Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Gabrielle stopped short. A gasp whispered through her lips when something brittle pricked the knuckles of her free hand. "Ouch!"

"What?" Connor stopped, turned back toward her. Was it her imagination, or was his voice tight with concern? In this light, there was no reading his expression, but she thought that he also looked unnaturally taut.

"I don't know. I think something stung me." She shook her hand vigorously, as though the gesture would help the bite of pain there. It didn't. It made it worse. "Blast it, but that hurts!"

"Let me see."

"Nay, m'lord, I'm fine. Truly I am."

"Saints alive, dinny argue with me, wench. Let me see yer hand." His tone left no room for argument. Nor did his swift reaction.

Before Gabrielle could stop him, Connor closed the step that separated them. He stood unnervingly close as he reached for her hand, cradling it in his much larger ones. His skin felt rough and warm, such a striking contrast to her own softer, cooler flesh.

Connor lifted her hand in a way that mockingly reminded her of the time the Earl of Essex had affectionately kissed the back of it before moving his mouth up to hers that long-ago night in Queen Elizabeth's garden. That incident felt like a lifetime ago to her now.

Gabrielle steeled herself against the expected—longed for?—feel of The Black Douglas's lips brushing hotly over her stinging flesh. The contact did not come. Why oh why did she feel such a bitter stab of disappointment?

Holding the back of her stinging hand close to his face, Connor scowled at it in the darkness. "'Tis naught but a nettle."

"A... what?"

"A nettle." He nodded to the clump of prickly-leafed plants beside her.

Connor released Gabrielle's hand and leaned to the side, plucking the leaf off another, smaller plant. How did he know which was which? In this light, all the plants and trees looked much the same to her. He held the leaf out to her, and on closer inspection Gabrielle saw that, unlike the nettle's prickly leaves, the leaf he'd picked was softer in texture and wavy.

"Use it lass," he said when she didn't take the leaf. "'Twill help take away the sting."

Gabrielle glanced skeptically between the offered leaf and Connor. "How?"

Connor grumbled something under his breath. Since the words were in Gaelic, she'd no idea what he said. His tone, however, suggested he was questioning her competency.

Gabrielle bristled. She opened her mouth to debate the unspoken issue, but Connor stunned her silent by lifting the leaf and spitting on it.

"What are you doing?" she demanded warily.

"Helping ye, ye stubborn wench," he growled as he again lifted her injured hand.

"That's very kind of you," she murmured sarcastically, "however, I'll have you know I can take care of myself. It may come as a surprise to you, but I've absolutely no need of your—Ouch! Curse you, Connor Douglas, stop that! It hurts!"

He was rubbing the leaf with what Gabrielle considered undue vigor over her stinging knuckle. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench her arm free... then just as quickly wondered why she'd bothered. Connor's grip was uncompromisingly firm; the fingers of his free hand were coiled around her wrist like a sturdy iron shackle. The only sign he gave of noticing her struggle was a slight flexing of his fingers against her tender skin.

Did he realize he was hurting her? Did he care?

Gabrielle's mind flashed her an image of how effective Ella was at getting The Black Douglas's attention. Unorthodox though the method might be, surely if it worked for Ella...?

Before she could think the urge through—let alone consider the consequences of carrying it out—she lifted her right foot and swung it with all her might. The toe of her boot collided with Connor's shin in a teeth-jarring kick. Gabrielle winced. The impact was jarring; it rippled up her travel-sore leg, reverberating all the way to her hip.

Unprepared for the attack, he stumbled backward a stunned step. Instead of his fingers releasing her wrist, as Gabrielle had expected him to do, they tightened. She opened her mouth to again demand that he release her, only to have momentum drag her body in his wake before she could get out a word.

Her breasts hit his rock-solid chest with enough force to shove the breath from her lungs. Their thighs slammed together, their hips met.

Knowing what was to come, knowing also that he didn't stand a prayer of stopping it, Connor nevertheless tried. He reached out with his free hand, fumbling blindly to grab hold of the nearest tree trunk. It was too late. His fingertips scraped against rough bark, but found no purchase.

Connor plummeted backward. He wrapped his arm around Gabrielle's waist and shifted his weight to cushion her fall.

Tangled together, they tumbled onto the moss and leaf-strewn ground.

His back landed hard against cold, unyielding ground, and his teeth clacked painfully together when the back of his head also hit the ground with a resounding whack. A fist-size rock gouged into his shoulder. A jagged corner tore through his tunic, slicing as easily through the material as it did through the sensitive flesh beneath. Connor grunted.