Her poor body was not up to the task of actuallybreathingthrough it all.
Her chest spasmed and her throat constricted until Viola was gasping.
Malcolm instantly noticed the change in her breathing. He pulled back.
“Breathe, lass.” His rich bass rumbled over her. “Deep and easy.”
Viola concentrated on sucking in steady lungfuls of air.
Malcolm’s brow knit in concern.
Before Viola could utter a sound, he swept her up into his arms—surely she appeared a mass of billowing white petticoats and blue skirt—and effortlessly carried her the remaining steps to the front stoop of Thistle Muir.
Viola clasped her hands around his neck, resting her cheek on his shoulder, eyes closed, mind focused on the simple act of moving air in and out of her lungs.
Of course, as her nose was all but pressed into Malcolm’s throat, she caught a heady lungful ofhim, too—man and wool, woodsmoke and hay.
The scent instantly calmed her, the seeping heat of his body easing the tightness of her throat. As if the warmth of Malcolm’s touch soothed the very strands of her soul.
He shifted her to open the door, and then she was in the dark interior of Thistle Muir. If he found her weight burdensome, he showed not a hint of it. His heart remained a slow, steady thump under her ear.
Instead of setting her down as she expected, Malcolm ordered Beowoof to stay outside and shut the door behind them with his foot.
He strode into the parlor, sinking onto a sofa with Viola still in his arms. His muscles flexed, as if tensing to move her off his lap. Viola clung to him with a mewl of protest, refusing to relinquish the comfort of his hold quite yet. His rumbled assent vibrated through her sternum. He settled back. Her body relaxed into his strength, her breathing easing.
How glorious to be in this place—curled upon his lap, her nose nestled into his throat, his beard tickling her forehead. She figured if she died here and now . . . cradled in the arms of Malcolm Penn-Leith would be an acceptable way to go.
And so, even though the worst of the attack had passed—she certainly did not need his physical assistance any longer—she could not bring herself to move.
His arms wrapped gently around her, holding her in place—firm but not constricting, supporting but not binding. She knew he would loose her the second she asked. And would hold her again just as quickly.
Tears pricked once more.
How could any woman—any human being, for that matter—want more from life than this? To have another person who supported you just as you were?
Malcolm did not require her to hide parts of her soul—her ideals, her aspirations, her regrets.With him, she could be her most true self.
More to the point, she liked the person she was in his eyes.
Would that this could be the rest of her life. That she could remain here with Malcolm at Thistle Muir, curled into the comfort of his strong arms, adored simply for being . . . Viola.
They rested in silence, the ticking of the clock on the mantel counting their synchronized breaths.
With each passing tick, Viola became more physically aware of the mountain of intoxicating male underneath her. Somehow, her heartbeat had migrated to the places they touched—shoulder, hip, arm—and now her very skin pulsed as if alive.
Her breathing picked up again. His throat was mere inches from her lips. She would only have to shift the tiniest bit to press her mouth against the tendons flexing in his neck.
And if she did, how would Malcolm respond? Would he turn his head and capture her lips with his?
A wave of longing flooded her cheeks.
Abruptly, she understood all too well why women and men found themselves in compromising positions. Because if Malcolm kissed her right now, she instinctively knew she would only want more and more.
But would he find her kisses as intoxicating?
She knew he liked her as a person. As a friend.
But did he wish for more than that?
