Ithadbeen him.
He had embraced Viola before Thistle Muir and swept her inside.
Thank goodness, neither Mrs. Clark nor Mrs. Buchan had been privy to Malcolm and Viola’s incandescently scandalous kiss in the back courtyard.
Nor all the subsequent ones in the scullery, along the lane, outside the south pasture, atop his childhood swing . . .
Och.
Did it matter at this juncture?
Ethan continued to look at him, with something like . . .
Like . . .
Malcolm blinked.
He knew his wee brother almost as well as he knew himself. And the expression on Ethan’s face was not anger or hurt or betrayal.
But instead something softer . . .
Compassion? Concern?
Ethan nodded and squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder, as if to say,I have ye. All will be well.
Too surprised to speak, Malcolm watched his brother turn his charismatic smile—The Swooner, in all its glory—on Hadley and Sir Rafe.
“Well, Miss Brodure and I had been trying tae keep our romance a wee bit private.” Ethan released a shuddering breath. “But with such ruthless sleuths as Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Buchan around, nothing was bound tae be a secret for long. I’m sure ye both will be the first tae wish us a happy life together.”
Bloody hell.
Malcolm closed his eyes, shoulders collapsing, misery and shame threatening to drag him through the floor.
Ethan, sure in his knowledge of Malcolm’s honor and trustworthiness, assumed three rather erroneous facts:
One, Malcolm’s actions with Viola—embracing her and sweeping her into his arms—were entirely innocuous and had a logical, non-amorous explanation.
Because, two, Malcolm would never stab Ethan in the back nor keep a secret of this magnitude.
And three, Malcolm feared he himself would have to marry Viola, were it known he had been the one at Thistle Muir that first week. And so Ethan was quickly shouldering the blame, accelerating his own relationship with Viola.
Because Ethan trusted Malcolm implicitly. Completely.
Why would he not? Malcolm had never given Ethan reason tonottrust him.
Until now, that was.
Nausea rose up Malcolm’s throat again. Of all the ways he could have imagined this going sideways—if he had given it much thought, which he really should have—this was hands-down the most ghastly.
He simply couldn’t allow this farce to play out a second longer.
“Ethan,” he began, swallowing hard when his wee brother turned to him. “May I speak with ye for a—”
The rattle of carriage wheels on the drive drowned out the rest of Malcolm’s words.
All four men turned toward the bow window just in time to see Kendall’s lacquered, gilded carriage roll to a stop, Viola Brodure’s pale face framed in the glass.
21
