“Always, lass.”
She smiled, her gaze turning radiant. “I ken to what ye be saying, Mr. Penn-Leith.”
“That was a terrible Scottish accent, lass. Ye likely shouldnae attempt that again.”
She laughed, a glorious bubble of sound. Malcolm’s heart felt near to bursting.
“Yes, it was,” she merrily agreed. “I fear I will have to find myself a clever Scottish lad to help me learn it properly.”
“Ye will, will ye?”
“Aye.”
“And who do ye have in mind?”
“There’s a man, you see,” she began, tracing a finger down his arm.
“Aye?”
“Aye. He’s devastatingly handsome and has the most adorable dog.”
“Is that so?”
“He’s kind and gentle—”
“The dog?”
“The dog, too. The man is also most competent.”
“Competent?!”
“Never underestimate the power of manly competence,” she laughed. “It’s a much over-looked quality.”
She looked up at him, eyes gleaming with what he suspected was adoration.
Happiness flooded him in a single, giddy wave, champagne frothing in his veins.
Viola lifted her wee hand to cup his cheek.
“But most importantly,” she continued, “I know, without a doubt, that this man perceives me as I am. Not as he would have me be, or as I feel Ishouldbe. But he accepts me as I am, at this very moment, with all my faults and flaws and weaknesses—”
“There is nothing weak about ye, lass.”
Her eyes went suspiciously bright. “See?!That is precisely what I am referring to. You said I have a banshee soul! You called me elemental! Who else could be as wonderful as you? I love who I am when I’m with you. I love the woman you see in me.”
“Ye paint me a saint, lass. I assure ye, I’m not quite that.”
“I don’t want a saint, Malcolm Penn-Leith. I simply want you.”
Malcolm closed his eyes, joy rushing and cresting over his soul, drowning him in happiness.
“And I want ye,mo chridhe.”
“You do?”
“Aye, with everything that I am.”
A cloud passed over her expression. “Are you quite sure? Because yesterday, in this precise place, you seemed less . . . enthusiastic.”
