Oh!
Faint lines radiated out from his eyes, and his dark hair ruffled in the slight breeze. His beard appeared particularly bushy, as if he had been running his hands through it, and that small fact endeared him to her.
Seeing Malcolm . . . it was like surfacing from underwater. Suddenly, for the first time in days, she could breathe again.
But with that breath came an almost overwhelming thrum of tingling awareness—her skin, her scalp, the palms of her hands.
During their encounter beside her broken-down gig, speaking with him had felt effortless.
Would that hold true given her present feelings?
Malcolm nearly stumbledwhen he realized that Miss Brodure was sitting atop his swing, retying her boot. A lock of her pale hair had escaped her bonnet to tumble across her cheek, a ribbon of summer gold.
Beowoof had barked and run ahead, alerting Malcolm to someone’s presence—someone the dog knew.
Viola Brodure had been the last person Malcolm expected. And yet, the air in his lungs felt abruptly lighter for seeing her twenty feet ahead of him.
Oof.He was an uttereejit.
The lady had traveled the length of Great Britain to make Ethan’s acquaintance. The entirevillagewas working behind the scenes to ensure that Ethan Penn-Leith and Viola Brodure plighted their troth before summer’s end.
Ethan, himself, appeared well on his way to falling for the lady. Just that morning, his brother—still in a banyan and nursing a cup of tea—had declared that Miss Brodure’s eyes were the color of bluebells under morning’s first light.
And yet none of this had deterred Malcolm’s pulse from hammering away at the sight of her elegant neck stretched long as she bent over her boot.
Ye’ve had your love. Ye will never remarry,he reminded himself.She is meant for Ethan. Ye must cease gawking after his fine lady like a green lad.
Miss Brodure finished tying her shoe and stood to greet him, a tentative smile on her lips. She tucked that errant lock of hair behind her ear—a delicate shell of an ear, Malcolm helplessly noted.
Honestly, he needed to haul himself into the courtyard behind Thistle Muir and pound some sense into his thick skull. Preferably with a wooden mallet.
“Miss Brodure.” He bowed, which immediately felt too formal beside the swing under a birch.
“Mr. Penn-Leith.” She nodded her head at him, biting her bottom lip before dropping her gaze to Beowoof.
The poor pup remembered only too well Miss Brodure’s affection from the previous week. He waggled his tail and nudged at her skirts, whining.
Smile blooming, she sank down into the grass in front of the swing, scratching the dog behind his ears with her gloved hands.
“Your animal is utterly shameless, Mr. Penn-Leith.” She gifted him with a wry look, her blue gaze scattering what remained of his wits.
Huh. Ethan had the right of it. Her eyes trulywerethe color of bluebells at first light.
How was Malcolm to rein in this infatuation? Miss Brodure had already monopolized an embarrassing amount of acreage in his brain.
Why just that morning, Malcolm had completely forgotten to post two letters and pick up a packet from the apothecary for Mrs. McGregor.
Instead, he had walked the breadth of his western fields, wondering if Miss Brodure thought about her novels as he thought about his harvests—endless months of work and planning all with the vague hope that something fruitful would arise from the effort.
“Beowoof is a bit of a flirt, I am afraid,” he said. “Like most Scottish men, he likes the lasses.”
Malcolm spoke without thinking, but given how quickly Miss Brodure’s eyebrows flew to her hairline, she read more into the words than he had intended.
Like most Scottish men, he likes the lasses.
Instead of saying flirtatiously in return—Indeed, and do you like the lasses as well, Mr. Penn-Leith?—Miss Brodure buried her face in Beowoof’s fur as if embarrassed.
As if . . .shy.
