My favorite kind of Highlander...
has a modern woman for a bride.
23%
calls a seventeenth-century lass his own.
6%
has fangs for teeth.
10%
is any who wields a big claymore and knows how to use it.
61%
PollMy favorite kind of Highlander... has a modern woman for a bride. 23% calls a seventeenth-century lass his own. 6% has fangs for teeth. 10% is any who wields a big claymore and knows how to use it. 61% |
WARRIOR OF THE HIGHLANDS Sneak PeekA WARRIOR’S MOUTH Was she cursing him to the devil? Did this wee Campbell lass dare damn him? MacColla glared at her, trying to make sense of her strange accent. She seemed to be speaking English, but none like he’d ever heard, her words the sharp claps of a barking dog. “Speak slow when you curse me.” He approached her. He saw spirit in those wide gray eyes, and he was compelled to look closer. She shuffled back, arms askew as if to brace herself on thin air. The lass was shouting at him now, unintelligible words. He studied the movement of her mouth, trying to understand her. Her lips were full, and dark against the pale glow of her cheeks in the moonlight. He’d taste this Campbell woman, he decided suddenly. He leaned down, closing the distance between them. A low laugh rumbled in his throat, so eager was he to taste her. His free hand clutched the soft flesh of her rump, grabbing her toward him. MacColla kissed her. He’d wanted at first to be rough, but she was soft. So soft and sweet, his mouth gentled in the tasting of her. And, for a single moment, he imagined the lass kissed him back, her breath sighing into him, her mouth opening just enough for him to taste her, fresh and warm on his tongue. And then, with a tiny growl, she caught his lower lip hard between her teeth and bit. MacColla pulled away. She glared at him, teeth bared, with the measured breath of a prowling wolf. He studied the wee Campbell hellcat before him, and then strangely, inexplicably, he found himself laughing.
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