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480 pages, Paperback
First published December 16, 1993
“She turned. The knight stalked barefooted up through the reeds, soaked, wearing only linen that molded to him so perfectly he might have had on nothing at all. Every muscle showed as he moved, every feature, his ribs and chest, his waist, his thick calves and thighs, even tarse and stones. His shoulders gleamed wetly, big and straight beneath the dripping tails of his rough black locks.”
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“Melanthe drew in a sharp breath as the embrace spun beyond familiar ground. He lifted his head, resting it back against the wall, his eyes closed. But he did not let her go. His hips moved in a pushing stir against hers, without shame, rubbing the firm bulk of his tarse to her belly, even against her privy-most quaint.”
“She touched him beneath the mantle, caressing her hand boldly over his yard*.”
(*I gotta confess I begged Nastya to clarify that Kinsale didn’t actually mean a 90-cm male “member” here, since otherwise this book would be crossing into genuine bloody horror territory. But no worries, just old English euphemism for a penis. Phew…)
She looked at him beneath her lashes.'Come, wilt thou be such a poor love-sotted wretch, to die for me?'
'Yea,' he said simply. 'I would.'
[...]
'Yea, and so would I choose to be slain than to see thee in his bed, but I think me that I would nought die so tame.'