The kirkyard overflowed, villagersbletheringwith one another in their colorful Sunday finery—top hats, feathered bonnets, and lacy parasols bobbing amongst the tombstones.
Malcolm frowned at the agitated thump of his heart as he scanned the gathered crowd, ostensiblynotsearching for Miss Brodure, but in truth hoping to spot her blond head.
Och, this had to stop.
She is but a woman, ye eejit, he told himself.Ye arenae infatuated with her.
His wayward heart simply beat faster.
Malcolm found it bloody annoying.
Finally, Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Buchan turned to greet Leah, affording him a view of the church door.
Ah. At last.
There she was.
Miss Brodure.
She was every bit as beautiful as Malcolm remembered. Perhaps even more so. Ethereal, fey, and petite, she appeared as luminous as a fine boned porcelain plate.
His breath lodged in his throat and his ears rang with what he feared was angel song.
Did she have to be so absurdly lovely?
She stood between the vicar, Dr. Ruxton, and her father, all three welcoming parishioners as they entered the church.
It was an unusual circumstance, to be sure, but gracious of Miss Brodure to greet people personally, as if she recognized that the entire parish fairly hummed with the hope of meeting her.
Her silvery-blond hair peeked out from under the wide brim of her straw bonnet, while her dusky blue gown cinched her trim waist and complemented her fair complexion. Malcolm was sure Leah would educate him on the intricacies of it later:Did ye see the Dutch lace trim along her sloped collar? Most charming. And not an ounce of puff tae her sleeves. Thank heavens that ridiculous fashion is firmly behind us—
Why was he so smitten bythiswoman?
She was nothing like Aileen. Malcolm’s wife had been tall, dark, and strong. A miller’s daughter accustomed to the physical demands of country life. A woman who tackled the world directly, chin high.
By contrast, Miss Brodure ducked her elegant head and blushed becomingly when introduced to Lord and Lady Hadley, her eyes modestly averted.
Such bashfulness was unusual. Lord and Lady Hadley were so gracious and kind, they readily set others at ease.
Malcolm found it humorous that Hadley—the most Scottish Scotsman Malcolm had ever known—was, in fact, an English earl. Sir Rafe had recounted more than one tale of Hadley throwing his Scottish roots in the faces of other Peers in Lords. And though Hadley was old enough to be Malcolm’s father, he counted the earl a friend.
Malcolm and his party waited patiently for their turn to greet the authoress.
At his side, Ethan frowned, leaning to the side, trying to glimpse Miss Brodure between Mrs. Clark’s feathered bonnet and a tall obelisk grave marker. Just as Ethan raised a hand to ward off Mrs. Clark’s lofty plumage, the crowd parted, affording a clear view of the church door.
Ethan’s slack-jawed reaction was everything Malcolm had predicted.
“Well,” his brother said faintly, angling his head for a second . . . and then a third glance. “I fear I may owe yourself, Kendall, and the entire village of Fettermill an apology. I should have listened sooner. She is magnificent.”
Malcolm nodded tersely as his brother was absolutely correct.
Ethan and Miss Brodure were headed straight for marital bliss.
Others in the parish clearly thought the same. The elderly Fredericks sisters openly studied Ethan. Isla Liston, a hand on her pregnant belly, nudged her husband, Callum, and discreetly pointed toward Miss Brodure. Lady Stewart whispered something to her other half, Sir Robert Stewart, causing the man to immediately whip his head around to stare at the authoress.
At last, Malcolm’s party reached the church door, Leah and Fox in front, Ethan behind.
A hush settled over the crowd.
