Here's an extract from the scene in my upcoming historical romance, Her Savage Scot, when the heroine, Aila, first sees the gorgeous hero, Connor.
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He stood on a ridge some distance from her, a huge, towering Scot, dark hair whipping across his face in the fresh breeze. A great swathe of blue, green and black plaid wrapped around his waist and hung over his left shoulder, and a broadsword was attached to his leather belt.

A foreign savage from his wild hair to his unadorned boots. And she couldn’t move a muscle to defend her territorial rights.

“Forgive me.” His deep voice with its beguiling accent shattered her paralysis, but not enough for her to regain the use of her tongue. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Her eyes widened at his breach of protocol in addressing her without invitation.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t approach with such stealth.” Unfortunately her words sounded more breathless than acerbic. Irritated by the way her heart refused to calm its erratic flutter she angled her jaw in an unmistakable gesture of disdain.

He didn’t retreat. Instead he began to descend and even though he kept his distance from her, her heart kicked painfully against her ribs.

It was simply irritation that he dared to approach her. But no matter how hard she tried to make herself believe that, she couldn’t ignore the sudden constriction in her breasts, as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. It was unnerving, unexpected and not entirely… unpleasant.

“I didn’t know you were here until I almost fell over you.” He shot her a smile, as if she were a child who required reassurance. For one unbelievable second her lips almost curved upwards in response, before she remembered who he was. Who she was. And sent him a frosty glare instead.

That didn’t appear to touch him. “Do you have any objection if I join you? I could do with a few moments of quiet.”

She most certainly did object. It was bad enough that he had invaded her solitude. That her treacherous body found his company enticing. Words of dismissal trembled on the tip of her tongue as, for the first time, she caught his gaze.

The words faded, forgotten. He was too far away for her to distinguish the color of his eyes. She knew that and yet still she could see the strangely captivating gray that reminded her of stormy Highland skies.

Disoriented by such a fanciful notion she watched as he sat on the bank of the stream, clearly having taken her silence as acquiescence.

Did he truly not know who she was? Was that even possible? Her fingers toyed with the delicate fringe of her silken caul and possibility struck. Once again she had forgotten to secure it with one of her gold circlets, and the material had long since slipped from her head to drape around her shoulders.

The Scot likely did not even realize she was a widow, never mind the eldest princess Devorgilla of Ce.

As he stretched out his long, muscled legs—had she truly noticed such a thing?—she knew she should enlighten him. It was her duty. But still her tongue refused to comply.

A shiver of excitement fluttered through her stomach, and then spread with illicit abandon between her thighs. For a moment shock speared through her at the realization of how blatantly her body responded to him. But far more shocking was the knowledge that she didn’t find her uninhibited attraction to the Scot disgusting.

Everything she believed in demanded she end this encounter instantly. But what did it matter if she stayed here for just a little longer or kept her identity from him? Never before had she come across someone—a man—who wasn’t fully aware of her rank. It might be… interesting to pretend, for a few short minutes, that she was an ordinary noblewoman.

It wasn’t as if she intended to join in any festivities her mother planned for their guests. He would never discover her deception.

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