her so she ran away. No one knows where she is,” she said brightly.
Hamish’s gut clenched. Bile surged into his mouth. No one knew where she was? How was that a good thing?
He glanced helplessly at Ranald, who shook his head. “Blast. As soon as we find one, we lose another.”
“We’ve got to leave immediately. We’ve got to find her!” Hopefully no one noticed the trill of panic in his tone.
Mary blew out a puff of air. “Elizabeth will be fine.”
“She’s alone.” Who knew what kind of trouble she could be in?
“She can take care of herself.”
Hamish stared at Anne. What was wrong with these girls? “She’s just a wee lass.”
To his annoyance, the sisters exchanged a glance and burst into laughter.
“This is Elizabeth,” Anne assured him, although it assured him not at all.
So he ignored her. “We can take the packet back,” he said. “It’s faster.”
Anne’s eyes bulged and she slapped her hand over her mouth.
Mary shook her head. “Clearly that won’t work. I doubt Anne would survive.”
Ranald frowned. “She already has a tender stomach from the journey north.”
“Has she?” Mary frowned and squeezed her sister’s hand. “I am sorry.”
Anne gasped a breath and shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“The carriage movement, I suppose,” Ranald said.
Mary frowned. “You’ve never been ill in a carriage, have you?”
“No,” Anne said.
“Maybe it’s the plague.”
Everyone gaped at Mary. The plague?
“Or the ague.”
A much better suggestion.
“Or the constant swaying.” Anne put her hand to her head. “I feel as though I am still moving.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t travel yet.” Was Ranald’s expression . . . tender?
Mary caught Hamish’s eye with a curious look. He shrugged. He had no idea what was going on between her sister and his friend, and if he did, he certainly wouldn’t tell her.
“We have to find Elizabeth,” Hamish reminded everyone. Were they not paying attention?
“You can travel by packet,” Ranald said. “I’ll take the carriage with the girls.”
Mary shook her head. “Oh no. Jamison needs to get back to work.”
Ranald gaped at her. “Do you seriously think Lady Esmeralda will allow that?”
“She has to,” Mary sniffed. “I need to eat.”
Hamish huffed impatiently. Shall we stick to the matter at hand? “Mary, when does the next packet leave for London?” he asked.
“Tonight, from Solway.” She smiled. “Jamison and I were planning to be on it.”
Finally! Some progress. “That sounds perfect.”
“It has stops though.”
Hamish glowered. “How many?”
She tipped back her head and counted off on her fingers, “Liverpool, Bristol, Falmouth—that’s in Cornwall, don’t you know?” And when Hamish frowned at her, she finished quickly with, “Portsmouth and Dover.”
“Bluidy hell.
“It is a packet.”
“Still faster than the coach,” Ranald said. “Besides, I think Anne may need to rest for a few days before we start back. Do you mind if we stay?”
No. He bluidy hell did not mind. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Ranald did. Or Anne for that matter. He wanted to get back
to Elizabeth. His expression must have spoken for him because Ranald nodded. “That is the plan then. When I return, I will join the search for Elizabeth.” He tapped his lip with a finger. “You might want to ask McCloud and Moncrieff to help in the meanwhile. From all I’ve heard, they are exceptionally accomplished with such things.”
“Finding women?”
“Well, yes, that, but dealing with thorny issues as well.”
Hah. Thorny this was.
“Don’t worry, Hamish,” Mary said when she caught his doleful expression. “I promise you. Elizabeth is fine.”
She seemed so certain, Hamish nearly envied her her naïvety. But no matter what her sisters said, he knew Elizabeth was in trouble. He knew it to his bones. She needed him, and she needed him now.
* * *
Wallace Twiggenberry glared into his glass, and then he glared at Blackworth. “What the hell is taking so long?”
Blackworth tossed back his drink and then lifted a finger for another. They sat in the Reading Room of White’s, an elite and far too costly club, but one a man made sacrifices to attend. “These things take time,” Blackworth murmured.
