You began all this with the hope of forming an acquaintance with Ethan Penn-Leith, remember? Does it matter how it all comes about from here?
Like that moment in Manchester with Eloise so many months ago, she abruptly saw herself from above—once more frozen, hesitating, tooanxious/worried/indecisiveto reach for what she truly wanted.
Enough.
If Viola intended to truly live physically and not just in her head—if she ever wished to marry and have children—she needed to break out of this statue-like existence.
Sitting at her desk all those months ago, she had harnessed the courage to set these circumstances in motion. Now, she would take another step forward.
With a fortifying breath, she looked straight into her father’s eyes. “I do. I do wish a further acquaintance with Mr. Penn-Leith.”
“Well, then,” her father glanced back toward the dining room doors, “let us see the matter settled.”
2
Malcolm Penn-Leith had been many things in his life: husband, widower, farmer, businessman.
But until now, he had never been a matchmaker.
Granted, if anyone would drive him to such mawkish heights, it would be his wee brother, Ethan.
“Ye need tae pen a reply, Ethan.” Malcolm clasped a length of thick metal chain in his left hand. “This is Miss Viola Brodure, need I remind ye? One of the most celebrated writers of our age. She is hardly some obscure English miss.”
“I am a rather famous poet myself, in case ye forgot,” Ethan said, cuffing his sleeve up his forearm.
Stripped down to shirtsleeves and kilts, the brothers stood in the pasture opposite the front drive of Thistle Muir, the family farmhouse in rural, northeast Scotland.
“That’s hardly the point. When a lady like Miss Brodure writes ye a letter, ye pay it the attention it deserves,” Malcolm grunted. “I’ve given ye my truth.”
He motioned for his brother to stand back.
Ethan sighed and walked ten feet to Malcolm’s right, stopping atop a low boulder jutting out of the ground and folding his arms across his chest.
Malcolm whistled for Beowoof to come. The dog bounded forward, tail wagging, tongue lolling, curly hair flopping into his eyes. With his free hand, Malcolm scratched the hound’s ears and then motioned for the dog to go stand beside Ethan.
Malcolm drew the metal links taut. At its opposite end, the chain knotted and looped around a thirty-pound boulder, holding it tightly.
Taking in a deep breath, he backed up three paces to stand behind a wooden toe-board laid in the turf. The heavy stone dragged behind him, its weight gouging a dark slash in the wet grass.
Standing behind the board, Malcolm clutched the chain with two hands and spun in a circle—his kilt swirling around his knees, the world swinging on its axis.
Once. Twice.
Malcolm released the chain and sent the stone flying across the field. It soared a solid ten feet past Ethan’s previous mark, landing with a satisfyingthud. Beowoof barked and gave chase, dancing around the rock as it rolled.
“Hah!” Malcolm ran a hand over his bristly beard. “That will be a challenge for ye tae best.”
“You’re becoming cocky in your dotage,” Ethan scoffed. “I am still warming up.”
“Good. That means more truths for ye tae spill.”
The chained-stone throwing had become a ritual for Ethan and Malcolm. The goal was simple—whoever hurled the stone the farthest won.
It was, of course, a traditional form of Scottish male bonding, and therefore, competitive as hell. Many a night’s drinking at the Lion Arms ended with men spilling into the street, three sheets to the wind and attempting to roll a mill stone or lift the blacksmith’s forge.
Naturally, in the vein of that competitive spirit, the brothers had added truth-telling to their stone-hurling.
Before each throw, they had to first tell a truth.
