Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

"Do not be telling me ye ken not the reason for that one."

"Fine. I'll not tell you then." Gabrielle glanced at the girl skeptically, a feather of curiosity tickling her. "But I don't know," she added despite her resolve not to. "How would I?"

"The feud started over a woman." Ella clucked her tongue and shook her head. "'Tis surprised I am ye dinny already ken it, especially since the woman in question was yer ancestor. And me own."

Gabrielle blinked hard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Aye, lass, she was a Carelton."

"Ailean Carelton, to be precise."

These last words did not come from Ella.

Gabrielle's attention jerked past the girl. Her gaze pulled into focus the night-and shadow-hazed but unmistakable form of Connor Douglas. Her heart skipped a traitorous beat. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? She shook her head, clearing her abruptly tumultuous thoughts. While she tried to concentrate on the topic of conversation, it was not easy. Not when the wonderfully virile sight of The Black Douglas filled her vision and her senses.

"A-Ailean Carelton?" Gabrielle stammered finally. "I've never heard of her."

"Never?" Connor asked as he crossed the clearing. Twigs snapped beneath his boot heels, moss crunched. He stopped in front of them.

The soft night breeze sent a waft of his sharp, spicy scent over Gabrielle. Her breath caught and she shivered in response. "Nay, never."

"I have," Roy Maxwell said, and his words captured their attention. "She was me great-great aunt," he explained as his eyes shifted to Gabrielle. His expression softened a bit. "And yers, lady. Did not anyone e'er tell ye of her?"

Gabrielle shook her head.

Roy chuckled derisively. "I'm not surprised. When she married Lachlan Maxwell near on twa centuries ago, her kin considered her dead. Mind ye, the Maxwells were not too pleased with the matter either, but there was naught to be done aboot it. The deed was done. Besides, as any Maxwell worth his salt can tell ye, 'twas not the woman, but her horse which caused the conflict."

"Hush up, mon," Ella hissed. "I'll not be letting ye fill her head with yer nonsense. If 'tis the story she wants, 'tis the story she'll get. But not from ye."

"The devil you say!" Roy looked offended. "I speak the truth, and well ye ken it."

"So far as a Maxwell is able," Ella countered as she shoved herself to her feet. With tense, jerky motions she brushed the leaves and dirt from the backside of her trews. "'Tis common knowledge that a Maxwell and the truth are soon parted when the purpose suits."

"And what purpose would it suit me to lie aboot such a thing?"

"I fear 'twould take a better mind than me to discover why a Maxwell does aught."

"Why, ye little...!"

Gabrielle shut out the bickering and turned her attention to Connor. He was staring at her, and staring hard. A spark of awareness fired in her blood. It took all of her concentration to return his gaze with an unflinching one of her own.

Before she realized what she was doing, Gabrielle had pushed to her feet and took a step toward him. He stood an arm's length away. Oh, but how she yearned to move closer. A minute ago her muscles had been stinging from exertion, yet now she barely noticed the deep, throbbing ache. It had been replaced by a deeper, more insistent ache... an ache she refused to recognize let alone acknowledge.

Keeping her voice low, so only Connor could hear, Gabrielle asked, "Will you tell me the truth of this story, m'lord?"

"Aye, if ye ask it of me, I will."

"I do." She nodded faintly. "And I am."

"So be it. But not here, lass." Connor's gaze left her to trace over the others. Ella and Roy were still arguing, but Gabrielle didn't pay at

tention to a word of it. When his gaze returned to her, his eyes were narrow; the gray depths burned through the shadows of the night. He lifted his hand, palm up. "Come."

Gabrielle hesitated. She tried to swallow, but her throat was suddenly too tight and dry for it. Had she thought her heart pounding fiercely only a moment ago? How foolish, for 'twas nothing compared to the way it hammered beneath her breasts now. Her fingers trembled when she placed her hand in his and allowed Connor to lead her out of the clearing.

His fingers loosened, slipped upward, curled around her wrists. His grip was a firm, warm, thoroughly distracting pressure as he led her deeper into the woods. She told herself that his reason for not relinquishing his hold on her was the same as the reason he'd stopped for the night; he feared she'd stumble in the darkness and harm herself. It was a logical, albeit shallow, reason. So why couldn't she make herself believe it? Oh, aye, the night was, by her own estimation, too dark to be traveling, but it was not so dark as to make the simple feat of walking dangerous.

They passed towering, shadowy oak and birch trees, and others she didn't recognize. The bristly needles of a fir tree scratched at her sleeve as they skirted by it. The back of her hand grazed a clump of tall plants bearing clusters of tiny green flowers.