DRABBLE
His fingers were incredibly warm. So was the breath on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and pulled the silken shawl tighter around her ridiculously sensible white nightgown, remembering, ruing yet relishing the sudden, prickly surge of heat as he draped the shawl around her shoulders. She inhaled all 146 years of him: spices, foreign ports, exotic sea breezes, majestic clipper ships and the decidedly masculine aroma of Gull Cottage. I am in love, she realized with a start. The silky embrace of the Moroccan shawl felt more binding than even the wedding ring on her finger.