He was consumed with the recollection of Aileen’s kiss, a kiss that should not have seared his lips so, a kiss that had exceeded his every expectation. If Aileen Urquhart of Abernye was as icy as the North Sea, then it would seem those waters had known an incredible thaw. This lady’s kiss had him simmering to his very toes. It had been fortuitous that he had even been capable of stepping away from her, for her embrace had roused every fiber of his being. But Magnus! She had called him Magnus. The Hawk stifled a shiver and paced the width of the stables with new vigor. He could see her yet: her long braid the hue of strong honey, her eyes even more blue than those of the phantom maiden who had long haunted his dreams. Indeed, they were so blue that he could have willingly drowned in their sapphire depths. Aileen was as slender as a young tree, yet possessed of curves that tempted his touch. He had felt strength in her grip, a vigor uncommon among maidens who spent days in leisure.
