Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

As suddenly as Connor's embarrassment came, so did it ease. Deep down he had to admit that if given the chance to take the words back, he would not do it. Oh, aye, he'd known when he spoke the words that they were the raw, unornamented truth. Yet not until this very second did the full depth of understanding pierce him with a tip more sharp and deadly than the one he held poised against Roy Maxwell's throat. A bevy of strange yet oddly comforting emotions coiled like gossamer-thin threads around his heart. Threads of emotion that, for all their fragility, twisted and linked into tight, unbreakable knots.

Nay, even if he could, he would not take the words back. He was a Douglas to the core; his tenets ran deep and true. It would be a formidable lie indeed to rescind the most sincere words he'd ever spoken in his life.

Gabrielle's grip tightened around the sconce's handle, and the fingers of her free hand shook when she wrapped them loosely around his upper arm. Connor felt the warm fullness of her breasts as she leaned to the side and peered at Roy from around Connor's shoulder.

Cloth rustled.

Unbidden, the image of rose brocade skimming soft, creamy thighs sprang to mind.

Connor's eyes snapped open. Had they only been closed for a fraction of a second? It seemed much longer. His slitted gray gaze locked on his adversary.

Roy Maxwell grinned knowingly, his attention shifting to Gabrielle. Her grip tightened. Connor felt her fingertips digging into his upper arms as she seemed to instinctively press more closely against him.

"Am I right in assuming it's a cook you're after, not a captive?" Gabrielle asked. Her voice was husky and low, cracking with an emotion Connor couldn't decipher.

"Aye," Roy answered. "What else? Unless..." He paused then, after a thoughtful second, his grin broadened. "Och! lass, surely ye dinny think—?!" He shook his head. "Dinny mistake me, lass, I mean no offense when I say I've naught against ye—except mayhap that large dollop of Carelton blood flowing through yer veins. Howe'er, 'tis not ye I'm wanting to take back to Caerlaverock with me. Good Lord, no! I dinny want ye there in the first place. Kidnapping ye was me da and Gordie's idea. A not so brilliant one, I might add. I was against it from the start. And with good reason, so 'twould seem, Truth to tell, ye're a fine muckle more trouble than ye're worth—e'en if stealing ye

did irritate the clan Douglas better than anything the Maxwells have done to them in the recent past. Nay, nay, I'm through with such foolishness. The only wench I'm wanting to bring home with me this night is Siobhan. Da would ne'er forgive me were I to seize the plainest lass in all Scotland instead of the best cook this side of the Esk, don't ye ken?"

The threads around Connor's heart tightened and tugged when he heard Gabrielle's swift intake of breath. Turning her head, she cushioned her cheek against the back of his shoulder. A steamy patch of moisture there suggested she was quietly crying. Her grip on his arm tightened, her nails biting into the tender skin beneath his sleeve; oddly enough, he did not complain or entertain the notion of pulling away.

The emotions churning inside him were as foreign as they were intense. It came as no small surprise to discover that he felt Gabrielle's pain as though it was his own, slicing deep and raw. But why? A month previous, Roy Maxwell's callous remarks would not have bothered him a bit. Surely there were worse atrocities to be withstood in these parts than to have one's looks glibly criticized and to be slighted in favor of a cook. Now, however, Connor heard the words as though they'd been filtered through Gabrielle's ears; coldly spoken, callously disrespectful, and delivered with utter disregard for how they'd be interpreted.

Unfortunately, he knew there was a time not so long ago when he might have said those same unfeeling things himself and not thought twice about it. If he'd wondered before, he wondered no longer. It was obvious how Gabrielle had come by her impression that Borderers were a crude, unfeeling lot. Instead of basing her opinion on hearsay and ill-concocted ballads, as he'd at first presumed she'd done, he now realized she'd come by it all-too honestly.

With a flick of his wrist Connor exerted pressure on the point of his sword. Not a lot, but enough to make a few drops of blood bead against Roy's throat. "If yer ancestor's tongue was as honeyed as yer own," he growled, "there can be no doubt as to why me great-great aunt chose a Maxwell o'er a Douglas."

"Aye," Roy agreed, and his grin was back with annoying force. "For all that she was a Carelton, the wench had maun distinguished taste."

The insult had the desired effect; it rubbed raw a centuries-old wound.

Connor didn't think so much as react with all his well-honed instincts. His sword arm drew back, his muscles pulling taut, his gray eyes narrowing and glinting with deadly intent.

Too late, Roy sensed the grave mistake he'd made. Only a fool issued such openly challenging words when he'd no weapon to back them up with... and only an insane man did so to a reiver like The Black Douglas. That Connor was going to run him through, there was no doubt; Roy would do the same were the situation reversed. With that thought in mind, he started to duck, his arms lifting, crossed at the forearms, forming an ineffective, makeshift shield as he prepared to rush Connor and, with luck, tackle him in the stomach. Gritting his teeth, he mentally readied himself to feel the sting of The Black Douglas's blade sinking into his flesh.

The feeling never came.

Gabrielle assessed the situation in a blink. Connor's anger was palpable, crackling in the air like the tingling spark of static before a storm. The way his arm pulled back—his elbow jabbing into her rib cage hard enough to make her gasp—told her all she needed to know.

"Nay!" she cried as she shoved the sconce at Roy. Grabbing Connor's arm with both hands, she planted her feet apart for balance and yanked. Hard. Rather, she tried to yank him backward, hoping that in so doing she would foil his aim before the deadly point of his sword could find its mark... and give this asinine feud reason to continue for still more senseless decades.

The muscles in his upper arm were hard with the tension that twisted through him; it felt as though the bands of sinew had been molded from unyielding steel. There was no give in either Connor's arm or his stance. However, Gabrielle knew her unexpected action must have startled him, for he paused abruptly, just shy of completing the thrust.

"Don't do it, Connor," she pleaded breathlessly. "Please, I beg of you."

"Unhand me, wench, 'tis none of yer affair. The mon insulted you. He insulted me family. No Douglas worthy of the name listens to such slurs without exacting flesh in retribution. Well Roy kenned that when he uttered the insults."

"'Twas nsults, but nothing more. They are words, only words."

"Words that deliver grave insult to me ancestor and me clan."

"But words all the same. Surely words alone are not a good enough reason to commit murder!"

"There's many a mon on this Border who'd disagree, many a mon who's killed for less."

"Must you be one of those men, Connor?" Gabrielle's grip on his arm tightened. Her green eyes were wide and pleading as she looked up into eyes that were as gray as they were guarded. "Elizabeth sent me here in an attempt to end this feud once and for all, something James seemed equally as eager to see happen. I confess, at the time I'd severe misgivings that any family dispute could be as critical as she indicated. Now I know she was right. Connor, don't you see? The feud between Maxwell and Douglas has gone on long enough. Decades too long! It must end, and that ending must start somewhere."

A muscle in the left side of Connor's jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth. "Then let a Maxwell make the first offering of peace between our families."