Chapter Nine
Anna shifted in Graeme’s lap, and this time he had to clamp his teeth against a groan of pain. Even with her perfect form pressed against him, he could not ignore the ache in his thigh.
He’d pushed them both hard for two long, grueling days—far harder than he would have liked, given Anna’s discomfort with riding and his own bad leg.
He didn’t dare slow down their pace though. In his mind, obstacles lurked everywhere, waiting to thwart this mad scheme of his.
No doubt Jerome and the others had realized after they’d dispatched the last of the bandits that Graeme and Anna weren’t coming back. Though bull-headed, Jerome was also smart and sharp. He’d known right from the beginning not to fully trust Graeme in Anna’s presence. The fact that Graeme was now whisking Anna away to marry her was proof enough that Jerome had his wits about him.
They’d had at least a few hours’ head start on Jerome and the other guards, but knowing Jerome, he would push the men ruthlessly until he caught up with Graeme.
“Are we almost there?” Anna said, shifting once again in the saddle.
Graeme cursed himself for setting such a punishing pace, but he hoped he would be proven justified.
“Aye,” he said, checking their surroundings once more. The forest had begun to look familiar. He knew they weren’t far outside of Lochmaben now.
They’d managed to turn a three-day’s ride into two in their flight from Jerome, but worse than the man at their heels was what lay ahead of them. When Graeme and Anna had fled from the bandits, they’d ridden hard south. Hoping not to lose any of that time, Graeme had decided that it was best they continue southward, even though it meant heading farther into the Lowlands.
Though Graeme had spent some time in the Lowlands with the Bruce’s army, he was unfamiliar with the location of towns and villages—besides Lochmaben. As the Bruce’s long-standing headquarters of operation, it was the only place with which Graeme had passing familiarity.
Hoping to lose Jerome from their trail, Graeme had kept them away from the roads in favor of the forest.
The problem was, Graeme had no idea where to find the nearest priest and was too cautious to leave the shelter of the forest to seek out a village and ask, fearing that it would slow them down and give Jerome a chance to catch up.
So he’d made the risky decision to go to the only church he knew in the Lowlands—Sweetheart Abbey, the very place Anna was meant to wed Laird Munro a day from now.
It was perilous, aye, but Graeme didn’t know what else to do besides push them toward the abbey as fast as the bay would take them.
Just then, Graeme made out a flicker of red through the dense green trees. He slowed the horse and approached cautiously.
The Abbey of Dolce Cor—or what the Lowlanders called Sweetheart Abbey—emerged from the foliage. Its soaring tower, columns, and long nave were all built with the same red sandstone, making its name even more fitting. Graeme had never seen it before, but he now understood why the magnificent abbey would be considered fit for a Laird’s wedding.
Several white-cowled monks worked in the garden surrounding the abbey. They looked up, wiping sweat from their brows, as Graeme and Anna approached.
Graeme dismounted and tethered the horse, then helped Anna down.
“Still have the missives?” he asked.
She patted the bodice of her dress where she’d tucked away the letters, then gave him a nod.
“Ready?”
“Aye,” she said, her wide blue eyes sure and steady.
He took her hand and walked toward the abbey, ignoring the curious stares of the monks.
When they reached the high, arching doorway, Graeme pulled open the wooden door and stepped inside with Anna.
“Can I help ye with something, my son?” A priest glided down the nave toward them. He wore the same white cowl that the others had over his simple brown habit, and his tonsured head was bowed slightly toward them.
“Aye, Father,” Graeme said, but then he faltered. How could he explain everything that had happened in the last few months—let alone the last few days?
“We are here to be married,” Anna said, straightening beside him. Graeme couldn’t help but smile at her pluck.
“Ah,” the priest said, a knowing look coming into his warm brown eyes. “I understand ye must be eager, young as ye are, to begin yer life as man and wife, but we must read the banns first to ensure that no one can object. There is a proper way to do things, and—”
“Nay, Father,” Graeme cut in. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.”
As Graeme began to explain, Anna removed the two missives from her bodice and held them out to the priest. The priest listened, his gray-brown brows drawing tighter and tighter together as Anna and Graeme described their unusual engagement, Anna’s arranged marriage, and their present urgency to not only confirm that their engagement took precedence, but that they could be married swiftly to ensure that their union could not be challenged.
When they came to the end of their tale, the priest looked up from the missives and fixed them with a matter-of-fact look.
“Have ye…ah…indulged in the Godly union of yer bodies?”
Graeme blinked. He glanced at Anna, who was turning redder than the sandstones surrounding them.
“Nay, Father,” she squeaked. “We havenae.” She darted a glance at Graeme. “We had always planned to wait until our union could be made official.”
The priest frowned. “That is unfortunate.”
“Beg yer pardon, Father?” Graeme choked out.
Now it was the priest’s turn to redden. “Ye see, it is far easier for the church to recognize these…er…unconventional betrothals when more than one condition is met. Each of ye agreeing to marry and pledging yerselves to each other is one such condition.” He held up the missives. “Which ye’ve met—in writing, no less. Another would be to…ahem…seal the union physically. Since ye havenae done that, it may make things more difficult.”
The priest cleared his throat, visibly attempting to regain some of his pious composure.
“I do think there is a chance that this engagement could stand, however,” he went on. “If it did, it would void yer later engagement, child,” he said, turning to Anna.
“Then ye can wed us now, Father,” Graeme urged.
The priest held up a staying hand. “No’ quite, my son. Since this engagement was formed in secret, the banns must be read so that it can be made public. All will go far smoother in the long run if any objections are brought forth before ye are wed.”
“But we have already been engaged for two months according to the dates on the missives,” Anna offered. “Doesnae that count for something?”
“I’m sorry, my children,” the priest replied. “But as I said, there is a proper way to go about this, and I must follow that course.”
Graeme clenched his teeth in frustration, trying to smother his rising anxiety. “I dinnae think I was clear on just how urgent this is,” he said, fighting to keep his tone in check. “Ye see, the lass’s fiancé could arrive at any—”
“Halt!”
The abbey’s wooden doors banged against the stone walls and sunlight flooded in.
Jerome stood silhouetted in the arched doorway.
And beside him strode a graying man wearing Munro colors who could be none other than—
“I am Laird Munro,” the man boomed. “And I demand ye unhand my bride.”