Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Had he once thought her smile beautiful? Aye, he had. Now, Connor was forced to reassess. It was not beautiful, for beautiful was too mild a description. The way her green eyes crinkled at the corners, appealing dimples bracketed the sides of her mouth, and her full cheeks flooded with happy pink color... Och! aye, 'twas most devastating, is what the sight was!

So captivated was he that Connor didn't at first realize he was returning the gesture. Until he saw her smile widen, and realized it was in response to his own grin.

The strings around his heart twisted into yet another mind-numbing, soul-binding knot.

"The feud will not end so simply, lass," Connor said. Yet even as he heard the words bouncing off the cold stone around him, heard them echoing roughly in his ears, he found himself doubting their sincerity. Was he wrong? Could a feud that had started so simply, over a woman and a horse, end with equal ease? There was but one way to find out. As Gabrielle had so wisely pointed out all he could do was try. He had. Grudgingly, aye, but he had. In the end, only time would tell if his meager effort would be successful.

Gabrielle's smile faded and she looked suddenly uncomfortable. Letting her hand drop to her side, she averted her gaze and, her voice soft and shaky, asked, "What you said earlier about me, m'lord, did you mean any of—?"

A commotion sounded from above, halting her words. Feet stomped, male voices roared. Apparently a Douglas had spotted either Roy or Siobhan and assumed the pair was escaping. A natural assumption, one he would have made himself under similar circumstances. While he longed to linger and offer her an abundance of comfort and reassurance, there was no time for such luxuries. His attention was needed above.

Connor's gaze dipped, fixing on her mouth. Nay, more precisely it fixated on the small, moist tip of the tongue that darted out to lick her full, perfectly shaped lips.

He swallowed a groan and leaned toward her, his mouth brushing over hers. Back and forth. Gently, gently. Her breath smelled sweeter than wine as it washed over his skin, seeping deeper and deeper into him. "Aye, lass," he whispered huskily against her mouth, his gaze holding hers ensnared. Now that they'd been voiced once, he was surprised to discover he'd no problem saying the words again. They felt almost natural as his tongue curled around them. "I meant e'ery word and more."

"H-how much more?" The crack of anticipation in her voice was nearly missed to the escalating noise emanating from the floor above.

Curling his left hand into a fist, Connor stroked the back of his knuckles over her softer-than-velvet cheek. "Lass, I've made ye a promise and I intend to see it kept. I maun go above and escort Roy Maxwell safely out of Bracklenaer afore me men kill him and worsen the feud ye've tried so hard to end. Once that chore is completed, with yer permission, I'll happily prove to ye exactly how ver maun I meant what I said. I'll prove it all night long, if ye like."

This time the grin that tugged at Gabrielle's lips was one steeped in pure feminine mischief. She cocked one dark brow at him. "All night long, you say?"

"And then some ... if ye insist."

She shivered in hot anticipation and her voice dropped a throaty pitch. "Then you'd best be about it, m'lord. The night grows late, and this is one promise I've no wish to see The Black Douglas break."

"Nor I," he agreed with a rakish grin.

Connor planted a sound kiss on her lips, then turned his attention toward the stairs and the commotion to be settled above. Knowing the unmatched pleasures that awaited him when the chore was over made him impatient to see the task completed with the utmost speed.

Chapter 16

The loch, calm and clear, with nary a breeze to ripple its placid surface, was located within walking distance of Bracklenaer. Gabrielle was surprised to find that by the time she reached the wooded clearing bordering the water, her breath came almost as easily as when she'd left the keep.

Her weeks on this tumultuous side of the Border had been fraught with one adventure after the other. While her several kidnappings and escapes hadn't seen her lose so much as a quarter stone in weight, spending more time in a saddle than out of one—or so it seemed—had relaxed joints unaccustomed to such strenuous exercise, defined and toned muscles in her arms and legs and back, muscles she would never have guessed even existed upon leaving London.

The Black Douglas had once described her as a "maun healthy, sturdy lass." As she stepped into the clearing, that was exactly how Gabrielle felt. At some point the words had lost their bitter sting. They no longer felt like an insult, but something to be proud of.

The circle of branches and leaves above revealed a hazy, pink-and gold-tinted sky. The bellies of the two slim clouds that hung suspended there were a singular, pale shade of lavender.

The air was sweet with the rich perfume of the dew-kissed, vibrantly colored wildflowers growing in profusion on the low bank of the loch, the scent mingling with the crisp sweetness of grass. Her sense of hearing must have been inordinately acute from a night of sleepless anticipation, for Gabrielle could have sworn she heard the soft buzz of a bee as it flitted hungrily from one pollen-rich petal to the next. High up in the trees, birds chirped as though singing out a welcome to the newborn day. Somewhere in the woods behind her, the snap of twigs and hushed rustle of leaves marked the passage of a red deer.

All those sounds were overridden by another, more subtle noise: the gentle tinkle of water being cupped in a big, hard palm and splashed over broad shoulders and a wide, sinewy chest.

Gabrielle stopped on the edge of the clearing, her ears filled with the sound, her dazed green eyes filled with the sight that created it.

Connor Douglas stood waist-deep in the frigid, mountain-fed loch, the water lapping against the tight indentation of his waist. She blinked hard, thinking again that her senses were deceptively acute this morn—or her imagination entirely too overactive—for she knew that from this distance and angle it simply wasn't possible to see the tiny rivulets of water trickling down his sunkissed flesh.

Possible or not, imagined or not, her body flooded with a warmth to chase away the dawn's chill. Her right elbow was invisible beneath the folds of her black cloak, hiding the way her fingers balled into fists as her p

alm itched to run over the slick surface of his skin. Her fingertips tickled with the equally strong and impulsive desire to caress him all over.

A soft, pleasant rumbling sound reached her ears. Gabrielle frowned. It took her a moment to place the noise, and when she did, she gaped, then smiled.

Connor was humming.

While the melody was wincingly off-key, she eventually recognized it as a song her mother had often sung to her when Gabrielle was a child. A song about a knight, a war, and lady fair.

She was surprised a Scotsman could hum with such easy familiarity a song that, until now, she'd considered a completely English one. That it was a song with blatant romantic overtones, and that it was being hummed with such husky intensity by the likes of The Black Douglas, a notorious reiver whom many on both sides of the Border had written songs about, was more surprising still.