Today, Malcolm intended to drag as many confessions as possible from Ethan . . . before soundly trouncing him.
Ethan hadn’t a prayer of beating Malcolm. Not today. Malcolm had an inch, twenty pounds of bulky muscle, and a head full of steam on his younger brother.
Malcolm watched Ethan walk across the field, kilt swinging, to retrieve the stone. Even dressed casually for sport, no one would mistake Ethan for anything other than a refined gentleman. Tall and lean, he walked with a casual elegance, his light-brown hair curling over his ears in the first stare of London fashion.
Scratching at his beard, Malcolm knew that his own out-sized body and unruly dark hair only required a battle axe to complete a Viking-pillager look.
But then, Ethan had been raised to the life of a gentleman, having been fostered by their aristocratic uncle in Aberdeen when he was only ten years old, returning to Thistle Muir only intermittently.
Four months ago, however, Ethan had come for an extended stay.
His publisher had been pressuring him to produce a second book of poetry, but Ethan was struggling to find the words. And so he had come back to Fettermill to seek inspiration from the Scottish glens and braes that had made his first book of poems so popular.
Ethan marked the distance of Malcolm’s throw with a stick and dragged the boulder back to the throwing line, Beowoof prancing at his heels.
“Miss Brodure is not your typical admirer, Ethan,” Malcolm said, steely patience in his tone. “Her attention to ye isflattering. She replied tae your letter most promptly—”
“Toopromptly, I ken,” Ethan countered, dropping the chain and fiddling once more with his shirtsleeves. “The ink had scarcely dried on my own letter and,poof, hers arrived in reply. Such eagerness smells of desperation.”
“A timely reply tae your letter is a mark of courtesy and a nod to Miss Brodure’s well-bred upbringing. She is simply being polite.”
“Well, here is my truth then.” Ethan grasped the chain and waved Malcolm to stand back. “I wrote my first letter merely to thank Miss Brodure for her kind words inPolly Pettifer,nothing more. I dislike being badgered into a correspondence with the lady.”
Sighing, Malcolm stepped atop the low boulder and whistled for Beowoof to sit.
With a deep breath, Ethan spun quickly in place, kilt flaring, the tethered stone spinning in a dizzying arc around him. He released the chain, sending the rock flying, landing just short of Malcolm’s mark. Beowoof yipped in excitement, tearing after the stone.
It was Ethan’s turn to grunt. He fell into step beside Malcolm as they walked to inspect the throw.
“Just because I am a poet, and Miss Brodure is an authoress,” Ethan continued, “it doesn’t follow that we’re a matched set. That we need tae be paired together like fussy Sèvres china.”
Malcolm begged to differ. From what he knew of Miss Brodure, the lady seemed nearly perfect for his wee brother—a refined, English gentlewoman to match Ethan’s refined, Scottish gentleman-ness.
For all that Malcolm and Ethan were brothers, a vast ocean of experience and education separated them.
Their mother, Isobel, had been a wealthy Leith from Aberdeenshire with family connections to the Earl of Aberdeen. Isobel’s betrothal to Mr. John Penn, a gentleman-farmer well below her station, had upset her genteel family. As a condition of her marriage contract, Grandfather Leith had required the new couple to combine their surnames into Penn-Leith. But the lowliness of Isobel’s marriage had always rankled her family.
Their mother’s brother, Uncle Leith, had been determined that at least one of his sister’s children would escape the taint of their birth. Initially, Uncle Leith had set his sights on Leah, the brothers’ much older sister. But she had proven recalcitrant, and so Uncle had shifted his focus to Ethan.
Malcolm, with his reticent tongue and watchful eyes, had been utterly overlooked.
So while Malcolm worked the farm alongside their father, Ethan went to live with Uncle Leith in his fine house in Aberdeen. Ethan attended the same grammar school Lord Byron had frequented, took a Grand Tour of the Continent, and graduated from Oxford with a first. All the trappings of a gentleman.
Moreover, last year, after the untimely death of Uncle and Aunt Leith’s only daughter, Ethan had been named their sole heir. Eventually, he would inherit a sizable estate, making him a gentleman in every possible sense.
So much had been presented to Ethan, wrapped in a silken bow atop a golden platter. But the glittering fame of Ethan’s poetry was all his own, the result of hard work, charisma, and relentless dedication.
Malcolm’s chest ballooned with pride when he thought of all that Ethan had accomplished.
“I will reply to Miss Brodure when the Muse strikes me,” Ethan continued, stabbing a stick into the soft earth to mark the position of his throw.
“This is a letter, Ethan, not an epic poem, for heaven’s sake.”
“Aye, but I read ye that snippet from her last letter, right? She intends tae come for a visit.”
Malcolm nodded. He recalled the letter easily, probably because he had sneaked into Ethan’s desk to reread it a time or three:
. . . Your letter has lingered with me these past few days, particularly as my father is prone to asking prying questions. He keeps speaking of possibly visiting Scotland, so please consider yourself forewarned.
