Such words would be the height of presumption.
For a shy, cautious, God-fearing woman, she had somehow managed to create an unholy tangle of her life.
Of course, none of this stopped thoughts of Malcolm from pinging through her poor muddled brain.
Any formal courtship between them was impossible with so many eyes fixed upon herself and Ethan.
And yet, she longed for it.
Being near Malcolm was more than mere chemistry or animal attraction. As they had discussed in the graveyard, she continually uncovered new treasured pieces of herself in his presence—teasing humor, confidence, an ease in speaking—bits of her soul that she hadn’t recognized until he had shined a light on them.
Peering down at the still blank notebook page, Viola faced another truth—
She was nearly desperate to see Malcolm again.
The next day, Viola thought about Malcolm during Lady Stewart’s garden party, disappointed that he had not been in attendance.
She thought about him again as Dr. Ruxton and his wife accompanied her father and herself home following the party.
And after Mrs. Ruxton’s not-so-discreet hinting resulted in Dr. Brodure inviting the Ruxtons in for tea, Viola fretted over missing an encounter with Malcolm along the lane. But ever the dutiful daughter, she shed her bonnet and gloves and requested a tray be sent to the parlor.
Through a small miracle, she managed to curtail Mrs. Ruxton’s tongue and send the couple off after only an hour’s delay. Her father, thank goodness, was quickly tucked into his study.
Even so, Viola knew she would be too late to catch Malcolm at their swing.
Heart heavy, she nonetheless hurried out the door—bonnet forgotten, gloves abandoned—down the narrow path, across the meadow, and onto the lane that led to Thistle Muir’s far fields.
She walked quickly, fearing that the exertion of running would be too much for her lungs.
But, oh, how she longed to sprint!
Had she already missed him?
Please be there.
Please wait for me.
She hoped against hope that perhaps Malcolm might have already passed the swing but would still be walking up the lane.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
No bark from Beowoof. No whistle from Malcolm.
Chest heaving, she continued on. Just a little farther. Just to the swing. Then she would know for certain that she had arrived too late.
She rounded the last corner, steeling her heart to find an empty road.
Beowoof’s joyous bark greeted her instead.
Viola’s stomach flipped with joy.
There he was.
Malcolm.
Standing tall, shoulder leaning into the birch beside the swing, a slight breeze ruffling his kilt. His gaze met hers.
Oh, heavens.
