If Theo had found her beautiful before, Virginia was positively luminous when immersed in a task she was passionate about. Listening to her explain which categories should be grouped and which should never be conflated, which subjects were the most browsed in the castle library and therefore should be shelved as close to eye level as possible…
She was sweet and funny, clever and whimsical. The more he tried to hide his attraction, the harder she became to resist. It wasn’t just that he wanted to taste her mouth in a kiss. He enjoyed her company, her unpredictability. The way she was completely and unapologetically Virginia.
When she came from around a bookcase staggering under the weight of an unwieldy stack of tomes, his protective instincts snapped into place.
“Put that down at once,” he commanded.
“You’re on crutches,” she said as she lurched forward. “I’ve got it.”
“You—” Theo shut his mouth.
She did have it. He just didn’t like it. He wanted to be the one lifting heavy things for her.
“I’ll sort these,” he said gruffly as she sat the stack upon the closest table. “Lug as many backbreaking piles as you please.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “I will.”
They were halfway through their reorganization when a book of poetry whisked Theo’s mind from the library altogether.
“What are you reading?” came a soft voice.
He jumped and shoved the book back onto a pile. “Nothing.”
She picked it up. “Poetry?”
“Not everyone spends their days reading about the migratory patterns of African swallows.”
She tilted her head. “You spend your days reading poetry?”
That wasn’t what he had meant to admit at all.
“I have an affinity,” he hedged.
She sat on the edge of the closest chair and motioned for him to do the same. “Tell me about it.”
“Right now?” He glanced around. “We can’t leave the library like… this.”
“Trust me,” she assured him. “It’s not worse.”
He sat. “I love poetry. I have a signed first edition copy of poems by Matilda Bethem. It’s practically an extension of my soul. Is that what you want to know?”
She did not laugh at him or question why someone else’s words could speak for him more eloquently than he could do so himself. She simply nodded as if books being the extension of one’s soul was perfectly understandable.
He slid the slender volume from an inside pocket. He’d never shown it to anyone before. It truly felt like baring his soul. “My most prized possession.”
“You had it with you when you went to war?”
“It never left my side.” He tucked the poems back into their hiding spot and patted his chest. “If someone wished to stab me through the heart, they would have to do so through a hundred pages of poetry.”
“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Of course it protected you.”
Theo opened his mouth to argue the point, then realized she was right. He had been shot, trampled, scarred more places than not, but he would be fine. His heart had been safe behind its protective armor. The poems had done their job.
“Which one is your favorite?” she asked.
He considered. “The one that haunts me is calledThe Heir.”
“What is it about?”
