...Tunstell was not what one could describe as call subtle. His flaming red hair bobbed up with each pointed and articulated footstep as though he were some cloaked Gothic villain creeping across a stage.

I believe there is a considerable range in the bang of most guns.

Well, my love,” said Alexia with prodigious daring to Lord Maccon, “shall we?” The earl started to move forward and then stopped abruptly and looked down at her, not moving at all. “Am I?” “Are you what?” She peeked up at him through her tangled hair, pretending confusion. There was no possible way she was going to make this easy for him. “Your love?” “Well, you are a werewolf, Scottish, naked, and covered in blood, and I am still holding your hand.” He sighed in evident relief. “Good. That is settled, then.

As with most things in life, Lady Maccon preferred the civilized exterior to the dark underbelly (with the exception of pork products, of course.)

You are about as covert as a sledgehammer.

Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted *things*, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table.

You do realise modern social mores exist for a reason?" "I was hungry, allowances should be made.