“Would you be so kind as to tell me about the life of a Scottish gentleman farmer?” she asked as they began to walk, her skirts brushing against his kilt. “I have only ever lived in England, and I wonder how very different things are here.”
Beowoof trotted ahead of them before stopping to sniff at something beside the bend in the lane.
“Indeed? And how are ye findingherethen? Is Scotland too wild for your tastes?”
“Quite the contrary. I am starting to believe that I never took a true breath of air until arriving in Fettermill.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, aye.” She drawled the word just as he would.
He laughed. “We’ll make a Scot of ye yet, Miss Brodure.”
They rounded the bend, the tree-lined lane stretching before them. Beowoof barked at a squirrel.
“So tell me about your life, Mr. Penn-Leith,” she repeated.
“I will happily, Miss Brodure.” He shot her a look from the corner of his eyes. “But when your eyes glaze over as I discuss corn shares and planting schedules, I willnae apologize. Ye have been duly warned.”
She laughed, surely too long and giddy.
And yet, she couldn’t help herself.
Malcolm Penn-Leith’s sly, self-deprecating wit caught her unawares in the most delightful ways.
He spent the rest of their walk up the lane describing his take on crop rotation, the reasoning behind the animals he bred, the endless worry of pests and weather.
And though the topics held the potential to turn mundane, when discussed with Malcolm Penn-Leith, Viola found them fascinating.
Thankfully, in all their conversation of potatoes, coos, and fickle rain, Malcolm neglected to ask the most obvious question:
What had brought her besotted self to the lane in the first place?
The next day, Malcolm tried to not think about Viola Brodureeverypassing second.
But as he helped his men repair a stone fence, consulted with Callum, his farm manager, on drainage in the east pasture, and prepared the barns for shearing, his brain harbored images of only one subject—Viola.
Viola, crooning to Beowoof, her eyes lit with joy.
Viola, tilting her head, face pensive as she asked after future plans for his cattle.
Viola, laughing as he told tale of Coolius Caesar breaking loose from his pen and rampaging through a line of fresh laundry.
Why Malcolm had prattled on about that particular memory, he winced to think upon. But, no . . . hedidknow why. He had simply wished to hear the timbre of her honeyed laugh.
Conversation with Viola was effortless. Easy in a way he hadn’t experienced since . . .
Well, since Aileen.
But he and Aileen had been childhood sweethearts, and Malcolm had always assumed that the closeness between them—how they had practically raced to finish one another’s sentences—was the product of years of shared history.
He had never thought it possible to experience the same thing with another woman, particularly so quickly.
And yet, here he was . . . experiencing it.
Before Viola’s arrival, he would have described his existence as . . . well, notcontentexactly. Comfortable, perhaps?
Living in the crevasse of his grief was not precisely a happy existence, but it was, at the very least, familiar. Manageable. Predictable.
