His belly was lean and hard, undulating with hillocks and valleys of pure muscle.Dear God, thought Rose, leaning back to observe her handiwork. Even without his array of weapons the man looked to be the consummate warlord. Dressed in nothing more than his plaid and knee-high horsehide boots, he seemed not the least bit embarrassed. Nor did his wound seem to pain him now as he lay back upon a spread tartan."How are you faring, my lord?" she asked, noting with some misgiving that her voice was husky and low from the sight of him thus."Come here, lass," he said simply, and though she knew she should not, she did so nevertheless, for she could not resist him.Their kiss was like magic, soothing and giving, yet frightening too, scattering a bevy of sparks through Rose's tingling body."Are ye a witch?" he breathed, his mouth moving seductively from hers to blaze a trail down her throat. "Or are ye an angel?"“I-” She couldn’t think when he kissed her so. "I fear I am neither." His kisses slowed, lingering on the delicate hollow where her pulse thrummed a quick rhythm.
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