Her father pressed fingers to his temple. Knowing she did not wish to marry Ethan was one thing. Realizing that Viola had been carrying on with Ethan’s elder brother was something else entirely. Given the furrows lining his forehead, Dr. Brodure had already made the required mental jumps to arrive at the (correct) logical conclusion.
Kendall, of course, simply appeared vastly amused.
Ethan, however, stood very still.
Toostill.
The sort of frozen panic of ambushed prey the moment before a killing blow was dealt.
“Pardon?” Ethan whispered.
He spun back to look at Viola.
Viola tried to hold his gaze, truly she did. But her traitorous eyes flitted back to Malcolm.
Ethan looked back and forth between them—Malcolm, Viola, Malcolm, Viola—as if watching lawn tennis. The expression on his face morphed with each swivel: dawning realization, wounded outrage, icy anger.
“I see,” Ethan said the words with chilly civility. He turned from Viola and paced across to the hearth, before whirling around. “No, actually,” his voice rose, accent slipping into the brogue of his youth. “I dinnae see. I dinnae understand what has been going on behind my back.”
Ethan pivoted one final time, brushing past Viola and heading for the door.
“Ethan,” Malcolm called, walking after him.
Spinning around, Ethan poked a finger at his older brother. “We’re throwing stones. Right now. Me and yourself.”
He turned and left the parlor, slapping the lintel on his way out.
But Ethan’s voice carried to them from the entryway hall—
“I deserve all your truths, brother.”
The entire partyfiled out the front door of Thistle Muir, following Ethan and Malcolm around Kendall’s carriage, down the drive, through the small gate, and across the pasture to the small rise and boulder atop which the chained stone rested.
Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe seemed particularly pleased by the turn of events.
Viola found it rather alarming how quickly the Scots pivoted to the idea of throwing a chained stone. As if that were the most logical way to solve an argument.
Viola clung to her father’s arm as they followed the men.
Malcolm looked over his shoulder at her, eyes hooded with concern. Viola offered him a wan smile in return.
“Throwing stones?” Dr. Brodure said at her side. “And . . . Mr. Malcolm Penn-Leith?”
Guilt flared bright. Viola attempted to smother it, but it was yet one more thing she had kept from her father.
“I should have told you,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he returned, expression haggard. “I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours feeling like I scarcely know you at all, child.”
Viola flinched. She had deserved that shot.
Her lungs tightened, but she took in a slow deep breath.
Oddly, experiencing distressing events back-to-back-to-back seemed to act like a vaccine, inoculating her lungs against an anxiety-induced asthma attack.
After all the mounting stresses of the past twenty-four hours, her body simply didn’t have the energy to fuss over them anymore.
“You do know me, Papa,” she whispered. “But yes, I should have told you that my affections lie with Malcolm.”