“I don’t have a surfeit of time.”
“He will come through. I assure you.”
“You said your man was the best.”
“The best I know.”
Wallace shook his head and resumed glowering. “I’ve never trusted these Runners. All low-class brigands.”
Blackworth smirked. “Sometimes one has a need for low-class brigands.”
Well, there was that. And Wallace was definitely in need. He had to find Elizabeth before the truth came out. He was desperate to do so. He would do anything, even hire a Bow Street Runner.
But damn. Why was it taking so long?
Time was running out.
When the headwaiter bustled into the room with a silver salver, his heart jerked.
“My lord,” he intoned with a bow.
“Thank you,” Wallace said, and snatched the missive. He waited until the waiter quit the room. Then he shot a look around to make sure no one was close before he ripped it open.
As he read it, a smile blossomed on his face.
“Well?” Blackworth asked. “Is it what you were looking for?”
“Indeed.” He shot his friend a wicked smile.
“Where is she?”
“Cornwall.” Only two or three days’ ride away.
“Excellent.” Blackworth lifted his glass and Wallace ordered another.
He could afford to now.
He’d found Elizabeth and this time, she would not get away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was difficult for Anne, saying goodbye to Mary, especially after just finding her again. But if they missed this packet, there would not be another for a week, and Hamish, rightly so, was anxious to find Elizabeth.
Anne had had very little time to get to know Jamison, but fortunately they had a chance to talk and it became clear to Anne that he loved Mary with all his heart and he would do anything he could to keep her safe and well.
Because of their choice, their lives would not be easy, but neither seemed to mind.
Ah, young love.
She was glad to be beyond such things.
She was, wasn’t she?
“Are you all right?” She jumped when Ranald’s hand fell on her shoulder, partly because she’d been thinking of him.
“Oh. Of course.”
“How is your stomach?”
She offered a chagrined smile. “Better, now that we’re not moving.”
“And not on a boat,” he jested.
“You have no idea!”
“Do you really get seasick?”
“Terribly! Even a ride in a skiff is a disaster.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I love punting about.”
“I can imagine so.”
“There’s a loch by my manor. It’s great fun to go fishing or boating.”
“You have a manor?” She’d never known. Never asked.
“Aye.” He sat at the table and signaled for an ale. “Creaky old thing. Been in the family for ages.” He leaned in and added, “Hardly haunted at all.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“I like it. And Catriona . . . She loves it too.”
“You must miss her.”
“Aye. I do. But it won’t be long before we have you all married and I can return to her.”
The reminder that he would one day leave hit her and hit her hard. She must have paled because he took her hand. “What is it, Anne?”
“You will go back.”
“Of course I will. It’s my home.”
“I’ll miss you when you go.”
Pain flickered over his features. “And I you.” His hold tightened. “But we doona have to part.”
Her throat closed. She stared at him.
“Could you live in Scotland, wee Anne?”
Oh God. She would be happy anywhere, if she was with him.
The realization floored her. She hadn’t expected this. This . . . feeling. Not so fast. Not so completely.
But this was a foolish whimsy, wasn’t it? Could she really leave her life, her family, and move to Scotland?
“My sisters . . .”
He leaned closer. “We can visit them. I’ve offered Jamison a job, if he wants it. He and Mary are welcome at Bowermadden. So is Victoria. And, for that matter, Elizabeth, if she needs a place to stay.”
It was a tempting thought indeed. But . . . “And Aunt Esmeralda?”
He grimaced and then blew out a sigh. “All right, her too.” Fortunately, Anne could tell he was teasing.
But then, he sobered. “All I know is I want you in my life, Anne. I want you to be my wife. If we have to live in London”—he shuddered—“I can make that happen.”
She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “I’ve never been fond of London.”
“Have you no’? You seem so at home there.”
“I’ve always secretly longed to run barefoot in the grass.”
His expression brightened. “You? No!” His laugh was a melody. “How provident then, that we have grass in Halkirk. The thickest, sweetest grass you ever saw.”
