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When she was young, Deirdre was considered one of the most beautiful vixens in Viridis. By the time she was sixteen she'd had three marriage proposals, all from wealthy merchants or noblemen and each offering her a life of luxury and privilege. But she was always too impatient for marriage and too eager for excitement and adventure to settle in one place for long. She joined the army at Cearnach when she was sixteen years old, lured by their promises of adventure and the chance to become an officer and gain her own command. She'd been a lot more innocent twenty-three years ago.
Now she was a General, known and at least respected in every major city in Viridis, and the mother of the only vixen on the island to be counted more of a hero than she was. She was also thirty-nine years old, practically homeless and cut to ribbons. When she'd first started out the old veterans had told her that a soldier's scars were the one badge of honor she never had to take off. Deirdre thought it sounded foolish even then. Her scars were a reminder of the things she'd sacrificed and the sort of life she'd never be able to live. It was just the sort of life her daughter took for granted.
She'd mostly grown past the point of vanity and even the desire for companionship. It was hard to remember the last time she'd preened in front of a mirror. It was even harder to remember the last time she'd taken anyone to bed with her. Still, there were days when she wished she could smooth all the scars away so she might at least look presentable for someone. There was no possibility of falling in love, not since Connor. Deirdre belonged to him, body and soul, and she knew she still did. It was only sometimes, in the middle of the night, that she wished for the feel of someone's arms around her.
Deirdre Lohan belongs to me.