The Irish Warrior

“Perhaps they must not have been women,” she explained loftily. “One must have a willing woman.”

“Ah.” He kissed her cheek. “I like that.”

“I thought you would.”

He moved lower, kissing her earlobe. He seemed to be losing interest.

“Have you even a notion what that means?” she demanded.

“Nay.” He kissed her neck, and his hand slipped lower. “Keep yer secrets, woman,” he murmured into her hair. “I want only yer body.”

She laughed and turned, resting her hand on his upper arms, holding him slightly at bay. “Are you not the least bit curious?”

He pushed the warm fur away from her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her bare skin. She shivered. “For ye, I shall be the least bit curious.”

She smil

ed. “The secret of the Wishmés is that the woman has to be in love.”

He paused, looking vaguely impressed. “How?”

“Urea.”

“Fascinating,” he said after a moment’s reflection, and met her eye. “But then, willing does not always mean loving.”

She touched his cheek with her fingertips. Her heart actually hurt from the fullness of loving him, of knowing he loved her equally, of contemplating all the things that could be with this man.

“For the Wishmés, it means just that,” she said softly. “A woman must be deeply in love. No other will do.”

He pulled her to his lips once and for all, his arms tight around her body, his fingers tangling in her hair.

“I agree, lass. None other will do.”