Viola pressed a gloved hand to her waist.
Malcolm disliked that even in this moment, a flame of heat licked his veins as he envisioned stepping forward, wrapping his hand around that wee waist, and tugging her against him.
It was insufferable. To be standing beside Aileen’s grave and wanting another woman.
A woman who was not even destined for himself, but for his brother.
Yet . . . the pull of her was unrelenting, a ceaseless ache.
“I have never been in love,” she said, voice low and tender, “so perhaps I should not offer words beyond a simple, ‘You have my deepest compassion,’ and yet . . .”
She hesitated.
He felt desperate for her words.
“And yet?” he prompted.
“And yet, I wonder if love is not the greatest act of exploration, both of another and yourself. That in loving someone else, you uncover pieces of your own soul that you never understood existed.”
Malcolm found himself nodding. “Ye love another for the bits of ye they unearth. For the person they help ye become.”
“Yes. Exactly. The pain of Aileen dying forced you to uncover new elements of your soul without her. But those elements no longer have a home, a loving hand in which to entrust them. So they tumble free, cutting and hurting in their loosened state. And grief begins anew.”
He smiled faintly at that.
“Have ye considered becoming a writer?” he asked. “Ye have a brilliant way with words, Miss Brodure.”
She laughed just as he had intended she would, the sound rueful and tinged with melancholy.
It felt unconscionable, that he could live his life without the daily sunshine of Viola Brodure’s presence.
She turned his blood effervescent.
Without conscious thought, he stepped toward her.
As if every one of those jagged, unmoored pieces of him called out for her, and he helpless against the tumult.
“Miss Brodure—” he began.
“Viola, love, there you are!” Dr. Brodure’s voice carried over the kirkyard.
She turned away from Malcolm at the sound, raising a hand against the sun and squinting at her father.
Dr. Brodure and Dr. Ruxton crossed the churchyard to where Malcolm and Viola stood, nodding greetings to them.
“Delightful news, daughter,” Dr. Brodure beamed. He had left the parsonage without his hat and his gray hair stood at attention around his ears. “I just received a letter from Kendall. He declares that the Duke of Westhampton speaks highly of Fettermill.”
“Kendall? Fettermill?” Viola paused and then asked, “Whyever would the Duke of Westhampton know this area?”
“That’s just it.” Dr. Brodure’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Captain Fox Carnegie is related to Westhampton through marriage, so His Grace has visited here in the past. And now, Kendall says he must see the area for himself. His Grace has decided to holiday in Fettermill this summer and has already made arrangements to let Fettermill Castle. Is that not delightful?”
Malcolm suppressed a grimace. Kendall certainly seemed the meddling sort. First, he wrote Ethan, all but ordering him to court Viola. Now, the man was coming to visit in person?
Fettermill did not need more imposing dukes. The Duke of Westhampton, whom Malcolm had met, was more than enough.
Unfortunately, Viola had her back to Malcolm, so he couldn’t see her expression to determine how she felt about this turn of events. But her voice was genial and cheerful.
“That is, indeed, delightful news, Papa. His Grace will be most welcome.”
