She kept the room neat, he noted, and had added a few touches—the sort he recognized as a kind of nesting. Female making a home. Some pretty twigs speared out of one of Belinda’s colorful bottles and stood in the center of the kitchen table beside a white bowl filled with bright green apples.

He remembered when she’d scouted out the twigs. The wolf had walked with her—and had regally ignored her attempts to teach him to fetch.

He sat comfortably at her table, enjoying the quiet patter of rain. And thought of his mother’s words. No, he wouldn’t look that deeply. He didn’t mind a skim through the thoughts, but that deliberate search was something he considered an abuse of power.

A man who demanded privacy had to respect that of others.

But he would pry without a qualm.

“Your family lives in San Francisco.”

“Hmm. Yes.” She had the kettle on and was choosing from one of Belinda’s delightful collection of teapots. “They’re both college professors. My father chairs the English department at the university.”

“And your mother?” Idly, he slipped the sketch pad out of the bag she had tossed on the table.

“She teaches history.” After a mild debate, she selected a pot shaped like a fairy, with wings for the handle. “They’re brilliant,” she continued, carefully measuring out tea. “And really marvelous instructors. My mother was made assistant dean last year and …”

She trailed off, stunned and just a little horrified when she saw Liam studying her sketch of the wolf.

“These are wonderful.” He didn’t bother to look up, but turned another page and narrowed his eyes in concentration at her drawing of a stand of trees and lacy ferns. Peeking through those airy shapes were the suggestion of wings, of laughing eyes.

She saw the fairies, he thought, and smiled.

“They’re just doodles.” Her fingers itched to snatch the book, close it away, but manners held her back. “It’s just a hobby.”

And when his eyes shot to hers, she nearly shivered.

“Why would you say that, and try to believe it, when you have a talent and a love for it?”

“It’s only something I do in my spare time—now and again.”

He turned the next page. She’d done a study of the cottage, made it look like something out of an old and charming legend with its ring of trees and welcoming porch. “And you’re insulted when someone calls you foolish?” he muttered. “It’s foolish you are if you don’t do what you love instead of wringing your hands about it.”

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I do not wring my hands.” She turned back to take the kettle off the bowl and prevent herself from doing exactly that. “It’s a hobby. Most people have one.”

“It’s your gift,” he corrected, “and you’ve been neglecting it.”