Malcolm’s heart constricted.
Yes. Yes, he would love nothing more than to kiss Viola.
But . . . she had experienced a difficult day. Her normal defenses were lowered. He should not take advantage of her vulnerable state.
Or rather . . .furtheradvantage.
And yet . . .
He found himself halving the space between them. She matched his movement, stepping closer until her skirts brushed his kilt.
Her gaze went hazy.
He stared at her mouth, the perfect rosebud arch of her upper lip, the plump pout of her lower.
Heaven’s above, the woman was made for kissing, for risk and passion.
He found himself listing forward.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
She rose on her tiptoes.
He leaned down.
Close . . .
Closer . . .
Eager tae watch this woman die too, ye eejit?
To drag her down into your lowly life?
The thoughts ricocheted like cannon fire through Malcolm’s brain.
He jolted upright, panic thrumming along his skin.
Terror flooded his veins.
He took a step back, chest heaving. Viola’s eyes flared open, brow puckered.
Abruptly, he turned and poked at the fire.
Her confusion battered his shoulders.
Silence rang, filling the room.
“A good friend recently encouraged me to figuratively ‘shed my gloves.’” Her voice reached him from behind. “I understood that to mean, among other things, that I should stop muffling my words. That when I felt or thought something strongly, I should speak.”
And then, maddeningly, she said nothing more for a beat.
Malcolm slumped, returning the fire poker to its stand.
“Viola.” He turned back to her.
That was an absolute mistake.
Her summer-blue eyes glittered even in the dim light. A blush scorched her skin, painting color across her cheekbones.
