Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

The sound was echoed by a kindred one from Gabrielle as her body settled with force atop his. Her legs had parted as they'd fallen; she now straddled his hips. Her elbows and knees throbbed, for the awkward position had caused her knees to be first to hit the ground and absorb the brunt of the impact. Her head snapped forward on her neck, and her brow crashed into Connor's shoulder. She gasped when a bolt of pain exploded in her temples; if she'd not known better, Gabrielle would have sworn she'd just run head first into a thick stone wall.

They lay like that for what felt like forever but what was in reality only a few short, breathless minutes. A crow circled in the midnight sky, then dipped to perch on one of the branches overhead. Its caw sounded loud and, to Gabrielle's ears, faintly mocking.

As the pain in her body gradually receded, a different yet equally as strong sensation trickled in to take its place.

Gabrielle slowly became aware of the virile male body that lay beneath her. If she concentrated on it—good Lord, even if she did not concentrate, on it!—she could feel Connor's heart pounding against her breasts. Her scalp burned with the feel of his ragged breaths washing over the top of her head. His hips, wedged intimately between her thighs, felt hot and hard and—

"C-Connor?" Gabrielle stammered finally, hoping to break the tension that stretched taut between them. She shifted, levering herself up on her bruised elbows to look at him.

"Aye?" he asked, returning her gaze. His gray eyes were narrow, shielded by the night's shadows and the curl of thick, inky lashes. His jaw was clenched hard; he pushed the single word through gritted teeth.

"I'm not exactly sure what y

ou did with that leaf, but... well, it worked. My hand feels much better." What Gabrielle didn't say, but thought, was that the rest of her felt—

She pinched off that thought before it had a chance to blossom. It would be best not to think about how the rest of her felt right now. Letting her thoughts stray in such a wayward direction could be dangerous, especially when she was oh so excruciatingly conscious of every hard, masculine inch of the body stretched out beneath her.

Connor trapped a groan in his throat. At some point his hands had slipped downward, his open palms settling on the generous curve of her hips. Quite low on her hips, in fact. He realized this fact only now, and the knowledge cut through him like a lightning bolt. His palms burned to feel the soft heat of her beneath the coarse, tight-fitting trews. It was all he could do not to flex his fingers, to test the warm pliancy of her softness beneath his hands.

Last night there'd been no barrier of cloth between them. It had been skin against skin, and it had felt so very good and right. Was it wrong to wish the impediment gone now, so he could once again feel her silky flesh gliding beneath his fingertips, once again feel—?

"'Twould seem I owe you an apology as well as my thanks, m'lord," she said, her tremulous voice snagging his attention even as she averted her gaze contritely. "I am in your debt after all."

She shifted as though preparing to push to her feet. The feel of her inner thighs grinding against him was an unparalleled delight. Vivid memories of their previous, mutually gratifying night together whirlwinded through Connor's mind. Before he'd realized what he was doing, his hands lifted, encircling her upper arms.

His lips parted, and while Connor knew full well that he was about to say something, his mind was such a jumble that he'd no idea what the words would be... until he heard them echoing in his own ears. Was it his imagination, or did his voice sound unnaturally low and husky? "She looked like ye, mistress."

"Who did?"

"Ailean Carelton," he replied. "Yer great-great aunt. The one who started this feud between Maxwell and Douglas. Ye bear a powerful resemblance to her."

"I do?" A frown furrowed Gabrielle's brow as she gazed down at him. "How do you know?"

"There's a portrait of her at Bracklenaer." Connor swallowed hard and tried not to think about how much he wanted to cup her face in his hands, how much he ached to pull her down to him and smooth away the delicate creases of her scowl with his mouth and tongue.

"I've seen no portrait."

"Nor would ye, considering where it hangs. Dinny look so surprised, lass, I've made no secret of keeping yer movements aboot Bracklenaer restricted, for obvious reasons. Ye've seen scarce little of the keep, naught that I did not want ye to see." Connor's eyes narrowed still more. His expression became tense, guarded. "That, of course, will no doubt change... once we're wed."

There was no need to watch closely for her reaction since Gabrielle made no attempt to conceal it. Her green eyes widened, and her jaw went slack. Her lips parted in a silent "Oh!" The full curve of her cheeks went dark with a flush, then just as quickly drained of color. While she didn't move, he detected an undeniable stiffening in the body atop his.

"You're still of a mind to wed me?" she asked. To his keen ear, her voice for sure sounded under her strict control.

"Was there ever a doubt? Dinny I make my intentions clear the morn ye arrived at Bracklenaer?"

"You did, and at the time I thought you serious, but then time passed. And more time still. You left me to cool my heels for well over a fortnight in the company of only your aunt, your cousin, or your guards. Truth to tell, m'lord, I thought you'd changed your mind on the matter." What Gabrielle didn't add was how badly it stung, even now, to think he'd changed his mind about wedding her only after seeing her in the flesh. It shouldn't matter—she'd not wanted to marry to begin with, and she'd no desire to marry a heathen Scot... or so she told herself—yet it did. It mattered a great deal more than she cared to admit.

"Ye were sick," Connor offered by way of explanation, yet inwardly he had to admit the explanation sounded pitifully lame. Mayhap there was a reason he'd delayed the wedding? A reason he hadn't admitted, even to himself?

"I was not sick for that long!" Gabrielle countered tightly. "Look at me, m'lord. I'm young, I'm strong, I'm quite sturdy—er, that is to say, I regained my health quickly enough. Yet even once I was well again, you kept me prisoner, never visiting me, never revealing what your plans for me were. Surely you can see where, under those circumstances, I would think you'd changed your mind."

She needn't have instructed him to look at her, for Connor was having the devil's own time looking anywhere else. The shades of night cast her hair a velvety black, the shadows playing over her features, softening and defining them to a breathtaking degree. The weight of her was a heavy but deliciously tempting burden atop him. His hands still cradled her hips; his palms itched to slip upward, to peel off her clothing and explore again the full, ripe curves of her body, the way he had last night.

Too well he remembered her wild response to his touch.

Too much he craved to experience her uninhibited response again.

And again.