a mistake.”
“You have no choice.”
More tears slipped down Olivia’s cheeks, but she held her ground. Lifting her chin, she said, “All my life I’ve struggled to articulate anything clearly. I’ve lost count of the number of occasions I’ve been disregarded and brushed aside because of the way I am. But hear me now. I love you, Hamish MacQueen—all of you, even your flaws—and I will never give up hope that one day you’ll be ready to acknowledge you feel the same way about me. And that you’re willing to find a way for us to live happily together. You . . . you might not believe that you are worth it, but I do.”
And with that, she retrieved her branch of candles and retreated to her room, leaving him alone with nothing but a dying fire and a half-drunk glass of whisky to ward off the cold, lonely darkness that always threatened to engulf him.
CHAPTER 21
At the day appointed for Solemnization of Matrimonie, the persons to be married shall come into the body of the Church, with their friends and neighbours, and there the Presbyter shall say thus: Dearly beloved friends, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of his Church, to joyn together this man and this woman in holy Matrimonie.
The Scottish Book of Common Prayer, 1637
Muircliff Castle, Isle of Skye
September 28, 1818
Olivia was grateful that the next day and a half passed in a flurry of activity as preparations for Isobel’s marriage to Brodie MacDonald went into full swing. Isobel, of course, was simply incandescent with joy that Hamish had accepted Brodie into the family fold. While Olivia found it difficult to witness her sister-in-law’s happiness given the insalubrious state of her own marriage, she was nonetheless pleased for her too.
To ensure that Margaret could attend her daughter’s wedding ceremony, Muircliff’s long-disused private chapel was opened up and cleaned from top to bottom. The flagstones were scrubbed, the stained-glass windowpanes were washed, the altar and wooden pews were polished, and all the carpets were beaten. Fresh bunches of pale pink heather, purple lavender, and rosemary were gathered to decorate the interior of the chapel, and once the preparations were all complete, the cool, sacred space smelled like fresh sea air, beeswax polish, and the wild moors outside.
As Olivia expected, Hamish avoided her whenever possible; he clearly wanted them to begin leading separate lives straightaway. On the odd occasion they did bump into each other, he was scrupulously polite and considerate, but the warmth had left his gaze. Whatever passion or tender emotions he’d hitherto felt for her were gone; he’d either steadfastly buried them or rooted them out completely.
He was conspicuously absent at mealtimes—he took trays in his room or the library. And because he wanted to make sure everything was in order before he departed for London, he also spent a good deal of his time either touring his estate with Brodie and Mr. MacArthur, or holed up in his study, going over the books with one or both of them. It seemed Hamish had decided to let Brodie help manage the vast MacQueen estate, which meant the newlyweds would be staying at Muircliff—a situation both Isobel and the dowager marchioness were inordinately thrilled about.
Most telling of all, the jib door between Olivia’s and Hamish’s bedrooms was locked once more.
It wasn’t until Isobel and Brodie’s wedding ceremony took place that Olivia had the opportunity to spend any length of time with her husband again. Seeing him in all his kilted finery when he first appeared in the doorway of the chapel made her foolish heart long for their estrangement to end.
Of course, Isobel made a beautiful bride; she’d chosen a gown of misty blue muslin for the occasion, and her rich auburn hair was piled high and threaded with seed pearls and delicate ivory ribbon. Tears filled Brodie’s eyes as Hamish escorted her down the aisle. Beneath her lace veil, Lady Sleat dabbed at her own eyes with a delicate lawn kerchief, and Tilda whispered to Olivia that she thought “Lady Bel” looked like a princess.
Olivia agreed. Although her gaze kept slipping to her husband until he joined her on the pew. Even then, he left a careful gap between them, which might as well have been as wide as the Minch. There was no touching of hands or accidental bumping of legs. No sideways glances or brushing of shoulders. And it was his mother he escorted to the