"Of course not," I assure him as I vainly try to negotiate another spoonful of carrots into our little daughter's mouth. "He's wearing a strip of plaid."

My husband frowns at the image of my powerful Scottish warrior, Roarke MacTier. "He's practically naked," he insists. "His plaid does nothing to cover his chest and then it disappears."

Giving up on the carrots for the moment, I give the spoon to my daughter to play with. Delighted with her new toy, she bangs it against her plate, sending a shower of rice flying into the air. Squeals of laughter fill the kitchen. "I'm sure it must be there somewhere," I reply absently, whisking my daughter's plate away before it follows the path of the rice.

"There may be a shadow of something here on his hip," my husband decides, evidently relieved that the cover is not quite as revealing as he had initially feared. (I have always assured my beloved that my heroes are based upon him, therefore, the rendering of the hero on the book cover is of particular importance to him.) "Still," he continues, "it looks like he's going into battle half-naked."

I reflected upon the moment in which Roarke attempts to capture a band of thieves led by the outlaw known only as "the Falcon," and ends up with an arrow pinning his plaid to his backside. "It doesn't offer much protection," I admit, placing a dish of strawberries before my daughter. "Strawbewies," she chirps, picking one up in her chubby little hand and squishing it before tossing it on the floor.

I remember how wonderfully handsome my husband looked at the last Romantic Times convention, dressed in formal Scottish attire for the costume ball. As but one of a handful of men in a ballroom surging with over a thousand carousing women, I do believe he demonstrated unquestionable daring, since I know for a fact that he wore his plaid as a true Scotsman.

"But there is something wonderful about a kilt," I continue, bending to retrieve the mangled berry.

"Because you can see his legs?" he wonders.

"That's part of it," I admit, scooping up the next berry that hits the floor. "A man in a kilt also exudes boldness and confidence, which is very alluring. And of course," I continue, wiping my daughter's strawberry-stained hands with a cloth, "there is also the question of what is underneath."

My husband raises an amused brow. "I believe you know what is underneath," he remarks archly.

"Even so," I reply. My daughter plunges her hands back into the dish of strawberries, apparently intent on making jam. "A kilt is far more mysterious and intriguing than a pair of pants."

He pulls me into his arms. "That is a fascinating piece of information," he murmurs, nuzzling my neck. "Perhaps I will wear one more often."

"Carry me, Daddy," my daughter squeals, lifting her arms. My husband laughs and lifts her up, gathering us both into the warmth of his embrace.