Malcolm saw some of the tension leave Viola’s body as the watching eyes turned away, people shuffling toward the house.
Of course, Malcolm himself did not leave.
His feet refused to obey him.
Thewoman he lovedwas in distress.
Kendall, curse his arrogant hide, stayed put, as well.
Why did he remain?
Malcolm wasn’t the only one who thought it odd.
Sir Rafe glared at Kendall as he retreated inside, holding the duke’s gaze with what could only be described as adeath stare. Kendall broke off first, but he did not follow his brother.
Gritting his teeth, Malcolm crossed to stand beside the duke.
If Kendall tried to make a scene, Malcolm would . . .
He would . . .
Well . . . he would dosomething. Of that he was sure.
Thankfully, Viola’s breathing appeared to be easing the slightest bit.
“Ye are doing well, Miss Brodure,” Ethan encouraged, trapping Viola’s hand between two of his own.
“Aye,” Hadley rumbled. He patted Ethan on the back. “Your lass will come through this.”
“Your lass,” Kendall repeated under his breath on a snort, so quiet only Malcolm could hear.
It was all Malcolm could do to avoid flinching.
Because Kendall, despite his sarcasm, had hit upon a bedrock truth—
If Malcolm continued on his path away from Viola, someday, another man would claim her as his lass. Another man would soak up her laughter and clever wit. Another man would hold her in his arms and fret over her during pregnancy, rub her tired feet, and kiss her flushed cheeks.
Malcolm would spend the rest of his life observing her from a distance, reading about her life in the broadsheets.
And that thought was simply, painfully . . . intolerable.
No.
It wasunendurable.
Malcolm could not continue to breathe, to live, toendureunless Viola was at his side.
And just like that, he made his decision.
The decision he should have made earlier on the lane, when Viola had flinched at his silence.
He simply could not live without Viola Brodure as his wife.
If he couldn’t live without her, then he had to conquer the fear of livingwithher.
The choice in the end was truly that simple.
And as he stared across the fifteen feet currently separating them—at the fine-boned curve of her fingers pressed to her sternum, the purse of her rose-petal lips, the fluttering pulse in her throat where he adored pressing a lingering kiss . . .
