But no . . . her typically-fretting brain chose to feel safe and calm. Or perhaps it wasn’t her brain at all, but her body—her bones, her very skin—soaking up comfort. As if this man could not only hold back marauding pagan hordes, but an asthmatic wallflower’s paralyzing jitters.
Was this what others meant when they called Scotland a land of contrasts? Liberating fog and soothing Highland warriors?
Finally, the man brought his eyes back to hers, hitching his thumbs into the leather pouch—asporranshe had heard it called—that hung from his belt.
“Please tell me yer husband has taken the horse and gone for help?” His brogue rolled over her, a rumbling wave of shivering delight.
Viola’s smile grew.
Heaven help her, but she loved a competent man, one who moved past self-evident matters and asked the most pertinent question.
No restating the obvious.Stuck, are ye?
No manly posturing.Stand aside, lass. My muscles and superior knowledge will right your predicament in no time.
No. Just simple, straightforward competence.
Perhaps it was his sense of strength that emboldened her tongue.
Or perhaps it was his friendly dog.
Or maybe it was the surreal hush of the rushing fog and humid Scottish air.
Regardless, her debilitating shyness had yet to make an appearance.
And that simple fact was . . . bloodymarvelous.
Viola wanted to laugh in astonishment.
“Yes, in a way,” she replied without a hint of a stammer nor a twist of her fingers. “I haven’t a husband, but my father returned to the inn in Brechin from whence we hired this wretched vehicle.” She motioned at the gig behind her.
Speaking with the Scot felt comfortable—almost akin to talking with her father—but simultaneously charged, like a shower of starlight cascading to kiss her skin.
He nodded, gaze meeting hers and then moving away.
As if he, too, were . . . shy. Or, perhaps, simply reserved.
A sense of kinship nearly shimmered between them. An explanation, perhaps, for her ease in his presence.
Was he a local gentleman farmer? A laird’s steward?
And the crucial question every spinster asked—
Was he married?
His dog shuffled forward again, whining and sniffing at her hands. Startled, Viola raised them skyward.
“He willnae bite ye,” the Scot said. “He’s right friendly.”
Viola looked into the dog’s eyes. The poor thing’s longing to be petted reflected her own wish to pet him.
“Oh, I would love nothing more than to touch him.” She looked from the dog to the Scot. “But I fear I have a severe sensitivity to dogs.” She waved a hand in front of her face.
“Ah.” The man rocked back on his heels, expression still pensive.
He seemed to have troublenotlooking at her. Over and over, his eyes would slide away only to return to her, as if they were disobeying him.
Viola found it curiously endearing.
