Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

And again.

It took far longer than Connor would have thought possible for the aftershock of relaxation to wash the tension out of his body. When it finally did, he shifted, lowering much of his weight onto the bed of her curves.

He nuzzled her ear with his nose. The soft, sweet fragrance of her filled him to overflowing, and he smiled with satisfaction when he felt Gabrielle's instinctive shiver of response.

He opened his mouth to say... something. The words evaporated unspoken off his tongue as relaxation surged into something stronger and more lulling. He was tired. Nay, exhausted. Yet in a thoroughly contented sort of way. Surely whatever he'd been about to say could wait a wee bit?

That thought in mind, he shifted onto his side, taking care to keep their bodies joined. Slipping one arm beneath Gabrielle's head, he coiled the other around her waist and pulled her close.

She felt warm and good in his arms. Her ripe, full curves fit the planes and angles of his body flawlessly. She snuggled against him, her cheek cradled against his shoulder.

As Connor let his mind and body come untethered, drifting naturally toward much needed rest, he was vaguely aware that he'd never felt such overwhelming protectiveness as he did right now for the woman who lay in his arms. His last thought before sleep overtook him was that making love had never felt so good and right as it did tonight, with this woman... and it never would again.

Chapter 9

Two completely opposite sensations pierced Connor Douglas's sleep-fogged brain.

The first was that Gabrielle's warm, naked body was pressed against his own naked side in the most enticing way. Her head was pillowed atop his chest, the dark curls at the crown tucked beneath his chin and jaw, tickling his skin ever so nicely. She was curled into him in a way that suggested, even in sleep, she strove to melt her body right into his. Her left arm draped possessively over his waist. Her left knee was bent; the petal-soft inside of her thigh blanketed his hips in a deliciously intimate manner.

The second—not at all welcome—realization was that, at some point while he'd slumbered, someone had placed something that felt dangerously hard and sharp against the pulse beating sleepily in the base of his throat.

It was the latter sensation that jarred him awake.

His eyes snapped open in the same instant his right hand went for the sword he'd laid atop the ground at his side. An increased pressure at his throat—only enough to draw a single hot drop of blood—stilled his hand. His fingers went slack, the moss scratching at palms and fingertips that had so recently slid

over Gabrielle Carelton's silky, naked skin.

A glint of moonlight bounced ominously off the broadsword being held on him.

Connor's breath caught as he traced a slow path up the weapon. Up. Up.

Then up some more.

At this angle, the blade looked oddly asymmetric—too sharp at the tip, too thick at the hilt—and so very long.

The arm he'd wrapped around Gabrielle's shoulders tightened, even as his gaze settled, and settled hard, on the man whose lean fingers were wrapped around the leather-covered hilt.

It might have been a figment of moonlight and shadow, but Connor could have sworn Gordie Maxwell pulled back an instinctive fraction of an inch as their gazes met and warred. But in the space of a wink, the weathered creases shooting out from the corners of Gordie's eyes deepened and a cocky grin tugged at what little could be seen of his lips between his shaggy red beard and mustache.

Och! but this was not a good situation! Even if he could somehow mange to get to his sword before Gordie Maxwell slit his throat, Connor's problems would only be starting. At least a half dozen more armed and hardy-looking men stood in a semicircle behind Gordie. All were alert and watchful of the exchange playing out before them.

"'One glance of the Douglas eye, 'tis said, can turn a Maxwell foe to dead,'" Gordie's grin broadened when, behind him, one of his men finished reciting the newest verse of the most popular Border ballad. "What say ye to that, Douglas? Methinks the balladeers would be turning a different phrase if they saw ye thus. Or mayhap they were referring to the fear ye inspire when ye've got yer clothes on? Truth to tell, ye dinny look so fearsome right now."

"'Tis the poor lighting," Connor growled, "or yer notoriously bad eyesight. If I'd me sword in hand, ye'd be spouting something entirely different. Like yer entrails o'er the ground after me blade sliced them out."

Gordie's laughter was rich and thick; the point of the sword tremored against Connor's throat. "Do ye think it, Douglas?"

"Nay, Maxwell, I ken it."

The force of his statement made Gabrielle stir restlessly against his side. Connor stilled expectantly, as did Gordie and his men. To their surprise, and Connor's relief, the lass did not awaken. He'd no desire for her to open her eyes and find her kilt-draped body being ogled by a ragged-looking band of reivers.

Connor's stomach muscles fisted when, as though following the path of his thoughts, Gordie's attention shifted to Gabrielle. The man's green eyes narrowed, shrewdly raking over what he could see of her form. And Gordie could see far too much of her body for Connor's piece of mind!

"The Carelton wench?"

Connor nodded tensely. "Aye."

"'Tis not the way I expected to meet me long-lost relative."