And Malcolm—her beloved, fiery Malcolm—laying himself bare . . . a man mature enough to be vulnerable.
To defend her. Toseeher.
To shout her truths for all to hear—
Enough.
Something simply . . .crackedwithin her.
Some sense of self-consciousness that had been fueling her shyness, exacerbating her asthma. It all simply . . . fled.
Perhaps it was her fear of losing Malcolm before she had really claimed him.
Perhaps it was the weight of the moment, the sense that this was the fulcrum upon which the rest of her life would hinge.
Or, perhaps, it was simply seeing herself through Malcolm’s eyes.
This man.
She has a vagabond heart and a banshee soul.
Malcolm had laid himself bare for her.
She longs to wail a lament for the lost and downtrodden, to scream her truths to the world, demanding change and justice.
If she wished to tackle the problems of the masses, she needed to start with her own life.
And so, despite her asthmatic lungs, the shaking in her limbs, Viola scanned the ground, found a sturdy stone, and picked it up.
Throwing back her shoulders, she marched toward Malcolm and Ethan.
Malcolm watched Violaapproach.
How was it possible she became more magnificent every time he saw her?
He should have addedgoddessto the list of her attributes. Minerva in her wisdom. Or Diana on the hunt.
Spirited, fiery, passionate.
Viola was all those things and more.
And he loved her.
Howhe loved her.
Adoration scoured his heart as she stopped before him, eyes blazing, chin high.
Ethan took a step back, as ifthisViola were a new person.
And in a sense, Malcolm thought she rather was.
Viola was finally allowing his wee brother to see the woman usually hidden behind shy stammers.
Malcolm smiled.
“Lass,” he said, peering down at the rock in her hand.
“I can’t throw that.” She pointed at the stone still sitting down the field. “But I should like to join you, all the same.” She hefted the much smaller stone in her gloved hand.
