“Gloves!” She raised her hand, brandishing her fingers in their kid leather as if it were a taint upon humanity.
Frowning, she tugged at her fingertips, vehemently stripping off her gloves, one at a time.
Free of their shield, her hands appeared pale and fragile-boned.And likely impossibly soft tae the touch, an unhelpful part of his brain noted.
A lady’s perfect hands.
Malcolm stood in perplexed silence. “Why would ye remove your gloves? Your lovely hands should be protected.”
“Hah!” She shook the gloves at him. “That is precisely the point! I am so tired of metaphorically covering my soul in gloves.” She slapped said gloves against her palm. “My sheathed silence feels complicit. I cannot write what Kendall demands.” She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “There. I have said it. I’ve made a decision. I willnotwrite his blasted short story.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.
Taking a chance, Malcolm reached out and plucked the gloves from her hands, tucking them into his sporran.
He then held out his hand, palm up.
An invitation.Take my hand.
Viola bit her lip and lifted her right arm.
She paused and then smoothed her palm across his.
Just as on that day along the lane, the contrast between their hands astonished him—her porcelain fingers resting atop his weathered brown ones.
But this time, he couldfeelthe velvet softness of her skin, the warmth of her fingers that sent electricity arcing up his arm.
And like before, she wrapped her hand around his and held on tightly—claiming him—the firmness of her grasp mimicking the fierceness of her heart.
“If I could offer a word of advice . . .” He trailed off.
“Please.”
“I admire that ye wish tae use your hands for good. To earn dirt under your nails and scrapes across your knuckles.”
She said nothing for a moment, eyes blinking rapidly, her left hand wrapping around her waist, fingers fidgeting. But her hand in his held true.
He pressed her palm to his chest, wanting her to feel the steady beat of his heart, the truth of his words.
Dimly, some part of him recognized that such impulses would be his downfall. That the more time he spent with Viola Brodure, the more of himself he stowed within her fragile body.
“Ye have so much fire, lass.” He held her hand steady to his heart. “Ye practicallyburnwith it. It’s a conflagration of ideas and passion inside ye.” He thumped his free hand against his sternum. “But I fear for ye, too.”
She bit her lip. A tear dropped from her eye.
“You do?” The barest whisper.
She leaned forward, pressing against the hand he held to his chest, as if bracing herself.
“Aye. Such fire . . . ’tis a dangerous thing, I think. If ye dinnae let it go, it may very well incinerate ye. Put another way . . . ofttimes literal death isnae the way we die most.”
She absorbed this with an audible inhalation.
He lifted her hand from his chest, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, the tender impulse so natural it terrified him. And just as he had suspected, her skinwasimpossibly soft under his lips. His thoughts careened off course, contemplating the texture of other places he longed to kiss—her cheek, the nape of her neck, that wee hollow between her shoulder and clavicle . . .
“Take on the world’s ills, Viola Brodure,” he urged. “Shed your gloves. Sing your heart. Peoplewilllisten.”
She nodded her head, tears falling in earnest. Pulling her hand out of his, she rummaged in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief.
