And even though she might not be able to speak them, lest the priest and Laird McGregor overhear. She was able to think them.
I will continue to honor and obey ye, God. I will nae forsake ye, and will continue to walk in the steps ye have laid for me. I will remain pure, promisin’ meself only to ye.
I will find a way out of this marriage, maintainin’ me virtue. And I will find a way back to yer house, where I can dedicate me life to ye fully, the way that ye have always intended.
Laird McGregor moved forward, taking Emilie’s hand in his. The warmth of his touch pulled her from her thoughts, from the internal vows she was making to God above.
Before she could protest, the handfasting rope was wrapped around her wrist. The priest began to wind it around their clasped hands, winding it over and over as the handfasting ceremony was performed.
Emilie had heard of it, whispered as if it were something romantic from some of the other girls who had come to the abbey having already attended a wedding. But Emilie did not find it romantic in the slightest.
The rope chafed against her skin, the fibers digging into her wrist. She imagined them slipping into her flesh, embedding themselves as tiny reminders of the promise she was making to the stranger before her.
Emilie’s fingers began to tingle.
I want me hand back. I daenae want to do this.
She fought against the urge to rip her hand away, wishing nothing more than to pull it from Laird McGregor’s touch.
Her eyes focused on him. His aloof, gray eyes watched her almost wearily.
His face might be handsome, but his eyes have nae soul.
“Such as this rope has bound ye,” the priest droned on, his nasally voice echoing in the nearly empty nave. “So shall yer vows to each other. I now pronounce ye man and wife. Ye may kiss yer bride.”
Emilie’s stomach went sour. In all the time she had spent thinking of her impending wedding, she had forgotten about the kiss.
Her heart was racing, her eyes searching the face of the man before her. An amused grin tugged up the corners of his mouth, and Emilie’s heart ran cold.
Nay. I daenae want to do this. What about me promise to God? What about….
“Nice to meet ye, wife.”
Laird McGregor’s voice was like poisoned honey. It was deep and intoxicating, filled with dark implications that made something tug low in her belly.
It also made her want to lean in, despite the protest going on in her mind.
The Laird moved forward, his hand still wrapped around hers, tugging them closer. Emilie’s entire body was on alert, every nerve within her firing quickly as Archer Lynch leaned in.
And then, his mouth met hers, driving all thoughts from her mind.
CHAPTER THREE
Christ, but she looks like an angel.
The thought shocks Archer as his lips leave his wife’s, staring down into her beautiful, open face.
It was true, though. Something that he couldn’t deny.
Emilie’s long chestnut hair and cornflower eyes, along with her tall, curvy body—it was as if God himself had reached inside Archer’s mind and plucked out his deepest desires and brought them to flesh.
She was staring up at him now, her blue eyes wide and filled with an emotion that he could not entirely place.
A soft, timid applause filled the air, and Archer looked up. Marcus and Paisly were in the pews, bringing their hands together as they beamed at him.
They have nay reason to be this excited. It’s nae like me marriage will be anythin’ like theirs.
Emilie’s parents stood on the opposite side of their aisle, their grim faces watching every step they took as he and his new wife walked back toward the church opening.