by Nichole Van
“But?” she prompted.
“But . . . when the dust settled from her decision, Mhairi had chosen a life of hardship.” He swallowed again. “And she ensured there wasnae a bloody thing I could do about it. For my sister, I fear that duty has been a cold comfort in the end.”
The words struck Violet with almost preternatural force.
Duty is a cold comfort
She knew that, of course.
Was that what Dahlia had been left with, too, when the excitement of her elopement wore off? Duty and regret?
Or had Dahlia truly been happy in her marriage?
And would Violet ever know the effects of her own encouraging words?
She supposed this was the perilous bit of midnight conversations. That when traveling in the dark, one risked knocking loose stones, uncovering buried pain and unseen truths.
Ewan had offered her so much of his soul tonight. His bravery encouraged her own.
She stepped closer to him and lifted her free hand.
It hung in the air between them for a spare moment, the moon wrapping her skin in silvery light.
And then she placed her palm onto his chest.
This time, when he gasped, she felt it. The sharp rise of his ribs, the hard plane of muscle.
He instantly raised his free hand, covering hers and pressing it against his sternum. She stepped even closer, her skirts tangling with his kilt.
“Perhaps . . . ,” she began, voice soft, eyes staring at his larger hand wrapped around her palm, “. . . perhaps that is why my decision-making abilities have been so taxed. As I’ve told you, I had started out thinking that I simply could not decide which path to take. There are too many variables and unknowns to know which way to go. But you helped me understand that I struggled to decide what to do because I did not know what I wanted my future to be. That I needed to research the options, so to speak. And that is true.”
She rubbed her hand up his chest, still staring at her fingers peeking out from underneath his. His lungs expanded sharply. She dared to look up at him. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, refracted pools of gold.
“But now I see the paths before me clearly . . .” she continued. “. . . One path is a colorless duty. The other is a flamboyant mayhem. So though I find the flamboyant mayhem much more alluring, I struggle to know which path truly will be the best in the end. It’s like . . . facing the ocean cliffs.” She darted a glance over her shoulder, calling attention to the distant murmur of waves against the rocks. “I know what it’s like at the top of the cliff. I walk there frequently. It’s sometimes temperamental and often windy, but it’s also secure. I know that if I don’t get too close to the edge, I will be safe. And safe can be good. But it can also be . . . monotonous. A colorless duty, like my known path. And so, I sometimes wonder—what would it be like to jump? To take off running and leap from the cliff’s edge? I imagine that the first few seconds of falling would be incredible. The flamboyant mayhem of flying, soaring through the air.
“But what happens after those first few seconds? Am I dashed against the rocks and crippled? Or do I splash into the ocean and find it cleansing? A new world with fascinating wonders to explore? And so I stand here, facing the ocean, desperate to jump . . . but so terrified of the landing that I cannot do it.”
“Ah . . . ye have the heart of a poet, lass,” he whispered, pressing her fingertips to him. “’Tis an apt analogy. Mhairi pushed me off the cliff, and I didnae like the decision being made for me.”
He paused, as if assessing his hand at cards, and then deciding to lay them all out at once. “What would ye want if ye could guarantee a safe landing? A safe but exciting way down the cliffs?”
You.
I want you.
She didn’t hesitate.
But even the silken quiet could not quite coax the admission out of her.
Such words felt a little too much like jumping in earnest.
He answered the question anyway. “I ken there is a third way down the cliffs. What if someone chose to remain at your side. A true friend with a rope, helping ye down. Letting ye fall for only a short way before pulling the rope taut, breaking your flight before ye can be hurt. I think that is what ye search for.”
His words were too much. Too close to her innermost truth.
Violet closed the remaining tiny distance between them and did the one thing she had ached to do for weeks.
She extricated her palm from his chest and pressed it to his cheek.
He hissed at the contact and snaked his hand around her waist, his fingers reflexively curling into the small of her back.
He lifted their other hands, still joined, and pressed a kiss into her knuckles, causing her to hiss at the soft feel of his lips.
Violet caressed his face. His cheeks were rough with evening whiskers, shooting tingles up her arms. He made a sound—half moan, half sigh—and leaned into her touch, nuzzling into her palm.
“Ah, lass,” he whispered, pulling her flush against him.
She gasped at the solid feel of his body, her eyes closing, breathing in the scent of him. In her world, men smelled of sandalwood and bergamot, expensive spices from far-flung places.
But Ewan . . . ah, Ewan . . . he smelled of home.
Heather and gorse.
Wool and ocean spray.
“Ah lass, I want tae be the one at your side. The one with a rope. But I cannae see how.” His words were a rejection, but he nipped at her fingers as he spoke.
“I know.” Silence and then on a whisper again, “I know.”
“We come from worlds so far apart.”
“I know,” she repeated, leaning farther into him, stretching on her tiptoes to drag her nose along his neck, following the exact path she had traced earlier, only this time daring to fully touch him.
“I’m no’ going to stop painting.” His voice was ragged shards, his head arching into her hands.
