the top of her hand, distracting her.
“And are ye, my lord?” asked Marchbank.
Hamish’s attention flicked to the celebrant, and he smirked. “Aye.”
“Verra good. And do ye have a ring for yer bride, Lord Sleat?”
Hamish’s gaze returned to Olivia. “Aye. I do.” He released her hand and tugged the ruby-and-gold signet ring off his little finger.
Olivia shook her head. “Oh . . . oh, you don’t have to—”
“Lass, I want to.” Without the celebrant’s prompting, Hamish continued in a solemn yet smooth-as-velvet voice as he slid his ring onto Olivia’s left ring finger, “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”
Olivia had to force herself to breathe again. The ring was warm and heavy on her finger, and the dark red ruby glinted in the firelight. For a man who’d asserted this was to be a marriage of convenience, the intensity of Hamish’s expression, the gravity of his tone, suggested otherwise. He might not love her, but he was taking this commitment very seriously. And perhaps he was simply trying to reassure her that he’d honor the deal they’d both agreed to. That he would protect her until she could claim her own independence.
Mr. Marchbank nodded and smiled. “Verra good. Now it’s time for the handfasting.”
Handfasting? Olivia’s interest was piqued as Marjorie stepped forward to relieve her of her heather bouquet, and the ruddy-faced celebrant pulled a long tartan sash from somewhere inside his coat. “Take yer bride’s hand, my lord,” he instructed. “And hold it between ye so that I might bind ye together.”
Hamish immediately entwined his fingers with hers in an intimate clasp. His skin was hot, his palm calloused, and Olivia’s flesh tingled.
If this were a real marriage in every sense, Hamish would be touching her in the most intimate of ways with those large hands of his. Worshipping her with his body as he’d just stated when he’d placed his ring upon her finger.
Regret pooled in her chest. She really shouldn’t have stopped him from kissing her that night at the Hart and Hare.
If he had kissed her, would their arrangement be any different now?
Mr. Marchbank wrapped the tartan sash securely about their joined hands. “Ye need to make yer promises to each other now,” he said, then turned his attention to Olivia.
Olivia drew a deep breath and dutifully repeated her vows as best she could. “I, Olivia Grace de Vere, here-hereby take thee, Hamish Torquil MacQueen, to b-be my husband. And thereto I plight . . . I plight thee my troth.”
Beneath the tartan sash, Hamish gave her fingers a light squeeze. His voice was sure and strong as he declared, “And I, Hamish Torquil MacQueen, hereby take thee, Olivia Grace de Vere, to be my wife. And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Mr. Marchbank beamed his approval. His chest puffed out as he announced in a suitably officious tone to the small gathering, “Forasmuch as Hamish MacQueen and Olivia de Vere have consented to be wed, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by the giving and receiving of a ring, and by the fasting of hands, I pronounce that they be man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Leaning forward, he winked at Hamish. “And as we like to say here at Graitney Hall, ye may now kiss yer bonnie bride, my lord.”
Olivia’s breath quickened, and her pulse fluttered like butterfly wings against her throat. A kiss wasn’t usually part of a traditional marriage ceremony as far as she knew. But this wasn’t a regular wedding, and they weren’t in a church.
If this was to be a marriage of convenience, this might be her only chance to share a kiss with Lord Sleat. And she’d wanted to do this for the longest time. She would be mad to pass up the opportunity.
Olivia raised her eyes to Hamish’s face. “Well . . . well, if it’s customary, my lord,” she murmured huskily.
His mouth twitched with a smile. “Who am I to stand in the way of a local tradition?”
He raised his free hand and gently cupped her jaw. As the pad of his thumb stroked along her cheek, his gaze fell to her mouth, and when he began to lower his head, Olivia closed her eyes.
The press of his lips against hers was warm and firm. A