Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

A vague nod was all she could muster. Truly, she thought herself lucky to manage that much. It was taking the brunt of her concentration not to give in to the hot, basic instinct that clawed away inside her, an instinct that demanded she turn her head a fraction and bask in the serene warmth and strength of his hand caressing her face.

She started to close her eyes, started to turn her head into the wonder of his touch despite her determination not to...

"Rest," Connor said, as if only in repeating the word did it finally soak into his mind, along with its meaning. He yanked his hand away, cleared his throat too loudly, and bolted to his feet. He took the goblet from her slack fingers and placed it back on the small table beside the bed. "Aye, lass, rest. 'Tis exactly what ye need. And lots of it."

In three long strides, he was at the door. He stopped, glanced back as though he was about to say something, then shook his dark head, opened the door, and left.

Gabrielle sneezed and sniffled, all the while trying not to notice how large and empty the bedchamber suddenly felt. At the same time, she tried also not to notice the way the side of her face felt cold without his touch, the outer curve of her hip oddly chilled without his body heat to warm it.

Tried not to, but did.

Even the fire that The Black Douglas had coaxed into blazing in the hearth could not warm her in those two areas.

Her attention still on the door, Gabrielle tugged up the covers and fisted them tightly beneath her chin. The liquor formed a hot, liquidy pool in her stomach; like a stone cast in a calm lake, it sent warm ripples throughout the rest of her body.

So why, she wondered, even as she huddled beneath the covers and lay back against the pillow, did the left side of her face and her hip refuse to be warmed?

Chapter 5

"Wake up!"

The words hissed out of the velvet black night, playing on the edge of Gabrielle's sleep-clouded mind. Muttering beneath her breath, she sniffled and rolled onto her side.

Something—a hand?—nudged her. Slee

pily, she tried to swat it away.

A Gaelic curse warmed the damp night air. "I'll give ye this... while ye dinny look like a Maxwell, ye sure the devil sleep like one."

The nudge was back, only this time it came in the form of a jostle. A very firm, very insistent jostle. Fingertips bit into the tender flesh of her shoulder. Gabrielle winced.

Grudgingly, Gabrielle allowed herself to be shaken awake, and in so doing abandoned quite an interesting dream. In it, a craggily handsome Scotsman with shaggy, glossy black hair and piercing gray eyes was sitting on the bed beside her. Oh so closely beside her. Connor had left her for a fortnight to the care of his aunt and assorted guards, while the dream had been so tantalizingly vivid that—

"Och! lass, will ye please wake up? Yer maun to big for me to pick up and carry. not that I'm foolish enough to try, mind ye, I ken me limits."

"Who... wha—?"

"She speaks. 'Tis a miracle!"

The sarcasm wasn't lost on Gabrielle, whose eyes snapped open in response. Blinking hard, she squinted at the inky shadows until she was able to pull into focus the vague shape squatting beside the bed. The size and shape was unmistakable, as was the shock of brilliant red hair that, even in this inky darkness, couldn't be missed. "Ella?"

"Aye, and Mairghread is o'er on the other side."

Gabrielle stifled the half yawn, half cough that rose in her throat and turned her head. Her vision was quickly adapting to the darkness; making out the thick, stooped shape of the old woman took only a fraction of the time it had taken for her to recognize Ella. "What is wrong? What has happened?"

"There's nae time to explain," Ella said. "Here, put this on."

"Do it quickly." Mairghread's aged voice cracked with urgency.

"Aye, lass, ver quickly. There's not a second to waste."

Ella shoved something—a pile of clothes from the weight and feel of it—into Gabrielle's arms. If the feel of the coarse material hadn't told her the quality of the clothes she'd just been handed, the stench of them would have. Her nose was still stuffy, but not that stuffy! The previous owner's smell lingered, seemly woven into every thread of the coarse fabric.

Gabrielle's first instinct was to drop the bundle of clothes and demand to know what was going on. But, no she knew that would not be wise. She was woefully out of her element on this side of the Border, forced to trust in strangers. She could only hope her trust was not unfounded, that those who lived here would keep her safe until she learned the ways of things herself. It went against her nature and better judgment, but there was no help for it; she was, after all, among strange people whose strange ways were completely alien to her.

And then, too—and more important—now that Gabrielle was fully awake, other sounds intruded over the harsh rattle of Mairghread's breathing.

The angry rumble of men's voices.