“I would not ask it of you,” she whispered against his skin, running her lips along his jaw. “You cannot stop painting any more than I can cease being a countess.”
“I dinnae belong in your world, lass.” He ran a hand up her spine, cupping the back of her head. “I’m not one to attend balls and manage estates. And ye cannae abandon your responsibilities and live the life of a bohemian artist.”
“No, definitely not,” she breathed against his mouth.
“And yet, I wish to be by your side, lass. Tae guide ye down the cliff.”
“Yes. We shall simply find a length of strong rope and tether ourselves together.”
And then she kissed him.
It felt an inevitability. As if from the moment he stepped into her study all those weeks before, they had been hurtling toward this.
Her, in his arms.
His lips on hers.
Her arms twined around his neck, standing on tiptoe, pulling his mouth down to hers. His arms tightened around her back, half lifting her up to him.
Ewan’s kiss was emblematic of the man himself—impossibly gentle and forcefully devastating. The soft hunger of his lips. The steel strength of his shoulders.
The heady exhilaration.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
And as she had suspected . . .
It. Was. Glorious.
. . . the tumbling lift in her belly . . .
. . . the weightlessness of her body against his . . .
She almost didn’t care if she dashed upon the rocks after all.
22
Violet expected to regret kissing Ewan.
She truly did.
But she awoke the next morning full of cheer and a surprising lack of whathaveIdone! running through her head.
Hmmmm.
It was an unanticipated development.
Perhaps she was less of a proper lady than she thought. Which was not entirely a revelation, truth be told.
Or perhaps it was her heart telling her that she had finally discovered what she trul
y wanted.
Or, most likely, Violet was still delighting in the thrill of falling, the exhilarating plunge from the cliff.
The only question on her mind—
When would she have the opportunity to kiss Ewan again?
They had parted the night before with a few more lingering kisses and promises to talk the next day. That they would find the binding rope they envisioned—a way to forward, together.
Violet awoke determined to see Ewan as soon as possible. But before she could slip away for a walk to the castle, Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe stopped by to pay their respects as they were departing with Master MacTavish.
Sir Rafe recommended several excellent texts on agriculture and then left her with some advice:
“Ye can only truly understand farming if you’ve lived it, spent time in the fields, and talked with your stewards and tenants and such. Try it, I say. Getting out and doing will inform you more than anything.”
“Aye, Rafe has the right of it. Also, know that I am here to offer advice or lend a hand, if ye need it . . . earl to earl, of course,” Lord Hadley said before fixing her with a steely look. “And have a care with our Ewan.”
Violet barely suppressed a laugh as she waved the gentlemen off in their carriage.
Oh, she would care for their Ewan. Probably too much, truth be told.
Because the problem, as Violet saw it, wasn’t that she didn’t know her own mind as it pertained to Ewan.
She did. The decision to like him—to caress him, to kiss him—had been easy to make.
No, the true problem was what followed next:
What was to come of her caring?
Ewan’s points the night before were true.
She would never ask him to leave off painting.
And she could not quit being a countess.
Moreover, she knew firsthand how vicious gossips could be. She had endured rejection and derision over Dahlia’s behavior.
Imagine the toll should Violet herself make a similar choice. The Lady Grahams of the world would trumpet their displeasure. She would become an outcast; many would not receive her. Ewan would be scorned and vilified for reaching so high above his station, perhaps even jeopardizing his career.
And even if Violet and Ewan were willing to face such things in order to be together, Aster and Rose would pay a hefty price, as her father had repeatedly warned her.
A woman’s marriage prospects were only as high as her respectability. Violet’s actions could doom her sisters to marrying men of lesser stature—i.e. financial resources. Yes, both her sisters had dowries, but the sums were not large, certainly not enough to live on. The men her sisters married needed to bring their own financial reserves to the table if they were to have a life together.
Heavens, even Violet’s own children would likely struggle.
How could she tally all the consequences of such a choice? It felt as if they would roll on and on into the future.
And what about Dahlia, who had made such a decision?
Violet vividly recalled Dahlia’s letters those months after her marriage. Her sister had said all the right words to appear happy enough on paper, but Violet still wondered. The clues were in the smaller details. Dahlia requesting money to pay for additional coal to ensure the baby did not grow cold. Dahlia’s passing comment that her husband was working long hours and rarely at home. Had these simply been the minor irritations of life? Or more stark cries of distress?
But even if her sister had bitterly lamented the path of her life, she would have been too stubborn to admit it.
And Violet’s situation was not quite the same as Dahlia’s. Ewan had prospects and friends in high places. Violet had means and income to see them through. Certainly that counted for something.
She liked Ewan.
A lot.
She wanted to be with him.
A lot.
For once, Violet found herself almost helplessly making a decision.
As if the choice had a voice of its own.
She could not turn away from him. She could not.
Perhaps they could forge a path forward together, as he had said. Find a length of rope and glide down the cliff in a controlled descent.
In the end, she simply couldn’t seem to care about the consequences for herself.
The thrill of the fall was too intoxicating.
