And then there was the revelation that Ethan used Malcolm as his muse.
Lying awake in bed—the Ruxton’s having delivered her safely home—Viola had mentally reviewed all of Ethan’s poems. She could practically hear Malcolm’s words weaving through them, his unique view of the world.
But . . . why would Malcolm allow Ethan to appropriate his ideas?
Well, she supposed that answer was obvious. Malcolm adored his wee brother. He wanted Ethan to succeed.
And as Viola had already intuited, Malcolm Penn-Leith loved with his whole soul—every last piece of it—holding nothing back.
The knowledge hit her hard.
Every last piece.
Oh.
A curtain lifted from her mind.
Abruptly, Malcolm’s expression from their conversation along the lane yesterday rose in her mind.
The tightness about his mouth. The cagey hesitation in his eyes.
And what had Mary just said? About Isla Liston?
How self-centered of Viola to assume that his emotions had been about herself alone.
Malcolm had to have known that his overseer’s wife, Isla, was currently fighting for her life and that of her child.
Knowing Malcolm, he had likely sat with the woman’s husband and family for a while as Isla labored in the next room.
Reliving the horror of yet another difficult birth, the uncertainty of it . . .
He had to have found that traumatic.
And then, after the encounter with Kendall, Viola’s own conversation with him had immediately veered toward marriage.
No wonder Malcolm had hesitated. The thought of taking another wife would have overwhelmed him in the moment.
Of course, this was all conjecture on her part.
Perhaps the more salient question would be—
Why, if the events of his afternoon unearthed traumatic memories, had Malcolm not said something to her about it?
If they were to contemplate a life together, they needed to begin it by speaking their truths. Preferably without Viola having to drag him into a grassy field first and place a chained stone in his hand.
Perhaps there was more to that stone-throwing thing than she had supposed.
But in the meantime . . . what was she to do?
Even if Malcolm were desperate to marry her, there was still the issue of Kendall and his threats toward both herself and her father. How were those to be overcome?
And could she plead a headache and stay abed all day without her father summoning the local doctor?
Viola was debating the wisdom of doing precisely that when a knock sounded—sharp and urgent—on the front door below her bedroom window.
The low murmur of voices followed.
Then, Mary’s frantic footsteps racing up the stairs.
