Perfect Strangers (27 page)

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.

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!' "

"The devil you say!" Connor stormed to his feet. In two sure strides he crossed the distance separating them. Her upper arms felt soft and warm beneath his palms as he coiled his fingers around them, tugged, forced her to face him. The muscles in his jaw bunched hard when he gritted his teeth, unable—or unwilling?—to believe what she was telling him. His gray eyes flashed angrily as he glared down into her speculative green ones. "I've ne'er hurt a bairn in me life! Many's the time I've gone out of me way to
spare
them!"

"Really?" Gabrielle asked. She surprised them both by the level way she met his glare and the calm timbre she injected into her tone. "'Tis not what they say."

"They say a lot of things aboot me, Gabby. Just because they say it does not make it true."

"Then it's not true you snuck into Caerlaverock in the dead of night, aided by a mere one hundred and fifty men? That you stole two hundred of the clan's livestock, took another half that amount in prisoners, and snuck out again, with Johnny Maxwell none the wiser until morn. Even then the poor man only realized what happened because no one was there to fetch his morning meal. Apparently, you'd kidnapped his cook."

"Johnny Maxwell is
not
a 'poor man.' " Connor's grin was wicked and quick. "As for Siobhan... truth to tell, I was after the beasties. Howe'er, had I known the lass was so gifted with flour and an oven, I'd have made her my goal instead."

"You admit it then?"

"Aye.
Nay!
I mean... Och! lass, ye've got me so rattled I dinny ken what I mean." His grip on her arms loosened but didn't drop away. "There's no shame in admitting that the last time I heard the tale, the amount of beasties I pilfered, not to mention the amount of men who helped me pilfer them, was but only a fraction of that."

"Then you
do
admit it." Her voice was as suddenly as stiff as her spine.

"Admit what? To riding against a rival family? I took from the Maxwell in the spring what the Maxwell took from the Douglas last autumn. Aye, I admit it. Open yer eyes, lass. Take a good look around ye. I ken ye've been on this side of the Border but a short time, but 'tis long enough to see the way of things here. Good God, wench, reiving is our way of life! How else would we get blankets to survive the winter? Without stolen beasties, how could we feed the children and old people through the long, snowy months? Compared to most raids, the one you speak of was tame."

"M'lord, have you not thought of weaving your own blankets? Of breeding your own cattle and sheep? There's no need to steal from your neighbor that which your clan can provide for itself."

"Provide," he countered, "only to have it stolen by others."

Gabrielle didn't need to think about what he said for long. Reluctantly, she had to admit he had a very good point. Raising their own livestock, making their own cloth... while the solution
sounded
good, in practice it would be another matter entirely. It was only a patch remedy, one that couldn't hope to solve the underlying problem: that anything the clan Douglas provided for themselves they would have to provide in profusion, for it would be just as quickly stolen by rivals who didn't share the same values. From what she'd seen, no family on either side of these disreputable Borders shared such exalted values.

Connor released her arm. With the tip of his index finger he traced the soft, full line of her jaw, the curve of her chin. His fingertip hesitated, then turned upward, skimming the sensitive bend of her lower lip.

The flesh beneath his touch trembled and, God help him, he trembled himself in response. His mind flashed him an image of her nibbling the skin he now touched; her lip was still temptingly moist and full from it. The muscles in his stomach knotted as his tongue ran restlessly over the backs of his teeth. Had the urge to kiss her diminished at all? Not that Connor was aware of. It still raged hot and fast in his blood.

He tipped his head to the side, lowered it slowly, his eyes blazing with hungry intent.

There was more than enough time to stop him. The fingers gripping her upper arm had loosened, now merely draping over her sleeve instead of holding her in place. Little effort would be needed to break the contact and step away from him. Gabrielle considered doing exactly that, but only for a moment.