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stretched out one hand and studied her nails, a perfect picture of disdain. “If you’d let a lady finish her thoughts, I would have added that I lowered my standards to accommodate you.”
    He’d be damned if he’d allow this prig-arsed Andorran to look down her pert little nose at him. “A lady?” He snorted and glanced around the room. “Alone with me. No chaperone.” He lifted the sheet to glance down before giving her a smirk. “And you got quite a gander. If you’re such a lady, then why were you two seconds away from takin’ me into your hand?”
    She looked as though she fought for breath. “I . . . I was—”
    â€œGranted, you doona seem like you’re used to entertaining men in their rooms.” He looked her up and down, not bothering to hide his blatant perusal. “But I’d wager you’d be a natural at it.”
    She stumbled back as though hit, her lips parting.
    When she rushed out of the room, with her shoulders, which had been jammed back, now slumped, his brows drew together. He was puzzled as much by her behavior as by the unfamiliar seed of guilt that lodged in his chest. As he tested to see if he could rise from the bed, he wondered why a cold-hearted bastard like himself would regret his treatment of a woman who thought him no more than—no, worse than—a beast.
    He was determined to find the reasons for both reactions.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Annalía had feared she was one of those women ever since she’d known of their existence.
    She’d feared that she could be one among those who lusted and acted on their passions even to their own ruin. Her discovery that the Highlander’s brawny chest could fascinate her for hours had been dismaying. Realizing that each glimpse of his private place, outlined beneath the thin linen sheet, made her heart race had been devastating.
    Now, worse than her own fear, a thick-skulled, barbaric Scot had looked her over and concluded she was a “natural.”
    Just as her Castilian mother had been.
    Denying her true nature had been easy before. If she heard whispers about her “hot blood” in the village, she ignored them. She kept herself busy with the estate and with the people here. But after the Scot had come, each night became a struggle.
    Just last night, she’d lain in bed thinking about his body—all of his body, which she’d studied and touched—until she’d slowly unbuttoned her nightdress and bared her breasts. Themeager breeze fluttering past the curtains had grazed over her heated skin, making her shudder, making her . . . long.
    She’d never known what to call the urges she’d felt in the night—not lust, because they never had been focused on any one man. So she’d thought of them as longing, but not last night. She’d truly felt lust, and it had been so strong she’d finally run her fingers over her own breast and down her belly.
    A noise had startled her—just the house settling—but she’d jerked her hand away, ashamed.
    Not only was she one of those women, she was alone in the house with a man who knew it. . . .
    When she’d finally guided the shaking key into the lock of his door, she’d fled outside, hurrying in the direction of the meadow in front of her home.
    Vitale met her on the path. “What has happened? You’re white as a sheet.”
    â€œIt’s nothing. The Scot woke.”
    â€œHe’s a mercenary?” “I’m almost positive, though I am convinced he’s an obnoxious man.” At least he’d be gone soon. She was sure that he’d be eager to return to indiscriminate killing and sharpening knives and practicing pistols and whatever else mercenaries did.
    â€œDid he frighten you or threaten you?”
    â€œN-Not exactly . . .”
    â€œYou never listen to me!” Vitale cried with