Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

She lifted the goblet and took another drink of whisky, even though her thirst had passed. As any good Carelton could tell you, if one of anything worked well, two would work better... and three better still.

Gabrielle set the goblet aside and lay back against the pillow. She stifled a yawn with her fist and arched her spine, stretching tentatively at first, then, when her muscles didn't cramp in protest, more expansively. Aaah, but that felt divine.

Another clap of thunder boomed.

Gabrielle gasped, startled, remembering suddenly that summer had come and gone, and that the day—rather, it was night now—was anything but clear.

Rain and wind flailed at the castle's thick stone walls. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky like the sparkling blade of a newly polished dagger. The silvery flash came and went in a blink.

The mattress rustled as Gabrielle pushed herself to a sitting position. Mayhaps another sip of whisky wouldn't be out of order? Heaven knew the unexpected jolts of thunder had made sure the effects of the first three wore off with alarming speed. While she'd been aware from the instant she awoke exactly where she was—Bracklenaer, home of that thieving Scots heathen known as The Black Douglas—only now did that knowledge really begin to penetrate her fever-and liquor-dulled mind.

She swallowed hard, and in that same instant became aware of something else. Keenly aware of it.

She was no longer alone.

The fire had petered out; smoldering embers did naught to brighten the room beyond a dim glow that hovered only a foot away from the hearth. But did she really need light to know there was someone clinging to the shadows, watching her? Nay. Gabrielle felt the heat of an unseen gaze move over her.

"Mairghread?" she called out uncertainly. It was not the old woman, Gabrielle would bet the Queen's crown jewels on that.

Cloth rustled. The sound of a bootheel clicking atop stone that echoed between harsh bursts of thunder sounded ominously loud. Near the door, where the shadows clung and twisted like thick London fog, there was movement as the intruder stepped forward.

Gabrielle sneezed, then sniffled loudly and squinted at the form. Her heartbeat quickened.

The intruder was tall, broad, as undeniably virile as it was male.

He took another step forward, which brought him a mere stone's throw away from the bed. Any doubt Gabrielle had harbored fled like leaves scattering before a brisk autumn wind.

The intruder was The Black Douglas.

Gabrielle wasn't surprised. Nor was she pleased. Her spine stiffened and her chin inched upward. She faced him squarely. The flutter of alarm tickling the pit of her stomach was forcefully suppressed. "Skulking around in the shadows now, are you, Douglas? Haven't you ever heard of the term 'knock'?"

"'Twill be a cold day I'll hell afore I'll knock on me own bedchamber door, lass."

The words slid through Gabrielle much the same way the first sip of whisky had only moments before. Shocking at first, then radiantly hot. This time the warm, breathless tingle of response that rippled through her did not come from a manufactured source. The Black Douglas's deep, husky voice was all too real, as was her tumultuous reaction to both it and his nearness.

The temptation to huddle protectively beneath the covers was strong. The proud Carelton blood—smeared by only a small taint of Maxwell—that pumped hot and fast through her veins was stronger still.

Her shoulders squared instead of slumped as her green eyes narrowed. He

r gaze pierced the darkness, meeting and warring with his. "Your bedchamber is otherwise occupied."

"Aye," he said, and took that final step, his attention never leaving her, "and well I ken it. Mairghread's found her bed and I be on the way to finding another for meself. I wanted to check on ye first, though, to see how ye fared."

"I fare—" She sniffled and, for lack of anything else available, tried as inconspicuously as possible to wipe her nose on the sleeve of the white linen nightgown she only now realized she wore. Who had changed her into the garment? She was afraid to ask for fear he might tell her. "I fare well, thank you. As you can see, I'm getting better... getting better—" achoo—"getting better by the... by the"—sniffle, sniffle, achoo! "—minute."

Lightning and thunder splintered the night.

It was a minor disturbance compared to the tension crackling throughout the bedchamber.

"'Tis cold and damp in here. not good for a sick woman." He turned, his long strides carrying him to the hearth. Fresh kindling and logs had been stacked beside it. He used the former to rekindle the fire, the latter to stoke it until it blazed.

That done, Connor straightened and went back to the bed. The mattress crunched and sagged beneath his weight when he sat down on the edge of it. A frown creased his dark brow as his gaze drifted over the chair that, earlier, his aunt had pulled close to the bed. Why had he not sat there? His frown deepened to a scowl when he realized that, for one of the few times in his life, he didn't have a ready answer.

Sitting on the bed had not been a good idea... Connor realized a split second too late. The curve of Gabrielle's hip was a mere fraction away from brushing his outer thigh. Even through the thick wool of his kilt, he could feel her fevered heat seeping into his skin, into his blood.

Connor angled his head, looking down at her. The color in her cheeks was high. From the storm? From her fever? Or from the same awareness that was suddenly coursing through him, hotter and faster than the lightning that streaked through the sky outside?

As he watched, her attention shadowed his. Her gaze shifted to the chair, then back to him. One black eyebrow arched in a silent question.