But he swayed in his chair as he attempted to pour the alcohol, severely undermining the impact of his words.
Part of Leah felt like she should do more to dissuade her brother from his cups, but the other part of her—the half that had loved Aileen, too, and understood the depth of Malcolm’s anguish—instinctively knew that the liquor might be the only thing standing between Malcolm and self-harm.
Leah said nothing.
Malcolmdidneed her here.
Moreover, Leah wasn’t sure what to do about Fox.
Yes, she missed him dreadfully. She hated sleeping in her cold bed at night. No gentle, warm hands holding her close. No rumbling voice to whisper in her ear.
And yet, it had felt impossible to continue the charade that all was well between them. They needed to meet each other as equals in their marriage—equals in effort and affection.
Of a surety, Fox caredsomethingfor her. He wasn’t a callous man.
But as Leah watched Malcolm mourn his Aileen, she realized that Fox would not find Leah’s own loss unbearable. To him, her death would be more inconvenience than devastation.
Leah wanted to be more than aninconvenienceto Fox Carnegie.
Malcolm finally managed to slosh some whisky into his glass.
“I thought your marriage was going better.” He squinted up at her. “Ye had a bit of a married glow about ye. Fox certainly appears tae have warmed up tae ye.”
Leah willed herself not to blush. She wouldnotdiscuss her marriage bed with her brother.
Malcolm wasn’t finished. “Life is short, sister. Dinnae waste it on anger or petulance.”
“Enough, Malcolm. As I’ve said before, none of us are living the life we dreamed.”
Malcolm tossed back his whisky with a harsh laugh. “You’re still seeing that wrong, Leah.”
“Pardon?”
“Do ye remember the wild strawberries the year before Da died?”
“Aye.” Leah’s brows drew down. Why had Malcolm brought up those strawberries? The man was truly drunk. “Ye ate them until ye were sick.”
“I did. Ye ken how much I adore a good strawberry,” he nodded. “And that summer, with the sun so warm, the berries grew fat and sweet, the patch spreading like a bramble. It was almost a compulsion, tae return day after day. Tae gorge myself while I could. Strawberries never last long, whether on the plant or picked in a basket. They have tae be enjoyed straightaway.”
“What are ye saying, Malcolm?”
“Happiness and love are akin tae strawberries.” His voice turned hoarse, and he glanced at his dwindling whisky. “Ye have tae glut yourself when the occasion arises—create memories tae see ye through the dark seasons.”
A profound quiet followed his words.
Leah folded her arms. This seemed to be her new state of being—physically holding herself together when words ran out. “I dinnae ken that Fox longs for happiness and love, brother. He seems content with . . . contentment.”
Or, perhaps, it was as Fox had said—something within him was too irreparably broken to ever love again.
The thought tightened her chest.
“Aye. And perhaps he is. Ye cannae control his behavior. Ye cannae force him to eat the strawberries, as it were. Ye can only taste of them yourself and invite him to join ye.”
Leah snorted. “Fox has repeatedly declined that invitat—”
“Och, Leah, give your Sassenach more credit than that. Give yourmarriagemore credit than that. This current bumpy stretch of road doesnae have to be your future. Fox is a good man. Despite how your marriage began, I couldnae have chosen a better husband for yourself had I tried.”
Malcolm’s expression turned bleak. He knocked back the whisky in his tumbler and reached for more.