If she dashed on rocks in the end . . . well . . . the happiness of now was worth the pain.
She would simply have to find a way to protect her sisters from true harm.
Ewan stared at the blank page in his sketchbook.
He was again in his greenhouse studio. The glazier had come and gone, repairing leaks in the skylights, allowing Ewan to move his work back into the glass house. He had left most of his canvases in the great hall—no need to risk getting them wet or damaged—but he had brought the painting of Mhairi and the blackhouse out with him.
It now sat on his easel, half daring him to address it.
Ewan stared at his sketchbook, wondering if he had the courage to face his past in line and color.
Andrew, Rafe, and Kieran had departed earlier.
Before leaving, Andrew and Rafe had subjected Ewan to good-natured banter over Violet.
“Do ye require any instruction in the finer art of kissing?” Rafe had asked, voice casual, clearly wishing to set Ewan to blushing.
His words had their intended effect.
“Aye. We’d be happy tae walk ye through the process,” Andrew agreed, grinning unabashedly at Ewan’s scalding cheeks.
“Off wit youse both.” Ewan pushed them both out the door. “I dinnae need your bamming ways.”
Kieran had managed a thin smile as he shook Ewan’s hand and followed their friends out. Kieran had recovered somewhat, but his spirits were still depressed. That morning, he had gently wrapped the canvas with Jamie’s likeness and tucked it under his arm. He had not asked if he could take it, but Ewan understood. He had never really considered the painting to be his own.
Ewan was beginning to better comprehend the grief that drove Kieran.
Ewan loved Violet.
Somewhere along that ribbon path last night, he had fully accepted the fact.
He loved her. He adored her.
He was determined for them to scale down the cliff together, tethered to one another for safety.
He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, images and sensations of their kiss the night before rushing in.
The rise of her body to meet his lips.
The lush press of her against his chest.
The unspoken words of her actions.
You are worth risk.
You are worth the chance at love.
Ewan savored the sensation for several minutes, memorizing the hum in his blood, visualizing the colors and lines it painted.
When he opened his eyes, blinking against the sunlight flooding his studio, he saw the scene clearly in his mind’s eye.
The exact moment that had to be committed to paint and canvas.
He swallowed. That same feeling rose, panicky and pink-tinged.
Part of him understood it better now.
Despite how much he disliked prizefighting as a sport, he was a fighter inside, a man used to protecting himself and others.
Because of this, he had given every last ounce of his heart to protecting Mhairi. And she had thrown it away.
The feelings that clenched his chest when he thought of his past were tied to that failure. To the instinctual need to retreat and protect his heart.
But . . . no more.
Today, he met that salmon-colored emotion head-on.
Today, he summoned the courage to face his demons.
He picked up his charcoal with shaking fingers . . . and began to draw.
Violet’s day had been a busy one.
After Ewan’s friends had left, Mr. Shambles arrived with a proposal for using elms to protect the fields along the north river.
And soon after
Mr. Shambles left, her father and sisters returned home from their house party.
While assisting Mr. Kerr out of his great coat, Irvine blithely told of the illustrious guests who had departed that morning, how the gentlemen had dined with Lady Kildrum but spent the night with Sir Joshua and Mr. Campbell.
Her father’s gray eyebrows had drawn down as Irvine waxed on.
“A word, daughter.” Mr. Kerr fixed Violet with a hard stare, nearly dragging her into the drawing room with his blue eyes alone.
The door had scarcely clacked behind Violet when her father whirled on her.
“How many gentlemen were here? Have you no thought for your reputation, girl?!”
“Father, all was proper. Uncle was with me the entire time.”
Well, except for that glorious walk back up to Kilmeny Hall. But that was her secret to treasure.
“Moreover,” she continued, “I would have presumed you to be thrilled to discover that Mr. Campbell has well-connected friends.”
“What do Mr. Campbell’s connections matter? He is merely a temporary fixture in these parts, utterly irrelevant to your future—”
“Pardon?” Violet flinched back at her father’s words.
“I am concerned about Lord Graham.” Her father waved a hand. “If he were to hear of such behavior, he might withdraw his suit and then where would we be?”
Her jaw nearly hung open. “Father, I have not accepted Lord Graham. Besides, the more I have pondered the match, the more I am convinced that he and I will not suit.”
“Pardon? Will not suit?” It was her father’s turn to look aghast. “What is there not to suit about the man? He is handsome and kind and wealthy. He is the perfect image of an aristocratic gentleman.”
“Precisely! He is the very picture of noblesse oblige. But I cannot find it in me to marry that!”
“Who else will you marry, Violet?” He leaned closer to her, pointing his finger. Dimly, she noted that his hair was grayer now, more salt than pepper. When had that happened? “No matter how much you prevaricate, it has been seven years since your come-out. Seven years to discover this mythical man who meets all your needs. You must marry someone like Lord Graham, and soon, so why not have it be Lord Graham himself? How will you manage the estate without a gentleman like Lord Graham at the helm? How will you pay off the Manna Loan without his financial assistance? Who will sponsor your sisters for their Season?”