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“Wheesht,lassie. Ye’re a wee bit addled from yer tumble. We havenae completed the ceremony yet.” Mrs. MacGillivray gathered up a length of tartan cloth and the garnet ring. “Now, where was I? We’re gathered here in my cottage at midday durin’ a blizzard to witness the marriage of Euphemia Sinclair and Andrew Farrington.”
Panic tightened her chest. She darted a glance at her employer. “You cannot mean to do this.”
“Mr. Farrington, do ye take our wee cousin Euphemia to be yer wife?”
“I do.”
Euphemia shook her head. “No.” She turned to the others in the room. “No, he doesn’t.” Back to the bizarrely calm Mr. Farrington. “You don’t. You can’t. You are not Mr. Gibbs. This will ruin you.”
It was one thing for an obscure research assistant to enter a marriage of convenience followed by a quiet annulment—entirely another for a prominent antiquities dealer and future baronet to wed his private secretary then suffer the scandal of a public divorce.
Yet, rather than take the escape she offered, he bit out, “No. I’m not Gibbs. I’m Andrew Farrington. And I take you, Euphemia Isobel Sinclair, to be my wife. To have and hold, for better or worse, in sickness and health, for the remainder of my natural life.” He lowered his head. “And, so help me God, Euphemia, if you do not respond in kind, I shall dismiss you without a reference then return to the inn and thrash Gibbs again for the pure pleasure of it.”
Who was this bronze-eyed, flat-mouthed lunatic? Certainly not the lighthearted man with whom she’d spent the past three years.
Searching his expression, she longed to return to the moment just before she’d left his house in London. He’d been chuckling at her for placing the account book on his desk rather than its usual shelf. She’d explained that she didn’t want him to lose track of anything while she was away. He’d quirked a half-grin and plucked her gloves from the banister where she’d nearly forgotten them. “No. We wouldn’t wish to lose track of anything.”
That teasing moment echoed a thousand others they’d shared. The man was exceptionally easy to like. She’d once heard a group of ladies comment that Andrew Farrington could “charm a dragon silly.” True enough. He was remarkably amusing when he wished to be, grinning that dimpled grin, using his wit to delight rather than demean, even performing tricks with his fawn beaver hat.
But Euphemia knew him better. She’d seen him snag a pickpocket by the collar, only to release the filthy little thief minutes later with a quiet scolding and enough coins to fill the boy’s belly for a fortnight. She’d watched him negotiate with three merchants at once, playing one against the other without them realizing he’d extracted a discount of seventy percent.
She’d seen his cleverness, his toughness. She knew his ease was merely the part of him closest to the surface. But she’d never seen this man. The one who didn’t smile. The one who looked capable of throttling her.
Until now, she hadn’t realized he existed.
She felt his coat slipping down her shoulder. He tugged it back into place.
The gesture stole her next breath.
“Well, lassie?” Henny MacGillivray prompted. “Will ye have this braw man to be yer husband?”
“This isn’t what I intended,” she whispered to him. “I only wanted to finish what I’d begun. We can try offering payment again. Perhaps a higher sum will be persuasive.”
His refined jaw flickered. “Answer the question.”
“You’ve risked scandal enough by hiring a woman as your private secretary. A divorce will damage you far worse.”
“There will be no divorce.”
She sighed. “Annulment, then. As badly as I want to deliver the swan chest to Uncle Arthur, I cannot ask this of you.”
“Say the vows,” he gritted. “Or find new employment.”
A chill ran through her. When put in such stark terms, the choice was simple. “Very well.” She swallowed. Faced her twin cousins. Straightened her spine. “I, Euphemia Isobel Sinclair, take Andrew Edward Farrington to be my husband.”
The remainder of the ceremony passed in a glossy blink. Her mother’s ring fit perfectly. Mr. Farrington’s hands kept hold of hers, warming her fingers with small strokes. At one point, Mrs. MacBean wrapped their hands together with the length of Sinclair tartan. Her milky eye caught a shaft of light and glowed strangely.
“Ye’re wed now, lass,” the old woman said in a voice that had split in two. “May the knot that binds ye never be undone.”
Euphemia’s head felt muddled, likely from wearing wet clothing in a drafty cottage in the middle of winter. Mr. Farrington’s thick wool coat helped. It smelled like him—warm as vanilla, fresh as lemons, crisp as rosemary. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to stop her teeth chattering.
Her hand shook as she signed the letter that would serve as proof of the marriage. Her head swam as she watched the innkeeper and the Ross boy mark their X’s before adjusting their caps in eerily similar motions.
Her heart pounded as she considered that she was now a wife.
A wife.
Her eyes flew to Mr. Farrington—the handsome, charming man who’d never once looked at her with desire. Because he didn’t desire her. He never had. Yet, he was tucking the letter inside his waistcoat pocket as though it were a bill of sale.
