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“You should laugh more often, instead of scowling.”

He didn’t want to talk about his shortcomings. Not now, not when the wine made him warm and he was feeling relaxed. That same sort of relaxed which came after a good fook—which had come this afternoon. He’d never felt this way from just speaking to a woman.

So he pushed himself away from the table. “Come along.”

“Where?” But she didn’t hesitate to stand as well, running her hand down the front of her dress as if soothing herself. “To bed?”

His lips twitched again. “Nay, no’ to bed, Georgia. Eager, are ye?” he asked over his shoulder, already striding from the room.

She hurried after him. “I just want to prepare myself.”

“Then cease yer fretting. I’m going to find something for ye.”

“A gift?”

She was breathless, likely from trying to keep up with him, but he didn’t slow.

“Nay, a book on Greek mythology, where I first read about Endymion. Ye cannae have it, but ye might…borrow it.”

Endymion’s library was his favorite room. Filled floor to ceiling on all four walls with huge bookshelves, smaller cases delineating aisles all arranged by topic and author, full of books still bearing his notes or random pieces of paper he’d used to mark his place. A grated fireplace kept the space warm, and high windows let in plenty of light. It was a sanctuary.

Pausing in front of the double doors, he rested his hands on the latches and waited for her to catch up. Knowing he was just building her anticipation, he shot her a smug look. “Ready?”

Georgia gave a little bounce and clapped—actually clapped, like a girl at Christmas!—her hands. “Yes, please!”

She was this excited about a book? Well, wait until she saw…

When he pulled open the doors, her gasp of delight made his lips twitch.

“Oh, Demon,” she murmured, pushing past him into the room, and twirling in the center. “This is…” She sighed happily. “Do you have novels?”

He pointed to the west wall.

“Any books on gardening?” She was already on her way to peer at the titles of the novels.

“Check with the other completely useless books.”

Sucking in an offended gasp, Georgia straightened and whirled. “Gardening is not—"

Without giving her time to work into true outrage, he jerked his thumb toward the fireplace. “There’s a shelf or two from the time my mother got serious about the gardens.”

Her eyes narrowed. “When was that?” she challenged.

Turbulent crockhawk, but she was beautiful when piqued. Demon suspected that was why he did his best to irritate her. “Och, more than twenty years ago, I would guess. She never keeps one passion for long.”

Georgia’s frown slowly eased as her gaze caressed his face. The unpleasant thought struck him…that she could see far more than he wished her to see.

He arranged his features into their usual scowl and turned toward the far window, through which an early winter’s half moon could be seen. “Mythology books are over here.”

He pretended to take his time searching the spines for the book he wanted, although he knew exactly which one it was. But it allowed him the time to watch her from the corner of his eye. Watch her…and marvel at her joy.

Her fingertips barely brushed the books as she strolled down each aisle, wonder in her expression. Three or four times she halted suddenly with delighted or surprised gasp, and bent to study a book’s spine, but she never pulled it from its place. It was as if she was afraid to touch them.

How irritating.

She was stuck here with him until Hogmanay and she obviously loved to read. She’d asked him for access to the conservatory, and of course he was going to grant that. But it was the beginning of dick-withering winter in Scotland; she couldn’t garden. What the fook else was she supposed to do except read?

Shouldnae have used the word “fook” there, ye dobber.