“5 Angels!...Recommended Read!...Everything a great medieval story should be—romantic, lusty, historically accurate, and filled with calls to arms and bloodshed.”-—Michelle, Fallen Angel Reviews

…Christiana paused at the doorway to the chapel to drop a coin in the box to pay for a candle for her father. In turn she and Rowan dipped their fingers in holy water from Jerusalem and made the sign of the cross-mind, heart, shoulder, shoulder. Then they passed down the aisle in the dim lighting of the small room, genuflecting in adoration mid journey and rising to continue walking to the altar railing. Because Rowan was taller, when they reached the railing he took the candle and touched it to the burning taper in the gold candelabrum at the side of the center gate to the altar. The wick flared red as it lit, then settled into yellow.

Incense filled the hushed chapel, its scent as familiar and comforting as the ritual use of the holy water and the sign of the cross.

Christiana's upturned face as he turned to hand her the lighted shaft glowed in the soft light, as angelic as a fine painting. Their hands touched as he passed the candle to her, and he felt a small hot rush jolt through him that had nothing to do with the heat of the candle's flame. He felt her start and knew she'd felt it too for her gaze locked on his own, her face a study in surprise. He held her gaze, fighting desire as it welled up inside him, creating the need to taste the sweetness of that innocent mouth, brush her eyelids with his kisses, crush her tight against him so she could feel how his body swelled with wanting.

Would her naked skin feel like silk beneath him, if he took her here, now, would the holy stillness be broken by her keening cries as his body brought her to heights of love she'd never known?