“Miss Brodure is a grown woman,” he said when he returned, “fully capable of making her own decisions about where and with whom she spends her life.”
This time, his spinning toss landed beyond his first mark.
Viola wrapped her arms around her middle.
A sliver of her heart disliked that both men were speaking about her as if she wasn’t present.
A larger sliver appreciated that Malcolm defended her ability to make her own choices, that he saw her as capable of knowing her own mind.
Was it any wonder she loved him so well?
The brothers stared at one another in tense silence for the space of seven heartbeats.
Viola knew, because her own pulse drummed in her ears.
“You’re wrong,” Ethan finally snapped, abandoning the pretense of throwing the stone in favor of venting his (justifiable) anger and hurt. “Miss Brodure’s natural timidity and shy nature are a credit to her sex, but such characteristics make her hesitant tae express her more delicate feelings—”
Malcolm scowled, folding his arms. “I assure ye, Miss Brodure isfullycapable of expressing her feelings.” His eyes flickered in Viola’s direction as he spoke.
The double-layer of his meaning was not lost on Ethan. The younger Penn-Leith glanced toward Viola, as if only just realizing she was witnessing the entire scene.
“My apologies, Miss Brodure.” He bowed to her. “I dislike that your tender sensibilities are being exposed tae this . . . thisunpleasantness.” He shot a dagger-laden glance at Malcolm.
Viola saw it clearly.
The moment Malcolm’s tether snapped.
For the first time in what was likely years, Malcolm Penn-Leith—stalwart, stoic, unmovable—lost his temper.
“Timid? Hesitant?Tender sensibilities?!” Malcolm’s voice rose with each word. “None of these words describe Viola Brodure. I’m beginning tae think ye dinnae know her at all!” He pointed his finger toward Viola. “Viola is fire and passion. Do ye know what happened tae her in Manchester last year? Do ye know the stories she longs tae write? Do ye know her hopes and dreams? She isnae a timorous wee beastie, fearful of the loud noise of life. She doesnae need to be protected and coddled, like some fussy, ornamental flower. She fair brims with mettle and courage.”
Emotion pricked Viola’s eyes.
Malcolm stood tall facing the other men, shoulders back, chest heaving with the force of his words.
He appeared immovable. A sentinel. A harbinger of a future Viola could not race fast enough to embrace.
If only he would have her.
“Viola is heather and gorse,” Malcolm shouted, “sturdy and stalwart, able to face the harshest winds of the wild moor! She blooms in adversity and thrives when faced with opposition.”
Malcolm looked at her, gaze so full of love and longing and adoration, Viola had to wipe tears from her cheeks.
“Viola iselemental.” His voice cracked with emotion. “She has a vagabond heart and a banshee soul. She longs to wail a lament for the lost and downtrodden, to scream her truths to the world, demanding change and justice. She has onlybeguntae explore the greatness of her talent. She doesnae need me tae proclaim her truths!”
Malcolm’s words echoed through the field.
She doesnae need me to proclaim her truths!
Viola was quite sure, even a decade from now, she would be able to call up an image of the tableau before her.
Ethan Penn-Leith scowling in incredulity.
Lord Hadley rimmed in golden sunlight.
Her father looking on in consternation.
Sir Rafe and Kendall wearing matching expressions of surprise.
