Excerpt:

Brianna sat up with a start and water splashed over the sides of the tub. Someone was pounding on the bathing room door and calling her name.

"Answer me, Brianna!

Rising, she snatched up a drying cloth and wound it around her shivering body. The door burst open and smashed against the wall with a deafening crash. Brianna looked up in horror and saw Harrison looming in the doorway. He was clad in a deep blue, belted robe, which stopped at his knees. His hair stood on end and his wire-rimmed spectacles sat crookedly on his nose.

"Why in bloody hell didn't ye answer me when I called?"

Her eyes darted from his furious expression to the door hanging from the top hinge. "You...you broke the door." She secured the wrap tight across her breasts.

"If ye hadn't locked it, I wouldn't have had to smash it in. I repeat, why didn't ye answer me?"

"I was asleep."

She looked for her robe. Unfortunately, she discovered it at the same time he did. They tugged on the fabric, each in the opposite direction, until he pulled it from her grip.

His silver eyes caressed her from head to toe. Brianna shrugged and turned away. When next she looked, she discovered him in the bathing room, her robe still clutched in his hand. She dug inside the armoire for a nightdress but stopped when he returned, jar in hand.

He dropped the liniment on the bed, gently grasped her shoulders and pressed until she sat down. Never breaking eye contact, he unscrewed the jar's lid and delved his fingers inside. When he withdrew them they were coated with an oily concoction.

She wrinkled her nose at the pungent odor wafting through the air.

He laughed. "So, it isn't rose-scented, but it will ease your discomfort."

Brianna closed her eyes at the wicked thought of his long fingers touching her intimately. Her eyes snapped open when he suggested, "I'll rub this into each limb.

"I'm not the least bit sore," she lied. Even after a long soak in the tub her legs throbbed with a dull pain.

She acquiesced with a sigh. "Will you douse the lights?"

He did as she requested, but pulled the curtains back at the window, allowing a sliver of moonlight into the room before sitting beside her again.

"Roll over," he said, his voice soft and low.

She followed his directions, careful to keep the cloth wound tightly around her body. She emitted a small gasp when his hands tucked the drying cloth up to the tops of her thighs. Her cheeks turned hot as she thought about him staring at her limbs.

Harrison was in agony.

With a shaky hand he proceeded to rub the liniment into the backs of her thighs, marveling at their firmness, yet they were soft. He found it difficult to control his breathing and he gulped as he delved his fingers into the jar again. As he massaged the ointment into her calf muscles, he inched his hands up her legs and gently eased them apart.

She arched off the bed and scowled at him over her shoulder.

"The insides of your limbs also require my attention. Damn! The more his fingers worked on her muscles the more relaxed she grew. He kept his fingers well away from the apex of her thighs, even though his entire body ached at the thought of touching her there. He smiled. Beneath the soft lighting, he could make out the pale globes of her bottom beneath the thin cloth. Fleetingly, he thought how wonderful it would be to massage that enticing portion of her anatomy. He frowned as he decided her limbs he could handle, but her derriere was an entirely different matter.

"Done?" she inquired.

"Not quite," he said, unable to control the hitch in his voice.

My God! He groaned softly then, when his manhood unexpectedly betrayed him, as though he were a callow youth. Keeping his eyes shut he barely choked back a shout of pleasure at his release. Then he felt hot liquid sliding down one leg. He removed his hands from her and stepped back. He squinted down at the floor. The moonlight streaking through the window glinted off the small puddle on the floor between his bare feet.

He tightened his belt and straightened his spectacles. Brianna didn't feel Harrison's touch any longer, so she raised her head and turned to thank him. He was nowhere in sight. The door was ajar. She scrambled to her feet and stepped in something wet. Frowning, she caught the scent of salt in the air. She bent down once more, rubbed her finger in the puddle and sniffed it.

She smiled. As she straightened up she couldn't contain a small chuckle. By the time she reached the door and closed it, she couldn't prevent herself from laughing outright, and quite loudly. Then she tugged on her nightgown and settled into bed, pulling the quilt up around her shoulders.

She grinned at the thought of besting the patriarch of Clan MacAulay. Bested him not with her wit, nor with any typical weapon, but with a feminine arsenal a man would have difficulty resisting -- by just being a woman.

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Author BIO: Nancy started writing seven years ago while raising four children. Some moms escape domesticity by locking themselves in the bathroom, but Nancy found peace and solitude in her basement office. Writing now provides her the relaxation she needs after working full-time days as a school district secretary. Her children are in their teens and twenties now and she thanks them, and her husband of twenty-eight years, for all the times she said, "Throw in a pizza," or, "It's fend for yourself night!"

Other writers may cringe at her words, "Writing is not a hardship," but it's the truth, and one of her life's greatest joys.

Born and raised in Minnesota, Nancy hasn't traveled much, but that hasn't prevented her from penning her debut historical romance, THE MACAULAY BRIDE, set in late 19th century Scotland. She lets her fingers do the walking as she joyously combs history tomes provided by her local library, and sites on the Internet.

Nancy has been a member of Romance Writers of America and her local chapter, Midwest Fiction Writers, for seven years. She is also one of the founders of a new RWA chapter in Minnesota, Northern Lights Writers. Besides THE MACAULAY BRIDE, she has written several contemporary romances, yet to be marketed for publication, but she's working on it! Nancy Pirri is her pen name.