Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

"Good God, lass, will ye lower yer voice? Aye, 'tis exactly what I said. Maxwell." Connor had to hurriedly shield her eyes with his big hand when her horrified gaze seemed drawn to the area where Gordie Maxwell and his men waited. "Nay, dinny look o'er there, 'twill only upset ye. Trust me, 'tis a maun disheartening sight. Just do as I say and dress yeself quickly. I dinny like at all the way a few of those men were gawking at ye whilst ye slept. Those trews aren't maun better, but at least they'll cover ye."

"Gawking?" Gabrielle asked, startled. Had she gotten no further than that part of his words? Connor wondered. Clutching the kilt modestly over her breasts, she sat up as gracefully as she could. With her right hand she swept the thick mane of love-tangled black hair back from her face until it tumbled silkily down her back. "Did you say some of those men were gawking? At me?"

Connor gritted his teeth. 'Twas no time for conversation, but he recognized the determined expression on Gabrielle's face and knew she would not rest until her question had been answered.

He set about doing so in the shortest manner possible. "Aye, a few were most assuredly gawking," he admitted grudgingly. "Me kilt is goodly sized, and 'tis thankful I be that I thought to toss some of it o'er us as we slept, but it's not that big. There was a fair deal of ye to gawk at, lass." A scowl creased his brow, and something in her eyes suddenly made speed lose a wee bit of its relevance to the strong, tightening fist of emotion—could it be jealousy?—clenching and unclenching in his stomach. Curiosity suddenly plagued his mind. "Now that I think upon it, lass," he added thoughtfully, "ye dinny sound like ye're offended."

"I'm not offended. Just the opposite, I'm quite flattered. I've never been gawked at before, and I must admit it's a most complimentary feeling. You Scots certainly have a very distinct criterion for physical appeal than the ones I'm accustomed to. Truth to tell, 'tis a welcome change." Gabrielle shook her head and, as though to herself, her voice a pitch higher than normal, repeated in surprise, "Those men were gawking. At me. Ha! What would Elizabeth have to say about that?!"

The grin that curved over Gabrielle's lips was full and appealing. He was captivated by it.

As though sensing Connor's distracted attention, Gordie Maxwell quickly interceded to remind both Gabrielle and Connor of his unwelcome presence. From over his shoulder, he growled threateningly, "Yer time is running short, Douglas. We leave in three maun minutes. Whether ye both be dressed or not makes nae difference to me. I maun admit, though, 'twould make an interesting sight to see the notorious Black Douglas riding into Caerlaverock as naked as the day he was born. Compared to the other dribble I've heard sung of ye lately, methinks the ballads that sight would inspire may actually be worth lending an ear to!"

Connor swore in Gaelic as he reached over Gabrielle and gathered up their clothes. He dumped them in a wrinkled heap in his lap, sorting his from hers as quickly as possible.

His fingers closed around the woolen trews he'd taken great pleasure in stripping Gabrielle of, and he swallowed back a groan. He remembered the way they clung to her hips and thighs, outlining every lush curve. How many stares would this woman's delectable body get with those on? A more important question was how far he could stretch his self-control. Could he hold his temper in check if any of the men who'd been ogling her tried to do so again, or worse...?

His fingers clenched into fists around the wool as he thrust the trews at Gabrielle. Pushing the words through tightly gritted teeth, he said, "Och, dinny dally, lass. Get yerself dressed and do it quickly. Maxwells aren't reputed for their patience."

"Then what are they reputed for?" Gabrielle asked as she accepted the bundle of clothes. Casting surreptitious glances at the men's backs, she yanked the tunic over her head.

"Ye dinny want to ken," Connor muttered as he pulled his own tunic on. The kilt would have to wait; at the moment, it was draped prudently under and around Gabrielle's naked lap. Connor had no urge to reclaim the garment yet. It would be just his luck to have one of the Maxwells choose such an inopportune moment to glance back at them. As far as he was concerned, they'd seen far more of Gabrielle than he was comfortable with.

Should any of the men try to ogle her while she dressed, Connor knew he would loose the tattered reins of his composure and challenge the man. Unarmed as he was, the outcome of such a skirmish was dangerously preordained.

Och! what good would he be to the lass if he was lying bleeding on the ground? For that matter, what good was he to the lass now?

Connor winced. Like the point of Gordie's sword had pricked the tender flesh of his throat, the last thought pricked his pride in a way he'd never imagined possible. Without realizing he was doing it, he fingered the scratch on his neck. The blood had begun to dry; the newly formed scab felt warm and rough against his fingertips.

Gabrielle had pulled on the trews and was in the middle of tugging on the oversize boots when a disturbance in the woods, quite close to the left of where the Maxwell and his men stood, drew her attention.

Gabrielle glanced at Connor, but he simply frowned and shook his head.

"Keep yer filthy hands off me, ye... ye... stinking Maxwell!" The feminine grouse was followed by a harsh, masculine grunt "Ye think that hurts? Wait! 'Tis but a wee scratch compared to what I'll be giving ye if ye dinny unhand me, and unhand me now!"

"Ella?" Gabrielle and Connor sighed the name in unison, yet their voices held entirely different inflections; Gabrielle's was a sigh of relief, Connor's one of utter frustration.

Careful to still keep The Black Douglas in his vision—one could never, never trust a Douglas, even an unarmed one—Gordie shifted the brunt of his attention to the commotion. One eyebrow cocked in surprise when he saw a slender girl with flaming red hair being tossed, literally, out from behind a thick oak tree trunk.

Ella landed on her backside with a thump and a curse at the big man who strode casually out of the woods behind her. The big man stopped, rubbed his shin briefly with the calf of his other leg, winced, then went over to Gordie.

In less than a second, Ella was on her feet and furiously dogging his steps, a mere pace behind him.

"Oh, no." Gabrielle swallowed back a groan. That Ella was about to do something stupid was evident in the icy spark of anger in the girl's blue eye and the determined tightness of her jawline.

As Gabrielle watched, Ella swung back her foot and delivered to the back of the offender's knee another bone-jarring kick. The man howled, stumbled against Gordie, then quickly regained his balance and spun on his heel. His dark-green eyes flashed with anger as his right hand went for his sword.

Gabrielle didn't think about what she was doing, nor the consequences of doing it, she simply flung Connor's kilt at him, even as she sprang into motion.

It took four running steps to reach them. For a big woman, she'd enough Maxwell blood coursing through her veins to be unexpectedly quick on her feet.

By the time she reached Ella's side, the angry man's free hand was making an arch toward the girl's defiantly upturned cheek. Gabrielle stepped between the two in time to receive the brunt of the blow. The man's open palm collided painfully with her shoulder.

She staggered sideways a step under the force of the impact, grunting despite her resolve not to when a ripple of pain quivered down her arm and at the same time shot across her neck to lance through the other shoulder.

Her attacker was not tall, nor was Gabrielle short. They stood on eye-level, glowering at each other.

"Does hitting a poor, defenseless woman make you feel like more of a man?" Gabrielle demanded scornfully, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder. Her hands, tightly fisted, were planted with defiance atop her hips as she glared into eyes equally as green as her own.