He liked the imperfections of her body.

Whenever they made love he delighted in examining and cataloging the scars and marks, his lips trailing a blessing down each and every one. There were so many people that claimed to live, talked as though they had the strength to do things that actually mattered, but ask them for proof and they had nothing to show for it. Not his lass, never her. Her body was a living testament to everything she had accomplished. The sword callouses were proof of her hard work. Her chest scar a symbol of her determination. The stretch mark gently crossing over the place where his children began life reminded him of her unending capacity for love. The laugh lines that crinkled around her lips and eyes assured him that she had laughed more than she had cried, which was all that he could really offer her when they decided to build a life together.

Her body was a promise to him. It swore that she was exactly who she claimed to be. It was an affirmation that he had himself a lioness; someone real, and vibrant, and true. It told him that he had made the right choice in turning his back on the Rogue, that he would never wake up one day to find himself a fat and lazy lord with a useless but perfectly pretty airhead of a wife. Her body spoke to him of hardships and troubles, signified that although she had been born noble she knew of sacrifice and struggle.

He liked pretty things and frippery. He appreciated his lass in her gowns and face paint, and he deeply enjoyed the nights she would come to bed done up in corsets or skimpy chemises and silk stockings.

But none of it could hold a candle to the beauty of her body laid bare, the map of her life cast clearly on her skin for him alone to decipher.