“We’ll find out if that’s true soon enough. Not that I’m particular—as long as you’re a fine breeder, eh? But all right,” he muttered, “just this once. Off with those clothes and into the bed, you hear?”
He went to douse the lamps, stumbling along the way. The moment darkness blanketed the room, Rosie disrobed with unsteady hands and rushed to the bed, jumping under the covers. She lay against the cold sheets, her heart thumping.
You made this bed,the unsympathetic voice in her head said.Now you have to lie in it.
The bed creaked in protest, the mattress sagging beside her.
~~~
Near dawn, Andrew strode into the inn, removing his hat and shaking off the rain. Vicious storms had delayed his journey by half a day, forcing him to take shelter at inns on the way to Gretna Green. He’d barely slept the past three days, catching a few minutes here and there in the carriage, always awakened by a sense of pounding urgency.
Where the devil are you, Primrose?
He’d arrived at Gretna three hours ago—after the closing of the blacksmith shops. He could only hope that the inclement weather had delayed Primrose and Daltry’s journey, and they hadn’t yet had their anvil wedding. He’d gone through the inns one by one, knowing that if the pair had arrived, they would need a place to stay the night. His gut tightened, his boots taking him to the innkeep’s desk, where he rang the bell.
A few minutes later, a bleary-eyed man shuffled to the desk, wearing a dressing gown and sleeping cap. Taking quick stock of Andrew’s garb and bearing, he perked up. “Coming in a bit late, are you, sir? Never fear, I ’appen to ’ave a braw set o’ the rooms suited to a gentleman such as yourself. The name’s Alfred McCready, owner and proprietor o’ the Galloway Arms, where we offer the finest in Scottish ’ospitality—”
“I’m looking for a couple,” Andrew said impatiently. “An older man and a young lady. Have you seen them?”
McCready’s wary expression betrayed that he’d likely been confronted with this scenario before—no surprise since eloping couples formed the backbone of Gretna’s economy. “’Fraid I won’t be much help, sir. It’s been a busy few days on account o’ the weather—”
“Perhaps this will jog your memory.” Andrew dropped a coin purse on the counter. “His name is Daltry; the lady is Miss Kent.”
The innkeep weighed the purse, which quickly disappeared into a drawer. He opened his registry, running a finger down the lines of ink. “No, sir. I don’t see those names.”
“He’s in his fifties, short, balding. She’s blonde—beautiful,” he said tightly.
“Come to think o’ it, that does fit the description of Mr. and Mrs. Jones, sir. They arrived just after noon today and booked the newlywed suite.”
The knot in Andrew’s chest tightened. “Show me to their rooms.”
“Now ye ken I don’t want any trouble—”
“If you do not show me the way immediately, I will bring a wrath down upon this place such as you’ve never seen nor will you see again,” Andrew vowed grimly.
“Yes, sir.” McCready grabbed a metal ring of keys and a lamp and scurried from behind the counter. “Right this way, sir.”
Andrew followed the proprietor up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, the latter’s candle casting ghostly shadows over the dark wood interior.
“Their suite is at the end of the hall—” McCready began.
A scream shattered the night.
Chapter Eleven
Panic propelled another scream from her throat.
“Shh, love, it’s all right.” Hands gripped her shoulders. “Are you hurt?”
Her mind wouldn’t function. Numbly, she stared up at the face whose lines were achingly familiar in the moonlight. “A-Andrew?” she said uncomprehendingly.
“Yes, sunshine. What’s happened? I heard you scream…”
He trailed off, his gaze suddenly shifting to the figure beside her on the bed. The unmoving form whose blank eyes had greeted her when she’d suddenly come awake. A buffle-headed feeling swathed her. Perhaps this was all a dream… oh, please, please,please…
“What’s amiss, sir?” A man wearing a sleeping cap—the innkeeper, she recognized—peered around Andrew, his lamp casting a bright glow. “Holy Mother of God, is he—”
“What happened, Primrose? Tell me,” Andrew commanded.
