After his monologuing over Coolius Caesar, Malcolm felt compelled to redeem himself. Or, at the very least, find a topic of conversation that wasn’t quite so embarrassingly banal.
“No cows? Are you quite sure?”But they are your favorite topic, her expression said.
He chuckled again. “No coos. And nary a word about feed or beef or market prices. Chickens, pigs, sheep, and other barnyard animals are also prohibited topics of conversation.”
Viola affected a put-upon sigh. “I suppose goats, ducks, and swans are also forbidden?”
“Ye suppose correctly. Might as well throw in all crops, as well. Barley and oats and such.”
“Even potatoes?”
“Particularlypotatoes. A wretched business . . . potatoes.”
That piqued her curiosity. “Truly?” She tilted her head at him. “Why are potatoes wretched?”
“Have ye not heard? They say there is a blight affecting them in Ireland at the moment, though it hasnae reached this part of Scotland as of yet—”
“How dreadful!”
“Aye, it is. I cannae think what we’ll do if—” He stopped mid-sentence, wagging his finger. “Hah! I see what you’re doing there, lass. I willnae be distracted into discussing tubers.”
“You misunderstand, sir. I am sincerely interested—”
“Nae. I’ll have none of it. I will not be accused of turning farm life into a religious experience again. ’Tis nearly blasphemous tae contemplate.”
She laughed as he intended. The merry sound bounced off the surrounding trees and set Beowoof to barking in happiness.
“I wish tae know more about your writing,” he continued.
As he had yesterday, he offered her his arm.
“Sincerely?” Like yesterday, her small fingers slid around his elbow. “I fear I shall bore you.”
“Nonsense.”Impossible, he wanted to add.
They began to stroll down the lane. Beowoof bounded ahead of them, darting through the ferns lining the road.
“What would you like to know about my writing?” she asked.
Mmmm, whatdidhe wish to know? “How do ye create a vivid, memorable character?”
“That is an interesting question.” She tilted her head, pondering. “So what would be my process were I to create someone like, say, yourself as a character?”
“Me?” Malcolm asked, surprised.
“Yes. You.” She darted a look his way. “In order to do that, I would first need to think of a sentence that describes your defining characteristic.”
Malcolm wanted to tell her nevermind, that he was hardly a worthy topic. But he was abruptly desperate to know—howdidshe see him with her writerly eyes?
“So what would it be, that sentence?” he asked.
Viola paused in the road, pulling back slightly and making a great show of raking him from head to toe. Everywhere her eyes touched tingled—ears, lips, sternum . . . even his kneecaps, for pity’s sake.
He had never been so grateful to have a bushy beard that hid his surely formidable blush.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “I fear I am gravely tempted to say something about coos.”
“Och, nae. That topic is forbidden, remember?”
