Page 50 of Never Dare to Masquerade with a Maiden

“We are off to Gretna Green before you change your mind,” Warren answered.

“Three days is plenty of time to change my decision,” she countered.

“Is that a challenge to see if I can keep you entertained and ensure you won’t have a change of heart?”

The gleam of mischief left no doubt in Olivia’s mind as to what type of activities Warren had in mind for the journey to Scotland. “I suppose the archbishop was too busy to issue a special license.”

A fleeting thought that she wasn’t worthy was squashed the moment Warren answered, “If you would prefer to be wed by Special License, I’ll arrange it. I thought you would prefer the adventure of leaving town.”

She stared at her husband-to-be. Warren was willing to go great lengths to marry her, and his actions had proven that to be the truth. And remarkably, in ten short days, the man had learned her preferences. Olivia was certain he would grant any wish she made, and she was prepared to do the same for him.

When Warren raised his clenched hand to rap on the coach ceiling, she tugged his arm down and moved to sit upon his lap. “Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For being you. For loving me for me.” Happy tears formed, and before they could escape, Olivia leaned forward and kissed Warren, until the thud of his heart raced beneath her palm on his chest. She silently vowed to prove her love for him over the next three days, as he had proven his over the past ten.

Chapter Eighteen

Standing next to the anvil, the village blacksmith, also known as the priest, asked, “Are ye both of marriageable age?”

Olivia nodded, and Warren answered, “We are.”

With a roll of his eyes, the priest continued, “And are ye both free and willin’ to marry?”

To his surprise, Olivia jutted her chin up and declared, “We are.”

The priest’s brow arched as he smiled. Callused hands reached out to join Warren’s hand with Olivia’s, and the blacksmith held them over the anvil. One of the witnesses, a young girl who clearly resembled the priest, stepped forward and bound his hands with Olivia’s with a cream-colored ribbon.

The girl whispered, “That’ll be another five shillings.”

He wasn’t about to quibble over another five shillings after the priest had already swindled him out of a hundred guineas to perform the ceremony. Warren simply smiled as Olivia’s brows snapped together. She had made her position clear before the proceedings: she believed the exorbitant price was highway robbery, especially since they were not purchasing a ring.

Olivia darted a glare over at the priest, who prompted, “Well, go on then, declare yerself.”

She turned to face him and even after spending three full days together, Olivia still stole his breath every time she looked up at him. She inhaled deeply, then in a steady voice, said, “I, Olivia Walton, take Lord Guernsey to be my husband.”

The blacksmith shook his head. “No, no, no… not the toff’s title… yer marrying the man… State the man’s name. Try again.”

The flare of Olivia’s nostrils had Warren choking down laughter. He was thankful for the priest’s words, for they were absolutely accurate, and he hoped it would slay any remaining doubts Olivia had about marrying a peer.

Through gritted teeth, Olivia said, “I, Olivia Walton, take Warren Dowling, to be my one and only husband.”

The priest glared at Olivia. Why the two had been at odds the moment they entered the coaching inn was beyond Warren. Not wanting to prolong the ceremony any longer than necessary, Warren quickly said, “I, Warren Dowling, take Olivia Walton, to be my one and only wife.”

The blacksmith struck the anvil with his hammer, the loud clang rang through the village, and the priest declared, “Yer married now. Ye can pick up yer license in the morn.”

Olivia reached out to stop the blacksmith with her free hand. “He’s a good man. Nothing like his father.”

The blacksmith nodded and mumbled, “I know. Ian sent word.”

Warren studied the blacksmith closely as the man walked away. There was a slight resemblance but not telling. He tugged his bound hand, pulling Olivia closer. “Is he related to Ian?”

“His uncle,” Olivia replied.

“An uncle who hoped you would wed his nephew.”

Olivia nodded. “I love Ian, but in the same fashion you love Anne.”