God. She was slick. Slick and hot and ready for him.

As Ranald rubbed himself against her slit, his pulse pounded in his temple, his cock ached with need, his heart rejoiced.

She’d been so responsive. So open. So welcoming.

He’d loved making her lose control, his lovely, guarded Anne. He’d loved making her cry out and whimper and plead.

Now it was time to answer those pleas. He could only hope he could control himself, hold back his frenetic passion until he could bring her to climax again.

He had his doubts.

He’d waited far too long. He’d loved her for so long.

With a deep breath, he fisted his cock and guided it home.

A shudder took him. God, she was tight. Wet. Perfect.

He continued his advance until he was seated fully, then he froze, waiting for her to open her eyes. When she did, there was a frown on her face. “What’s wrong?” she snapped.

“Ach. Nothing’s wrong, wee Anne.”

“Why did you stop?” Was she pouting?

“I wanted to make sure I’m no’ hurting you.”

There was no call for her to smack his shoulder. “It felt wonderful . . . until you stopped.”

She delighted him so, he couldn’t help teasing. Just a little. “Ach. Do you want more?”

Her frown intensified and she arched her back. “Yes, damn you.”

“Such language,” he whispered in her ear. “Whatever would Esmeralda say?”

Ach. Probably the wrong thing to say.

She stilled and yanked his head up by the hair so she could glower at him. “How can you think of her at a time like this?”

“My apologies.” Though he was anything but repentant. One had to have thoughts to be repentant. He made a small movement to distract her, one that he knew found that bundle of nerves deep within her, because she sank her fingers into his scalp and growled. “Yes,” she huffed. “Yes.”

He had every intention of teasing her more, but just then, she clutched him with her velvety muscles and her crazed response lit a fire in his gut.

“God, Anne,” he groaned. He took hold of her hips, raised her up, and yanked out.

She wailed in protest, but he reversed direction and sank deep again.

Her shudder was worth the effort. Her body closed on his cock in an exquisite and agonizing grasp. He grit his teeth and pulled out and thrust again. And again.

He became a rutting beast then, fucking his woman with a fury that made his head go light, made shivers dance on his skin, made sweat bead at his temple.

And—glory be—she was right there with him. His wild woman. His mate.

They rose together, to those blinding heights, she scratching at his back in her frenzy and need, and he barely hanging on.

He knew when she crested. Her body seized on him in a series of agonizing quivers, her eyes went wide, and she threw back her head with a silent cry.

Relief—utter and glorious—gushed through him and he let go the tight hold on his reins, launching into a series of hard, fast thrusts, each one of which pushed him higher and higher into the ether.

When he exploded, filling her with jet after jet of hot seed, she held him, stroked him, and murmured comforting words.

It was, without exception, the most enchanting moment of his life.

He lifted his head, though it took some effort, and kissed her on the lips as they both gasped for breath and fought to calm their beating hearts.

He cupped her cheek and brushed back her hair and stared at her.

His Anne.

God. He loved her.

But he didn’t speak the words. It was far too early for that.

Besides, they had all night.

And more.

* * *

Hamish waited impatiently in the common rooms of the Yorkshire inn. He’d expected Ranald to be up at first light and ready to go, but when he’d knocked on his friend’s door, he hadn’t answered.

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.”

“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.

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.