Claire Delacroix by The Moonstone

wasn’t really a witch, well, it would be obvious to him as it was to her that they were meant for each other.
    And clearly, since he was her knight, then she was his lady, which could only mean that he would defend her to his dying breath and all that good stuff. It was always that way in the tales and it was certainly that way in Viviane’s book.
    Absolutely perfect.
    When Niall’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, his golden hair glinting with the sunlight, Viviane’s breath caught in her throat. He stretched, not unlike a great cat and turned his face up to the sun, as though he savored the heat of it upon his skin. It was not Viviane’s imagination that he seemed to grow stronger beneath those caressing rays, bigger and more thoroughly golden.
    Gawain, after all, was linked to the sun, Viviane remembered that. The legendary knight’s strength waxed until midday, then waned to midnight. He could only be defeated in the afternoon, and that on the shortest day of the year, the blackest night of winter.
    And Niall of Malloy obviously belonged in the sunshine. Viviane had a sudden insight into his grumpiness in the archbishop’s dungeons. It must have nearly killed him to be trapped away in the darkness like that, and no wonder it affected his mood. Well, he wouldn’t want to go back there any more than she did!
    Niall had to turn slightly sideways to ease his shoulders through the narrow opening, the red t-shirt he had evidently been loaned was stretched slightly to accommodate his breadth. His arms were tanned to a rich golden hue, he wore a thick golden bracelet upon his left wrist. Derek’s shorts outlined the muscles of Niall’s thighs and left his tanned legs bare.
    Viviane swallowed, certain she had never seen a man so powerfully built.
    Or so very alluring.
    As though he heard her thoughts, Niall glanced up and their gazes locked once again. Viviane’s heart pounded and she was completely unaware that Monty left her side, despite his sour comment.
    There was only Niall. They might have been alone in the world when he came closer, purpose in every step.
    Viviane’s pulse began to flutter in her throat. She could remember the imprint of his lips against her own, the warm salt-tinged taste of him when she had kissed him in gratitude. He gripped the handrail with a broad strong hand, the same hand that had rested heavily on the back of Viviane’s waist and urged her closer.
    If she hadn’t stepped away from him then, Viviane knew she would be kissing him still.
    She had a funny certainty that the next kiss they shared - and there would be one! - wouldn’t be nearly so fleeting as the last.
    Niall marked the distance between them with decisive steps and Viviane suddenly felt very very warm. She couldn’t have said a word to save her life, a fact that would have shocked anyone (besides the residents of Avalon) who had even a passing acquaintance with her.
    He braced his arms on the rail beside Viviane, so close that his bare skin brushed against her own. She watched him squint as he absently surveyed the distant shoreline. Viviane could feel the heat of him so close beside her, and she wanted to touch him more than anything in all the world.
    “You kept your pledge,” he murmured, pleasure and surprise mingled in his low tones.
    “Yes,” she managed to say.
    Niall shot a quick glance her way. “’Tis not a trait one might expect from a witch.”
    Viviane saw the blond hair on his forearms stir in the wind from the sea and caught the scent of his skin. Her mouth was completely dry. “I suppose not.”
    Niall met her gaze steadily, unexpected humor dancing in the emerald depths of his eyes. “I have never known you to be without words,” he teased, an equally unexpected smile curving his firm lips. “Has something gone awry?”
    Viviane felt herself blush and knew she would never find another word again. She stared as that smile widened, ever so slowly, as tantalizing and warming as she had