Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Their lovemaking was unlike anything Connor had ever felt before in his life. Somewhere deep down in his soul he was positive he would never, never experience anything like it again. Not with another woman. Not with any woman but Gabrielle Carelton. And, och! but didn't that make the thought of wedding her, of taking her into his bed every night thereafter, all the more appealing? Aye, for certain it did.

"I haven't changed my mind, lass," he said, his voice thick with conviction. "I vowed to wed ye afore ever setting eyes on ye, and wed ye I shall. 'Twas a marriage between Carelton and Maxwell that started this bloody feud, and a marriage between Douglas and Carelton that shall stop it."

She glanced away quickly, before Connor could determine the emotion that suddenly clouded her expression. He watched her nibble her full lower lip between her teeth. He refused to surrender to the urge that was abruptly clawing inside him... the urge to pull her face down to his, to replace her teeth with his own.

"When?" she asked, and her voice cracked.

"The banns were posted a fortnight ago."

"I was still sick then."

"Aye. As I said, 'tis why I waited. Ye're no longer sick, howe'er. We'll wed as soon as we reach Bracklenaer."

Her gaze returned to him; her eyes were narrow, the green depths guarded and unreadable. "And if I say I'll not marry you? What then, m'lord?"

"On either side of the Border some things dinny change. Wenches are not given the luxury of making such a choice, lass, and well ye ken it. And e'en if they were, e'en if ye could choose to wed me or nay... would ye go against yer Queen's orders?"

"I'd be doing no such thing. Elizabeth ordered me to wed Colin Douglas," she replied, her chin lifting stubbornly, "not his brother."

"'Tis Colin ye'd rather have, then, is it?"

"I-I didn't say that."

Before Connor could guess what she was about to do, Gabrielle pushed to her feet. First her hips, then her thighs, skimmed beneath his palms, then they were gone. Cool night air rushed in to chill him in all the places where her body had kept him warm.

Moss and leaves crunched under her booth eels as she took a few steps away from him. Her arms encircling her waist, she hugged herself tightly.

Pushing himself to a sitting position, Connor bent his right knee and cushioned his elbow atop it. He didn't follow her with anything save his gaze. He didn't dare. The temptation to pull her back into his arms—to rake his fingers through her hair, to feel her mouth opening beneath his—was still overpoweringly strong.

"Tell me, m'lord, was Ailean Carelton also forced to wed, or did she go to her marriage b-bed willingly?" She hesitated, cleared her throat. "And how does your Douglas ancestor fit into this feud? I'm a bit confused on that score. From what you've told me, 'twould seem the feud should be between Maxwell and Carelton, not Maxwell and Douglas."

"The past repeats itself, lass. My great-great grandfather planned to wed Ailean. And so he would have... had Lachlan Maxwell not taken a liking to the lass's horse, then to the lass herself. He kidnapped her, ravished her, and wed her afore the Douglas had the chance."

"The horse?" Gabrielle asked, a grin tugging at one corner of her lips.

"Ailean," Connor hastened to clarify. "Mind ye, 'tis ne'er been entirely clear in which order those events—the kidnapping, wedding, and bedding—took place."

"Does it matter?" One dark eyebrow rose in question. "The end result, the feud between Douglas and Maxwell, remains the same."

"A feud that's been too many decades in the making, one that has caused nothing but destruction for both sides." Raking his fingers through his hair, Connor shook his head and sighed. "As 'tis, half the Douglas men I questioned a fortnight ago dinny even remember the cause, nor did they seem to care o'er much what they be fighting aboot. Och! I'll not be sad to see it over. The joining of Carelton and Douglas can do that. It can put an end to the feud once and for all."

Gabrielle grimaced. She did not look pleased to hear it.

Why, Connor wondered, did her displeasure gnaw at him ever so much?

His voice softened when, after a moment's hesitation, he asked, "Is the thought of wedding me truly so horrible?"

"Aye, of course. You are The Black Douglas," she replied, as though that explained everything. Didn't it?

"God's blood, lass, how many times do I have to be telling ye? I'm not The Black Douglas! 'Tis merely a silly nickname. It means naught."

"On the contrary, m'lord, it means a great deal. What may be a silly nickname to you also inspires fear on both sides of the Border. Did you know that in England mothers use your name as a threat to get their children to behave? More than that, did you know the threat works?"

"Surely ye jest, lass."

"I do not. Many's the time I've heard it used. 'Tis

a common threat." Gabrielle wrinkled her nose, her voice rising to an unnaturally shrewish pitch. "'Don't tarry on your way back,' they say, 'or The Black Douglas will get you. He thrives on young English boys, don't you know? He likes to eat them for breakfast and pick his teeth with their bones come noon!' "