His concern is understandable, since I have always assured my beloved that he is the model for my heroes.

It's bad enough that the hero of my last novel was a fallen Scottish warrior with a limp and a severely weakened arm. That seemed just a trifle unfair to my husband, whose lineage is so proudly Scottish, and who had so gallantly braved countless dank castles and rain-soaked ruins during our trip to his ancestral ground.

But now he's faced with being compared to Alex MacDunn, a depressed laird whose penchant for endless monologues to his dead wife and erratic behavior have earned him the nickname 'Mad MacDunn.' Hardly the stuff of which heroes are made, at least in my dearest's opinion.

"Alex MacDunn is daring and brave--except of course when it comes to his fear of illness, drafts, and rain," I qualify absently, "and anything else that might affect the health of the beautiful witch he has abducted. He must force her to use her powers to heal his dying son."

"This is your Scottish hero?" my husband demands, clearly horrified. "A madman who abducts women and is afraid of drafts?"

"No, my love," I reply tenderly, aware of our unborn babe moving within me as I wrap my arms around his neck. "You are."