In her experience, fog was a creeping thing born of coal smoke, settling into her lungs with a muffling heaviness that triggered her asthma.
This Scottish fog seemed made of purer forces. It swirled and blew, filling her lungs with dense, wet air that soothed and calmed.
A paradox.
Or, at the very least, another metaphor portending change.
She paused to savor the sensation—the electric hum in her veins, the whoosh of blood in her ears. As a writer, she hoarded such moments, tucking them away to be remembered weeks or months later.
Viola pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.
A shape loomed out of the fog.
She nearly sighed in relief. At last! Her father had returned—
But, no . . . a large dog loped up the road, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
Viola froze, breath catching in her throat.
The dog seemed exuberantly friendly, with a cheerful face and curly, honey-colored hair. She adored dogs. Unlike cats or horses, dogs were living sunshine, endlessly happy with themselves and the world.
But dogs, in particular, triggered her asthma.
This dog, of course, was oblivious to her worries. He wandered right up to where she stood in the grassy middle of the lane, nuzzling her skirts with an amiable sniff.
Viola lifted her hands above her head, looking up to the swirling fog and taking in shallow breaths, terrified that even studying the animal might trigger an asthmatic fit.
A loud whistle sounded.
Viola turned her head toward the noise.
A burly Scot strode out of the mist, kilt swinging, looking far too much like a mythical hero of a lost age. A medieval laird, intent on vanquishing his rivals. Or a Scottish knight off to court his lady fair.
The russet-and-blue tartan of his kilt wrapped around his waist and crisscrossed his broad chest, an enormous pin holding the heavy wool in place at his shoulder. A more modern jacket and waistcoat rested underneath; a jaunty tartan cap sat atop his head.
But it was the man who wore the ensemble—with his dark hair and dark beard under even darker eyes—that ensnared her.
He was not classically handsome, she supposed. The lines of his face were too defined for mere prettiness—the slash of wide-set cheekbones, the expanse of forehead, the formidable brow ridge. He was more elemental than pretty. Unbreakable iron forged of metal from Scottish mountains.
He met her gaze, igniting a fizzing firecrackerpopin her blood.
Gracious.
Here was aman.
He seemed accustomed to carrying heavy burdens atop his broad shoulders—whether the weight be a dragon’s treasure, a woman’s tears, or chopped firewood.
He came to a stop several yards in front of her, his kilt swaying. Viola had to tilt her head up and up to look at him, as he easily had a foot of height on her own. She knew herself to be petite, but surely this man was part giant.Didhe raid dragon gold in his spare time?
His gaze darted past her, frowning at the broken carriage, before coming back to her.
“Madam.” He nodded.
“Sir,” she replied with a hesitant smile.
He said nothing more for a moment, his attention turning again to study the gig listing at an angle, the maid sleeping. Viola sensed that few details escaped his notice.
She waited for her breathing to hitch. For her body to freeze and her nerves to assert themselves.
