“Beowoof,” Malcolm clarified again, detesting the blood he could feel rising to his cheeks.
First, infatuation.
And now . . . blushing.
What other nearly-forgotten sensation would this lady inspire before the hour was over?
Her fair brow continued to pucker in confusion.
Blast it all.
How was he to help her understand?
“It’s Beowoof—” He paused, rolling his hand . . . and then rolled his eyes over what he was about to say, cheeks burning hotter. “—as in what a dog says . . .woof, woof.”
Thank goodness Ethan wasn’t here to witness this.
Malcolm would never live it down—how he was reduced to literal barking in front of a beautiful, sophisticated English lady.
“Oh!” Her face turned incandescent with understanding. The joy of it battered Malcolm’s chest. “Woof!Beowoof!” She rubbed the dog’s jowls, clasping his face between her palms, her voice sing-song. “Who’s the hero of the Geats? Who defeats Grendel? You do. Yes, you do, you excellent beast.”
Beowoof was ecstatic, his entire body quivering in fervor to get closer.
Malcolm understood the feeling. The blood in his own veins thumped in time with his dog’s wagging tail.
The lady cuddled Beowoof for one more moment and then pushed up to her feet, cheeks brimming with happiness. She brushed her hands down her skirt.
“I should commend you on your excellent taste,” she said, her smile soft. “Calling one’s dog after a great hero of Anglo-Saxon literature displays a certain amount of verve. Are other animals in your care similarly named?”
No ignorant miss, this lady. The more he spoke with her, the older she seemed. She was too self-possessed, too mature. Was she close to his own thirty years?
“Aye,” he said, short and staccato.
He intended to stop talking there. After all, he had answered her question.
But the curious, expectant look on her face demanded more. And Malcolm found himself powerless to refuse.
He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “We have a cat named William Shakespurr . . . and there is Coolius Caesar, my prized Highland steer.”
The lady laughed, a joyful song burst of sound.
He appreciated the laugh lines at the edges of her eyes. They spoke of years lived and wisdom gained.
Even more, he liked that he had made her laugh.
Malcolm permitted himself a wee grin.
“Shall we introduce ourselves?” she asked. “This is no fine London drawing room, so I suppose we needn’t stand on ceremony.”
Oh.
Yes.
Introductions.
He likely should have thought of that before now.
“Mr. Malcolm Penn-Leith, at your service, madam.” He sketched a loose sort of bow. Proper formalities were not his forte.
