While doing research for Defiant, book three in my MacKinnon’s Rangers series, I came across this historic cartoon, a drawing someone made and published long ago, decrying women’s curiosity about what is under a Scotsman’s kilt.
After laughing out loud, I thought, “Not much has changed in the past 200 years.”
It’s almost 2012, and “what’s under the kilt?” is still a question women ask — at least when speaking with one another or perhaps a solitary, kilted Scotsman, which most of us are not fortunate enough to encounter.
But here’s another thing about Scottish men that never got as much attention as it should have. A worldwide survey was done in which men were asked how much time they devoted to foreplay — a stupid term which seems to suggest that foreplay and sex are two different things. Guess which group of men reported spending the most time titillating their women? And who lasts longest when they do eventually get around to coitus?
It must be the romantic side of their culture. But add the kilt, a broadsword, a bit of swagger, and the accent — which I’ve always said renders foreplay unnecessary — and you have a man who is very near irresistible.
Maybe that’s why they play such a dominant role in romantic fiction.
So what do you like about Scottish heroes — particularly those Hielan’ men, aye?
Answer that question, and you could win a signed copy of Surrender.
Thanks to all of you who tweeted, posted on Facebook and otherwise helped spread the word about the reissue of the book. I really appreciate it! And here’s a wee excerpt of a favorite scene from Surrender to celebrate.
Iain tried to ignore the ache he felt at the thought of leaving her and watched her as she went about the wifely duty of shaving him. It stirred him in a way he could not describe, the tender intimacy of this act, and he felt a kind of satisfaction he’d rarely known to think there would be other mornings like this—the scent of breakfast in the air, the fire burned to embers, perhaps a bairn or two sitting sleepy-eyed on the bearskin. And Annie.
Her brow was knit with attentiveness. Her breasts swayed enticingly beneath her shift, their crests dark against the white cloth. Her hair hung to her hips, a river of silk and sunlight. Unable to resist, he reached out, cupped a soft breast through linen, and brushed her nipple with his thumb. He heard her breath catch, felt her nipple tighten, saw the pulse at her throat leap.
Her hands stilled. “The sun is already up, Iain. We cannae—no’ now.”
“Is that so?” He did not relent, flicking the eager bud, shaping her breast, feeling it grow heavy in his hand.
He could tell she was trying to ignore her body’s response. She lifted his chin, shaved the right side of his throat, one stroke at a time, stopping to rinse the blade in a bowl of hot water. But her breathing was unsteady, and when he shifted his hand to cup her other breast, her lashes drifted to her cheeks, her head fell back and the razor clattered to the table.
His face still half-covered with shaving soap, his blood burning, Iain pulled her against him and closed his mouth over hers. She pressed herself hard against him, her hot little tongue twisting with his, her fingers curling in his hair. When at long last he broke the kiss, he couldn’t help but chuckle. She had shaving soap on her face.
She smiled and wiped the soap away with the back of her hand, her laughter like the sweet fall of water. “So it’s my beard you’ll be shavin’ now? You daftie!”
The idea struck him hard, made his blood run thick and hot. For a moment, all he could do was look down at her, staggered by the thrum of his own lust. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he lifted her, turned her, laid her back on the table, following her down to kiss a trail along the soft skin of her throat. Drawing up her shift in impatient fistfuls, his tore his lips from her skin, lifted the vexing garment over her head, and tossed it onto the bed behind him. Then he stood between her thighs, parting them, forcing her knees to bend.
She opened for him like a flower, her sex rosy, her scent wild and sweet—a blushing musk rose wreathed in golden curls. He savored the sight of her, the scent of her, his cock painfully hard and pushing eagerly against the leather of his breeches.
“I find I want you even more when the sun is up, a leannan.”
Annie felt his big hands close over hers, felt him draw her hands to her own thighs, forcing her to hold them back and apart. Heat suffused her cheeks as his gaze fixed upon her most intimate flesh and his eyes grew dark. His fingers ran lightly over her, parting her, brushing her most sensitive spot, the tip of one slipping inside her, making her moan.
Then he reached for the shaving soap.
It was then she realized what he was about. It shocked her to her soul, drove the breath from her lungs, excited her beyond reason. “Nay, Iain! You cannae mean to—!”
“Aye, I do.”
And, as those of you who’ve read the book know, he does.
If anyone knows Patti P who posted an won a copy of Surrender last week, I haven’t heard from her. I’d hate for her to miss her prize.
Have a great day, everyone!