I pause, giving my darling husband a moment to recover from his initial shock. After all, I have always assured him that he is the model for my heroes--minus any unattractive character traits I might give them to overcome, of course. But physically they are invariably marvelous specimens, give or take a few enhancing scars. And since this particular hero is a Scottish warrior, and my husband's ancestry is proudly Scottish, I think he had envisioned a character who was, well, perfect--like him.

I suppose in a way I owed him that, since I dragged him through more dank, chilly castles and mossy, rain-slick ruins on our trip to Scotland than any woman really has a right to. He was unfailingly gallant about it, patiently videotaping everything I gestured at, bravely scrambling over slippery rocks and tramping through muddy fields to get just the right angle. And all he asked for in return was a warm fire to contemplate at the end of the day, with a hefty draft of good, single malt Scotch.

"Perhaps wizened isn't the best word to describe his arm," I concede, sensing his distress. "But Malcolm MacFane was severely wounded in battle, and the muscles never healed properly, so his right arm is weaker and somewhat smaller than his left.

"He is incredibly sexy," I continue, seeking to reassure him. "And honorable and courageous. Except of course in the beginning," I qualify, "when he lives as a filthy recluse in the mountains, and does nothing except drink himself into a stupor each day."

"This is your Scottish hero?" he demands, aghast. A tic I have never noticed before begins to pulse rapidly in his cheek.

"No, sweetheart," I say softly, reaching up to wrap my arms around his neck. "You are."