He got nothing in reply, not even a flutter of Aileen’s presence.
His first marriage had been a content one, but he instinctively knew that marriage to Viola—and was he truly contemplating that?—would be entirely different.
Viola would challenge him in ways that Aileen never had. She would force him to change and morph and strive to meet her on equal footing, both intellectual and social.
Yet in the same breath, imagining Viola attempting to step into Aileen’s life . . .
It felt impossible.
Yes, the farm was certainly more prosperous now. Viola certainly wouldn’t be needed to help run things as Aileen had done.
And what about children?
A picture flashed through his head. Viola—wee, fey Viola—swollen with his child, her tiny body writhing in the agony of labor—
He recoiled from the scene, memory merging with his vision and sending nausea clawing his throat.
Aileen, with her sturdy, braw frame, hadn’t been able to bear his child.
How could he even contemplate making a child with Viola?
Well, themakingof the child . . . that he could imagine in excruciatingly delicious detail.
But the bearing of his child?
It would kill her.
Malcolm pressed a shaking hand to his forehead.
I’m no’ strong enough tae endure that again.
Losing Viola would destroy him, of that Malcolm had no doubt. Just thinking of the possibility threatened to tumble him into madness.
And there was still Ethan to consider. Thank goodness, his wee brother was visiting Uncle Leith for the week. Malcolm would need the time to gather his thoughts, to muster his words into orderly, logical rows like good little soldiers.
“I’m in a rightfankle, Aileen,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
And though a gentle breeze rustled through the tree above his head and a pair of robins quarreled, Malcolm still felt no answers.
He pushed to his feet and headed for the north pasture, his coos, and a discussion with Callum Liston about how to rotate grazing this winter. After all, Malcolm wasn’t quite a gentleman—despite Viola’s assertion to the contrary—and he had work that needed to be seen to.
But then, trudging up the lane at the end of the day, there she was.
His Viola.
Sitting on the swing, bonnet dangling from her fingers, her face turned toward the sun.
All of her rimmed in golden light.
He had kissed those soft lips. His hands still thrummed with the memory of her body under his palms.
Beowoof barked and raced to her side.
She turned and locked eyes with Malcolm. The radiance of her smile threatened to crack his heart wide. A helpless wing of affection that battered his ribcage with wild feathers.
What was he to do?
This wasn’t some tepid emotion, easily managed and categorized.
