“How long have you been watching me?”

She raised her chin. “What makes you think you are so important that I’d waste my time watching barbarians trying to kill one another with swords?”

Connal grinned. “Oh aye? This is our exercise. A sport. Men enjoy such.”

“Only you could consider it a sport.”

“And women enjoy watching it, too, judging by the look of you. Am I correct?”

“No,” Liandra said, indignantly.

“Then what were you doing standing there open-mouthed, if not enjoying? What I saw on your face demands clarification.”

“There’s a difference between observing and enjoying.”

He raised a disbelieving brow. “Truly? One day you must explain such distinctions.”

“A barbarian could not grasp the subtleties between the two.”

Connal grinned. Curling a finger under her chin, he raised her face. “I am not a barbarian, Liandra. Have I not proven that to you, yet?”

His voice had taken on that husky, seductive timbre, and as always at its sound, she felt her body pulse. Her heart thudded against her ribs. So close, Connal’s naked chest, his flushed skin glistening with perspiration, instead of feeling disgust at such a disheveled state, her nerve endings spiraled into her core, tightening and warming.

Her eyes lifted to a safer height. Or so she thought. His hair was tied back severely from his face, yet tendrils had escaped to curl against his brow and cheeks, giving him a roguish appearance. A barbarian rogue—that was what he was. Liandra smiled.

“I like not that smile of yours. It bodes ill for any man. And me in particular, I think.” Laughing gently, he stepped closer.

Liandra swallowed against the tight dryness in her throat as his musky male scent washed over her.