Oliver Aubord; Viola Brodure.
If it truly was her work, Miss Brodure was destined for literary immortality.
Even if the author ofA Hard Truthproved not to be Miss Brodure, Malcolm still couldn’t imagine writing her himself. His words would surely sprawl his admiration of her across the page much like Beowoof before the parlor fire on a chilly evening, brazenly demanding pets and affirmation.
Malcolm cringed at the image.
Besides, writing an unmarried lady felt like crossing an invisible line.
Romantic love was an emotion he had buried alongside his wife and their stillborn bairn. The horror of those last hours of Aileen’s life, her blood spilling out . . . and himself, helpless to do anything other than cradle her in his arms until the bitter end.
He would never remarry. How could he move on and leave Aileen behind? The thought of cultivating tender affection for another woman roiled his stomach.
So . . . no. Malcolm would never write an unmarried woman, no matter the lady or how often Ethan pestered him.
Besides,Ethanwas the one who needed a wife, not Malcolm.
“Writing tae Miss Brodure would feel too much like a courtship, Ethan.” The words scraped Malcolm’s throat, emerging raw and gruff. “And ye ken well that I will never court another woman.”
“Court, is it?” Ethan chuckled. “Now ye are finally telling truths in earnest, brother. Despite all your fine words about friendship, ye mean for me taecourtMiss Brodure, not simply write her. Admit it!”
Malcolm grunted, testing the heft of the chain, and then scanned the field.
Cows lowed in the distance.
Sparrows quarreled.
“Ah.” Ethan threw up a hand. “Now the famed Malcolm Penn-Leith reticence arrives.”
“Ye need a wife, Ethan.” Malcolm whistled for Beowoof.
“Why?” Ethan stepped atop the low boulder, scratching Beowoof behind the ears as the dog sat at his feet.
“Because life is less lonely when it’s shared, Ethan. Because my greatest happiness was having Aileen by my side. Not only because she gave her love tae me, but because I gave my love tae her. Ye deserve such a love, too, yebawbag. That is my truth.”
Malcolm grunted and swung the stone in a circle, sending the boulder flying across the pasture. This throw landed even with Ethan’s previous one.
Ethan whooped.
“What did I tell ye?” he said, grinning widely, green eyes lit with delight. “You’re growing soft in your dotage.”
Malcolm couldn’t help but give a reluctant grin in return. Ethan was just so damn likable.
How his sunny, earnest brother had become a celebrated poet, Malcolm would never know.
Weren’t lauded poets supposed to be a sulky, self-centered, moody lot? He would have thought it required a significant amount of zeal to take one’s self so seriously.
And yet, Ethan remained stubbornly guileless, producing works of profound depth while retaining an infectiousjoie de vivreall his own.
Was it any wonder everyone loved him? Ethan was impossible not to adore.
Surely Miss Brodure would adore him, too. And provide his brother with the support he needed to navigate his fame.
Malcolm simply had to motivate Ethan to communicate with her.
“Write the letter, Ethan,” Malcolm muttered. “Even if Miss Brodure never visits, it’s the right thing tae do. As a man in his dotage, I can tell ye with authority, tackling onerous tasks is the final step that takes a lad into manhood.”
Ethan rolled his eyes and then paused.
