““Exactly what do you think I might do to you in bed?” He scratched his chest consideringly, and rubbed absently at the tiny knot of scar tissue where he’d cut Jack Randall’s brand from his flesh. “Well, so far, ye’ve clawed me, bitten me, stabbed me—more than once—and—” “I have not stabbed you!” “Ye did, too,” he informed me. “Ye stabbed me in the backside wi’ your nasty wee needle spikes—fifteen times! I counted—and then a dozen times or more in the leg with a rattlesnake’s fang.” “I was saving your bloody life!” “I didna say otherwise, did I? Ye’re no going to deny ye enjoyed it, though, are ye?””
