Pushing off of the birch tree, Malcolm placed a hand on one of the swing ropes, wishing there was some way he could quickly communicate that he valued the trust she placed in him. That he felt honored to be a confidant.
Something of his thoughts must have whispered through his movement because she continued, “When life or situations become too overwhelming, my body reacts by attempting to strangle me.” She gave a cheerless smile. “’Tis why I normally avoid crowds and struggle to speak at times. My shy tongue ignites my nerves and then next thing I know, my throat has closed off and I’m struggling to breathe.”
“And yet, here ye are, interacting with the good people of Fettermill and going out of your way tae make others feel at ease.”
She looked away, a blush flooding her cheeks anew at the compliment.
Malcolm felt his own skin burn in response.
“Come, Miss Brodure.” He extended his hand to her, wishing to help her off the swing. “Allow me tae escort ye tae the meadow behind your cottage. Ethan would never forgive me if some harm came to ye.”
Hehadto say the words. To remind himself—and her, he supposed—that everyone viewed her as his brother’s territory.
Given the way Viola’s expression dimmed, she did not miss his implication.
Regardless, Viola placed her gloved hand in his, her slim fingers sliding over his gloveless ones. He was a farmer, after all. A gentrified one, but a farmer nonetheless. He had never bothered with gloves.
But now, the contrast spoke of everything that stood between them.
Her hand resting overtop his, fingers sheathed in elegantly-stitched kid leather, buttery soft. Beautiful. Protected.
His palm was like a rough-hewn oak, clean but nicked and worn in places. Rugged. Calloused.
She stared at their hands too, her breath hitching, as if the moment were significant . . .
Or perhaps she was simply appalled at his lack of decorum in offering her his bare hand.
He was no London dandy, no rarefied rake who charmed and danced in attendance.
Some flickering emotion he didn’t understand flitted across her face.
And then . . . her fingers tightened around his. Not gently. Not shyly.
A vise of a grip. Nearly a claiming of a sort.
The heat of her hand burned where it touched him, the light weight of her fingers scalding his blood. His stomach swooped and his heart soared, drumming helplessly in his chest.
He should never have assumed that Ethan had rights of refusal on this woman.
Viola Brodure would never be anything but her own independent self.
Malcolm responded in the only way he could—
He tightened his grip and pulled her to standing.
She wobbled slightly, and his free hand grasped her elbow, steadying her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The husky timbre of her tone made her gratitude seem like more than mere words, more than his hand raising her up.
He felt as if she were thanking him for being . . . himself.
Which, as a thought, was quite absurd. Why should Viola Brodure be grateful forhim, of all people? He was merely the brother of her intended. A widowed farmer who had twice detained her on a solitary road.
But at the moment, he only cared that he stood near her. So close he could see himself reflected in her eyes. How else was he to learn that all the glorious blue was edged in soft gold?
She possessed a touch of the angelic, it seemed. A ring of angel dust rimming her pupil.
