Page 8 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
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Her sharp gaze moved to the staircase, her chin lifting, her scrutiny traveling up and up, sending a prickle through his spine.
She spotted him and locked gazes.
Fierce warmth uncoiled in him. Prickly, she was that. Defiant. And damned pretty.
And she most definitely had the look of the Peninsula about her.
In the course of his travels, Shaldon might’ve once been in Spain.
The thought washed over him like a snow shower they’d endured one Iberian winter.Stand down, man. This one wasn’t beddable.
She was his sister.
