She could see the individual lashes that sprang thick and black from his eyelids, could see the shards of silver that spiraled around the pupils of his eyes against the background of dark blue irises. She was aware of the thin scar that bisected one eyebrow and the blue shadow of his beard stubble beneath the skin. The firm curves of his mouth were peculiarly enticing; she could almost feel their heat, their smoothness. The herbal scent that was his own, mayhap from some Scots soap, surrounded her. She sensed with an instinct beyond her understanding the power he held under restraint, and the price he paid for it. She should step back, should move away while saying something commonplace. It would be the wisest course, the best thing for both of them. She couldn’t do it. Her muscles would not respond to her will. Her mind was blank except for the treacherous memory of Marguerite’s voice murmuring in perilous reason: “Do you never wonder what it might be like…to allow those caresses that may lead to…to exploration of soft petals and warm centers?”