A horrible thought occurred. “What if Catriona doesn’t like me?”
He shook his head. “She will love you. She’s always wanted a mum. But . . .”
“But what?”
“What if you doona like her?”
She set her hand to his cheek, wounded by his worry. “How could I not love her? She is part of you.”
He sat back and blinked. “That sounds a wee bit like a declaration.”
“Does it?” She had to laugh at his expression. “I suppose it is.”
“Ach. I love you, Anne St. Claire,” he said as he leaned over to kiss her.
She broke away as a horrible notion occurred. “What about the duke? What if he doesn’t approve?”
“The duke?” he growled. “The duke be damned.” And then he kissed her again.
They repaired, in haste, to their room and fortunately, no other thoughts occurred. Not for a long, long while.
* * *
“My lady? Did you hear me?”
Elizabeth glanced longingly up the hill at the cottage she shared with Miss Claire. She had heard Lord Hamlyn, but she’d been dreading this conversation for weeks, though it was probably best to face it head on. She sighed and shifted the packages in her arms and turned to him. “My lord?”
“I said, I’m in love with you. Head over heels, totally, utterly in love with you.” The boy dropped to one knee. “Say you will make me the happiest man on earth.”
Elizabeth winced at this lovelorn pronouncement. Oh, he was handsome and gentle and kind—nearly as perfect as a man could be.
But only nearly.
And even though he was tall and handsome and sweet—and titled and rich—Elizabeth couldn’t dredge up a shred of interest in him. Even if she’d had an inclination to do s
o, which she did not.
Aside from that, he’d fallen in love with her on sight, the very day she’d arrived in Cornwall, which she found highly suspect. They hardly knew each other.
She shook her head. “I cannot marry you, Lord Hamlyn.”
“Cary, please.”
No. He would always be Lord Hamlyn. “You must understand . . .”
His hopeful expression deflated. “Did you love him so much?”
“Beyond words.” And she still did.
Not the fictional soldier they’d invented who had (not really) perished in Waterloo, but the faithless Highlander who preferred widows. Which was ironic, considering her disguise. She glanced at Lord Hamlyn and winced. He seemed devastated, which was a little silly. They’d only just met. But he was young and . . . fanciful. She struggled to hold back a maudlin smile. Hamish had once thought the same of her. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Please say you will reconsider.” He stared at her with puppy-dog eyes.
She caught his gaze, allowing her expression to speak for her. And then, with a small squeeze of his hand, she headed back to the wattle-and-daub cottage she shared with Miss Claire on the bluff overlooking the town.
The duchess had had the brilliant idea that Elizabeth travel disguised as a widow to Clovelly, a small village in the Torridge district of Devon where she was to stay with Helena’s retired nurse until the scandal blew over. The ploy was even more inspired when, two weeks after her arrival at Miss Claire’s cottage, Elizabeth began losing her breakfast on a regular basis.
Though she had no idea what was happening, Miss Claire did.
It was a surprise and a delight for Elizabeth to realize she was increasing.
If she had to live her whole life in this lovely seaside town, it would be easier to do it as a widow than a disgraced girl.
Which she was.
Somehow, though, she had trouble dredging up a hint of shame or guilt.
All she knew was happiness. Certainly enough of it to smother her heartbreak.
She would have much preferred to have Hamish here with her, but he was, no doubt, back in the arms of his Scottish widow by now.
She refused to allow such a prospect to dim her joy.
The walk up the steep hill had her panting by the time she arrived. Lately, she’d been tired a lot, no doubt due to the child. She took a moment to lean against the fence and catch her breath. From their yard, she could see the harbor, the cobbled main street snaking through the picturesque town, and the waters of the Bristol Channel sparkling in the distance. Not far from shore, a packet sailed past, probably headed for some exotic port. Sweet sea-scented breezes caressed her face. She closed her eyes and tipped her face to the warm sun. It really was a lovely place to live. She could see why Miss Claire had chosen it. And she felt very lucky to have found it as well.
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