Gretna Greene

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Margaret Pennypacker had chased her brother halfway across a nation.

She had ridden like the very devil through Lancashire, discovering when she dismounted that she possessed muscles she didn't even know existed-and that every one of them was bone-sore.

She had squeezed herself into an overcrowded hired coach in Cumbria and tried not to breathe when she realized that her fellow passengers apparently did not share her fondness for bathing.

She had endured the bumps and jolts of a mule-drawn wooden cart as it made its way across the last five miles of English soil before she was unceremoniously dropped at the Scottish border by a farmer who warned her that she was entering the devil's own country.

All to end up here, at Gretna Green, wet and tired, with little more than the coat on her back and two coins in her pocket. Because-

In Lancashire, she'd been thrown from her horse when it stepped on a stone, and then the dratted thing-so well-trained by her errant brother-had turned and run for home.

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