The Maclean Groom by Kathleen Harrington

Sea Dragon was about to take a bath.
    â€œDon’t stand there gawking,” Arthur called. “Put those logs in the wood box where they belong.”
    MacLean absently glanced over from where he sat on the edge of her high feather mattress, removing his shoes and stockings. Paying her no more heed than the deerhound that had come in with her, he rose and started to unbuckle his belt.
    Beneath the hem of his plaid, his hairy calves were well-shaped and sinewy. The sight of his naked feet seemed so shockingly intimate, she nearly stumbled.
    Joanna stared down at the logs cradled in her arms, fighting the paralyzing bashfulness that threatened to give her away. Her mind whirled dizzily as she moved to the fireplace with awkward steps.
    The soft shush-shush of clothing being removed could be heard from behind, and Joanna’s heart jumped to her throat. Godsakes! If she didn’t get out of there fast, it’d be too late.
    â€œAdd some more wood to the fire, lad,” MacLean told her.
    â€œVery well, laird,” she mumbled, her head bent over her chore.
    On her knees before the grate, it suddenly occurred to Joanna that she’d just been blessed with a singular stroke of good luck. She now had the chance to discover if the stories she’d heard as a child were true! All she need do was linger just long enough to get a peek at MacLean’s bare arse—not that she really believed he had a tail. Well, not totally and completely, anyway.
    Her mouth went dry as she caught her lower lip between her teeth. What she planned to do was wicked. Shamefully so. When she whispered her sin to Father Thomas in confession, he’d give her a penance it’d take a year to complete. But the opportunity beckoned enticingly, too marvelous to pass up.
    One by one, Joanna added the logs to the burning blaze, then slowly regained her feet. She stared down at the fire, red-orange and searing as the flames of hell.
    â€œThe water’s ready, sire,” Arthur told MacLean.
    â€œ And so am I ,” Joanna whispered to the hearthstones. She straightened her spine like a pikeman and pivoted on her heel.
    Her mouth dropped open at the sight of him.
    St. Ninian protect her!
    His skin bronzed from the sun, MacLean stood facing Joanna on the far side of the tub, a linen cloth drapedloosely about his hipbones. His massive shoulders and arms bulged with muscles. Incredibly, he looked even larger disrobed and barefoot than he did fully dressed.
    The heat of a flush rose up her neck and scalded her cheeks. Joanna couldn’t drag her gaze away from MacLean, and could barely catch her breath.
    On the warrior’s right arm, a three-headed sea serpent had been dyed in greenish-blue ink. The elongated body wrapped itself completely around his bicep and tricep like a primordial, heathenish armband.
    Crisp golden-brown hair covered his broad chest, where a holy medal hung between his nearly hidden nipples. The thick, triangular-shaped mat of hair tapered to a narrow line that led down his flat belly and under the scrap of white linen hiding his private parts. Beneath the lower edge of the toweling, his thighs resembled tree trunks.
    He’d been badly scarred in battle. The jagged pucker of an old wound that must have nearly cost him his life ran from his breastbone down to the bottom of his right rib cage.
    An unfamiliar ache spread through Joanna, a peculiar ache that made her restless and tense with expectation—though she hadn’t any idea what she expected.
    Golden-haired and golden-skinned, The MacLean was the most pagan creature she’d ever seen—and the most beautiful.
    When his hand dropped to his waist to remove the linen cloth, she bolted for the door. The gentle splash of water as he lowered himself into the tub sounded like the clarion call of doomsday, and Joanna went flying out of the chamber and down the stairs as fast as her clumsy, too-big shoes could take her. To her consternation,