His earlier mordant brooding was forgotten in the enjoyment of their verbal dueling. The thrusts and parries had brought a bloom of color to her cheeks and a martial spark to her gaze. She looked like…
Poetry in motion.
“Rather my ears than my…” Clearing his throat with a cough, Alec quickly looked around for a distraction. He spotted the corner of the book peeking out from between the folds of muslin. “What are you reading?”
“Oh, er, nothing.”
He angled his head. It was definitely something.
Caro shifted just a fraction, causing a pencil to fall from her lap.
Ah, a notebook—it was a notebook.
“Are you working on a poem?”
“Just scribbling some rough ideas,” she mumbled, making a show of searching through the wispy grass.
“Might I see them?”
“What?” Her head jerked up. “No!”
His jaw tightened. The rebuff stung, more than he cared to admit. The playful banter had led him to think that maybe…
“Quite right,” said Alec through clenched teeth. “Why share your creative efforts with me?” He retreated a step and pushed back an overhanging branch from his path. “Forgive me for interrupting your writing. I shall leave you and your Muse in peace.”
“Wait!” cried Caro impulsively.
He hesitated, his face half in shadow from the leaves.
Had she merely imagined the wounded look in his eyes? The idea that Alec McClellan could be hurt by anything she said was a little absurd, and yet, in the instant he had turned away, a spasm had swirled their slate-blue color to the strangest hue.
“That is,” she faltered, “you need not feel compelled to leave, sir. There is room here for all three of us.” A rueful grimace tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And as the Muse never seems to stay for long, it will likely be just the two of us.”
“An intruder is likely to make Her even more skittish,” replied Alec. But he made no further move to leave.
“Yes, well, you know females—we are all such flighty creatures, aren’t we?” she murmured. It made no sense, but she couldn’t resist bantering with him, despite his solemn expression.
His mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Not all. There are a few of the fairer sex who don’t take wing at the first sign of adversity.” He paused. “And writing certainly tests the mettle of anyone—man or woman—who is brave enough to try it.”
She fingered the point of the pencil, leaving a smudge of graphite on her thumb. “Do you compose verses, Lord Strathcona?”
“Just scribbles,” he said, echoing her earlier assertion.
“I—” Caro caught herself.
Alec dropped his arm and stepped free of the shadows. “You what?”
“I shouldn’t say it.”
“I’ve rarely known you to be rendered speechless.
She blew out a gusty sigh. “What you really mean is that you’ve rarely known me to show any restraint in voicing what I think, no matter how outrageous.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he chided, but gently. There was no sting to the reproof.
“I was going to say that I should like to see your scribbles. However, I don’t suppose you’ll let me.”
He moved away from the bushes bordering the footpath and seated himself on the grass near her. “I could reply that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”