concentrate.
"Not true," she grumbled, helping herself to another oatcake.
She was concentrating beautifully.
But on how good the hottie Scottie would be in bed, damn his gorgeous Highland hide!
Damn her for being attracted to him.
Frowning, she rubbed her hands together and blew on her palms. The temperature seemed to have dipped twenty degrees in the last two minutes.
Even Scottie and Dottie must've had enough of the frigid room, because Dottie suddenly gave a sharp little yelp and leapt off the window seat. Quick as lightning, she streaked out of the library, Scottie racing close on her heels.
Most likely he'd fled as swiftly, might even be halfway back to London by now. After the way she'd attacked him on the strand, she couldn't blame him.
What kind of a man would hang around after the woman he'd rescued from certain death thanked him by springing on him like a banshee?
Heavens, had she really bitten him?
Feeling shame about that part of it, she took a deep, unsteady breath. She'd sure blown it this time.
Not that she should care.
He had poked a finger against her clit, after all.
And a circling finger to boot!
She closed her eyes, stifled a groan.
Why did she always have such bad luck with men? Where was the knight in shining armor she'd been waiting for all her life?
And why couldn't she think about anything but Alexander Whatever-His-Name-Really-Was?
A man who thinks he's Sir Galahad.
That was a major problem.
Harboring secret fantasies about dashing knights was one thing. A modern-day man who claimed to be one was something else altogether.
That's where her Philly street smarts made her draw the line. She knew too much about loonies to allow herself to fall for one.
No matter how tempted she might be to go along with his little game, even for a short while. Knights no longer roamed the countryside, ravishing fortunate maidens. Those days were sadly over.
The chances of being swept off one's feet by a strapping, irresistibly sexy knight were about as likely as the odds of running into one of the many ghosts said to haunt the British Isles.
She bit back a hoot.
Her last tour had taken her to nearly every supposedly haunted manor house and pub in southwestern England, and she hadn't seen a single spirit.
Except the kind served in pint glasses!
Ghosts just didn't exist.
And neither did medieval knights… much as she might wish otherwise.
Truth was, she could use a few knightly kisses. Wild, searing kisses. Deep, open-mouthed zingers, full of breath and tangling tongues. And intimate kisses. Especially those. She'd only fantasized about such pleasure. Each time she did, a delicious tingly heat rippled across her sex. What bliss to have a knight slake such a blaze.
A Scottish knight whose husky-rich burr flowed through her like molten gold, warming and melting her. Just remembering his voice made her dizzy with need.
She just didn't want to be manhandled.
Or deceived.
It'd be far too easy to lose her heart to a man who was the living, breathing stuff of her dreams.
Too bad in hottie Scottie's case, he was also a roaming nightmare.
She sighed. Her head ached and the dull throbbing at her temples was making her eyes hurt. Trying to ignore the discomfort, she reached for the ledger and stared at the faded writing until the squiggles and loops ran together.
"Blast!" she snapped, shoving aside the book.
She needed to get her mind on something else.
Such as figuring out why castles never seemed to have central heating. The chill in the library went right to the bone. A penetrating cold the participants on her last tour would have called otherworldly.
Having none of that, she shot to her feet and strode to the nearest wall of books, made herself examine the impressive leather-bound volumes. The Age of Chivalry, Knights in Medieval Society, The History of the Tournament .
She groaned.
The throbbing at her temples worsened.
Such titles were not what she needed to see. Even so, she somehow
"Not true," she grumbled, helping herself to another oatcake.
She was concentrating beautifully.
But on how good the hottie Scottie would be in bed, damn his gorgeous Highland hide!
Damn her for being attracted to him.
Frowning, she rubbed her hands together and blew on her palms. The temperature seemed to have dipped twenty degrees in the last two minutes.
Even Scottie and Dottie must've had enough of the frigid room, because Dottie suddenly gave a sharp little yelp and leapt off the window seat. Quick as lightning, she streaked out of the library, Scottie racing close on her heels.
Most likely he'd fled as swiftly, might even be halfway back to London by now. After the way she'd attacked him on the strand, she couldn't blame him.
What kind of a man would hang around after the woman he'd rescued from certain death thanked him by springing on him like a banshee?
Heavens, had she really bitten him?
Feeling shame about that part of it, she took a deep, unsteady breath. She'd sure blown it this time.
Not that she should care.
He had poked a finger against her clit, after all.
And a circling finger to boot!
She closed her eyes, stifled a groan.
Why did she always have such bad luck with men? Where was the knight in shining armor she'd been waiting for all her life?
And why couldn't she think about anything but Alexander Whatever-His-Name-Really-Was?
A man who thinks he's Sir Galahad.
That was a major problem.
Harboring secret fantasies about dashing knights was one thing. A modern-day man who claimed to be one was something else altogether.
That's where her Philly street smarts made her draw the line. She knew too much about loonies to allow herself to fall for one.
No matter how tempted she might be to go along with his little game, even for a short while. Knights no longer roamed the countryside, ravishing fortunate maidens. Those days were sadly over.
The chances of being swept off one's feet by a strapping, irresistibly sexy knight were about as likely as the odds of running into one of the many ghosts said to haunt the British Isles.
She bit back a hoot.
Her last tour had taken her to nearly every supposedly haunted manor house and pub in southwestern England, and she hadn't seen a single spirit.
Except the kind served in pint glasses!
Ghosts just didn't exist.
And neither did medieval knights… much as she might wish otherwise.
Truth was, she could use a few knightly kisses. Wild, searing kisses. Deep, open-mouthed zingers, full of breath and tangling tongues. And intimate kisses. Especially those. She'd only fantasized about such pleasure. Each time she did, a delicious tingly heat rippled across her sex. What bliss to have a knight slake such a blaze.
A Scottish knight whose husky-rich burr flowed through her like molten gold, warming and melting her. Just remembering his voice made her dizzy with need.
She just didn't want to be manhandled.
Or deceived.
It'd be far too easy to lose her heart to a man who was the living, breathing stuff of her dreams.
Too bad in hottie Scottie's case, he was also a roaming nightmare.
She sighed. Her head ached and the dull throbbing at her temples was making her eyes hurt. Trying to ignore the discomfort, she reached for the ledger and stared at the faded writing until the squiggles and loops ran together.
"Blast!" she snapped, shoving aside the book.
She needed to get her mind on something else.
Such as figuring out why castles never seemed to have central heating. The chill in the library went right to the bone. A penetrating cold the participants on her last tour would have called otherworldly.
Having none of that, she shot to her feet and strode to the nearest wall of books, made herself examine the impressive leather-bound volumes. The Age of Chivalry, Knights in Medieval Society, The History of the Tournament .
She groaned.
The throbbing at her temples worsened.
Such titles were not what she needed to see. Even so, she somehow
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