In Scot Water - Caroline Lee

Prologue

“Is that her?”

At Malcolm Oliphant’s side, his brother, Alistair, looked down at a ledger he carried, back up at the woman across the square, checked the ledger once more, and grunted. “Aye, she matches the descriptions I received. Evelinde Oliphant and her two sons come to market on the third Thursday of every month.” Alistair scowled up at the dark storm clouds. “No matter the weather.”

Malcolm only had eyes for the lass arguing with the cloth merchant and was unaware of the impending weather. “She’s beautiful,” he breathed.

She was. Her long black hair was pulled back in a simple braid, and she moved with a grace he didn’t often see. But as she turned away from the merchant—part of her haggling method, judging from the way the portly man began to wave his arms to call her back—Malcolm sucked in a breath at the quiet serenity upon her face.

That, and the signs of her exhaustion.

What must it be like, to be a woman living alone with her two young ones, far from any civilization? Alistair’s records showed Evelinde had been born a MacRob, and her Oliphant husband had built a croft close to those lands so she could visit her kin. But that meant she was several hours’ travel from the village, or any other towns.

His brother cleared his throat. “I’ll admit yer scheme to find a widow with sons was a smart one, brother. But I’ve taken too much time from my work to help ye, and now it appears ye’ve spied one ye obviously find pleasing.”

Malcolm slapped his brother on the shoulder, distractedly. “Aye, and ye have my thanks.”

“We’re about to be hit with a deluge.” Alistair sounded exasperated. “So go over there and speak to her.”

Speak to her?

Speak to that angel? The angel who looked harried as she carefully counted out money with one hand, while holding onto the hand of what looked like a rambunctious lad with the other? The small boy was yanking at her arm, trying to direct her attention to the baker’s shop, and she was speaking quietly to him in between finishing up her transaction with the merchant.

There was a baby strapped to her chest with a piece of Oliphant plaid. Another son, according to Alistair’s records and the research Malcolm had done.

Aye, she was exactly what he was looking for.

So why couldn’t he simply march across the square and swoop her up? Why couldn’t he speak to her?

He knew how the Earth rotated. He knew how mushrooms reproduced. He knew the major arteries of the human body, and the bloodlines of the great kings, and how to employ levers and fulcrums to simplify structural modifications.

But he knew nothing about speaking to a woman.

“Well, Mal?” His brother sounded exasperated. “Are ye going to speak to her?”

She turned away from the cloth merchant, a bolt of simple green wool in her arms, and met Malcolm’s eyes.

He couldn’t move.

She was beautiful, aye, but delicate. Gentle looking. Exhausted.

The lad was tugging her, and with a soft smile, she allowed him to lead her toward the delicious smells wafting from the baker.

She had enough on her mind and enough to handle at that moment. Malcolm had the certain sense that, were he to go to her right now, he would only add to her burdens.

“Mal?”

“Nay,” he choked. “The time is no’ right.”

But as he watched her glance over her shoulder at him once more, Malcolm knew the truth: she would be his.

Evelinde couldn’t help risking another glance over her shoulder. The two men who’d been staring at her were still there, and the one on the right…?

Well, she’d never believed in the kinds of connections Father Ambrose had always spoken to her about. She certainly hadn’t felt that tug with her husband. Nay, she’d married him for the security he could offer her—after years spent relying on the charity of the church, she’d been happy for a home of her own—not because of how he made her feel emotionally.

But this man…?

When she’d turned away from the wool merchant, having parted with more of her precious funds than she’d intended, she’d met his blue-gray eyes and had felt the tug, the pull, deep in her soul.

And something had stirred within her stomach, something which was connected to the place of her desire, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together to capture the sensation.

There was promise in the man’s gaze, and she could feel it like a punch to the stomach.

Even from across the square.

“Mama! Mama, I want a