Page 66 of The Scot Who Loved Her

A moment later, Malcolm and her father came out of the study.

“Daughter, if you would.” Why did her father have to look so downtrodden?

Olivia rushed forward, her mother on her heels. They entered the study, Malcolm behind them. He shut the door, leaning against it as her father faced her.

“Malcolm has asked for your hand in marriage. Is this what you want?”

Lady Helvellyn gasped, her hands covering her face so Olivia couldn’t tell whether she was elated or horrified. Probably a little bit of both. After all, she had wanted to marry Olivia off. But not to a Scot.

Olivia braced herself, prepared to tell them exactly everything she felt. “Yes. And if you deny me, I will marry him anyway. I will run—”

Her father held up his hand, ceasing her tirade. “I have not denied him. He says he loves you. And despite his Scottish blood, he is a good man. He has done right by our family and is well respected by those in London.”

“Papa,” Olivia said, straightening her shoulders. Though her father had agreed, him telling everyone how much he hated Scots needed to end now. “He’s as Scottish as you are, and it’s high time you accept that being Scottish is not a curse.”

Lord Helvellyn nodded with a grimace, though he seemed resigned, if not understanding. “Aye, lass.”

She’d never heard her father dip into his childhood accent before, and she was surprised to hear it.

Her mother sobbed openly.

“Thank you, Papa,” Olivia said. “I’m glad I have your consent to marry the man I love.” She turned to face Malcolm and then approached him, not caring that her parents were there. She grabbed his hand in hers. “I’m so glad you came back.”

“Since we’re in Scotland,” her father continued, “we’ll not need to follow the typical English formalities of reading the banns. The two of you can be married tomorrow if you wish.”

“What about right now?” Olivia said with a wide grin. She didn’t want to wait a moment longer to be Malcolm’s wife; though she doubted it was possible, she couldn’t help voicing her urgency.

“Now?” her mother wailed, fanning herself so hard she might take flight.

“Right now,” Olivia said.

“Now,” Malcolm said with a grin.

“I’m not certain the priest will be awake,” her father said.

“He’s awake,” Malcolm said.

“How do you know that?” her father asked.

“The whole village is still awake, eating and drinking on the War Office’s dime.”

“Then to the village, we shall go,” Olivia said.

So they did. The entire house party rode out to the village in the middle of the night, and Olivia and Malcolm were married right there in the middle of a rowdy pub full of rowdy people.

And it couldn’t have been more perfect.

17

Everything had happened so fast, as though a whirlwind had come through Olivia’s life and spun her and spun her and spun her until she’d been plopped into this bedroom with Malcolm, the door shut, and everyone aware that he was there with her.

As her husband.

He’d given her the choice of his room or her room for their wedding night, but what she fancied requesting was—couldn’t they ride away to somewhere else?

But it had been only a few hours before dawn when they finally returned to the estate, and forcing either of them to ride out would have been dangerous.

“Olivia.” Malcolm’s voice was gruff, and when she glanced at him, all the breath in her body came out in a ragged whoosh.

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