Perfect Strangers

by Rebecca Sinclair

  "Aye," Roy agreed, and his grin was back with annoying force. "For all that she was a Carelton, the wench had maun distinguished taste."

  The insult had the desired effect; it rubbed raw a centuries-old wound.

  Connor didn't think so much as react with all his well-honed instincts. His sword arm drew back, his muscles pulling taut, his gray eyes narrowing and glinting with deadly intent.

  Too late, Roy sensed the grave mistake he'd made. Only a fool issued such openly challenging words when he'd no weapon to back them up with... and only an insane man did so to a reiver like The Black Douglas. That Connor was going to run him through, there was no doubt; Roy would do the same were the situation reversed. With that thought in mind, he started to duck, his arms lifting, crossed at the forearms, forming an ineffective, makeshift shield as he prepared to rush Connor and, with luck, tackle him in the stomach. Gritting his teeth, he mentally readied himself to feel the sting of The Black Douglas's blade sinking into his flesh.

  The feeling never came.

  Gabrielle assessed the situation in a blink. Connor's anger was palpable, crackling in the air like the tingling spark of static before a storm. The way his arm pulled back—his elbow jabbing into her rib cage hard enough to make her gasp—told her all she needed to know.

  "Nay!" she cried as she shoved the sconce at Roy. Grabbing Connor's arm with both hands, she planted her feet apart for balance and yanked. Hard. Rather, she tried to yank him backward, hoping that in so doing she would foil his aim before the deadly point of his sword could find its mark... and give this asinine feud reason to continue for still more senseless decades.

  The muscles in his upper arm were hard with the tension that twisted through him; it felt as though the bands of sinew had been molded from unyielding steel. There was no give in either Connor's arm or his stance. However, Gabrielle knew her unexpected action must have startled him, for he paused abruptly, just shy of completing the thrust.

  "Don't do it, Connor," she pleaded breathlessly. "Please, I beg of you."

  "Unhand me, wench, 'tis none of yer affair. The mon insulted you. He insulted me family. No Douglas worthy of the name listens to such slurs without exacting flesh in retribution. Well Roy kenned that when he uttered the insults."

  "'Twas nsults, but nothing more. They are words, only words."

  "Words that deliver grave insult to me ancestor and me clan."

  "But words all the same. Surely words alone are not a good enough reason to commit murder!"

  "There's many a mon on this Border who'd disagree, many a mon who's killed for less."

  "Must you be one of those men, Connor?" Gabrielle's grip on his arm tightened. Her green eyes were wide and pleading as she looked up into eyes that were as gray as they were guarded. "Elizabeth sent me here in an attempt to end this feud once and for all, something James seemed equally as eager to see happen. I confess, at the time I'd severe misgivings that any family dispute could be as critical as she indicated. Now I know she was right. Connor, don't you see? The feud between Maxwell and Douglas has gone on long enough. Decades too long! It must end, and that ending must start somewhere."

  A muscle in the left side of Connor's jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth. "Then let a Maxwell make the first offering of peace between our families."

  "Och!" Roy piped in. "'Twill be a cold day in hell a'fore a Maxwell—"

  Gabrielle glared the man into silence, then quickly shifted her attention back to Connor. She was getting through to him on some level, she could sense it, yet why couldn't she make him see reason on the most crucial aspect of what she was trying to convey, that the Maxwell/Douglas feud had to end? Surely there must be some way to convince him that the important issue wasn't who made the first gesture in that direction, but the end result of it: a cessation of bloodshed and peace—nay, at this point she'd settle for reluctant tolerance!—between the rival clans?

  Surely there must be a way to make even a man as single-minded and stubborn as The Black Douglas understand the importance of her reasoning. But how?

  An idea occurred to her. It wasn't a brilliant one, but it was the only one she had. Tilting her chin up, Gabrielle glanced at Connor from down the length of her nose and said, "Only two hours ago you accused me of running away. Now who is doing the running, m'lord? Which of us is truly the coward?"

  The barb had its desired effect. Connor's eyes narrowed and an angry red hue suffused his brow and cheeks. The muscle in his jaw ticked harder. "'Tis ne'er cowardly to fight."

  "Mayhap. However, 'tis most cowardly to refuse to perform a simple conciliatory gesture when the occasion arises. Especially when your sole reason is that you're much too childish to be the one to take the first step toward peace."

  "Beware, lass," he hissed. "Yer sharp tongue has ye treading on ver thin ground."

  "Is that so? And if I refuse to shush? What do you propose to do about it, sir? Turn your blade on me and extract silence by spilling my blood? That does seem to be your natural way of settling disputes, does it not?" Gabrielle gulped; for a flickering instant Connor looked as though he intended to do exactly that. Thankfully the moment passed. She sucked in a relieved gulp of musty-smelling night air.

  "This conciliatory gesture," Connor said, and the flaring of his nostrils suggested the words were uttered with great reluctance. "What would it be?"

  Her gaze shifted between Roy and Connor, settling finally on the former, who was watching her with grim amusement. "Release Roy Maxwell. Let him ride back to Caerlaverock unharmed and let him bring Siobhan back with him."

  "Nay!" Connor's dark, thick brows drew together and his expression grew stormy.

  "Aye!" she countered just as hotly. "What better way to show the Maxwells that the feud is over, that you'll shed no more blood over it, than to provide him with such an outstanding peace offering?" Her attention turned to Roy before Connor had time to answer. "Would such a gesture not sway your father, even a little bit, to consider ending this senseless fighting?"

  Roy shrugged uncertainly, his expression bewildered as he scratched at the underside of his bearded chin. It would seem the idea of ending the feud was not something he'd seriously contemplated... until now. His lips pursed, and the glint in his green eyes evinced that the suggestion was not unappealing. "I cannot say," he admitted after a thoughtful pause. "Howe'er, considering how me da feels about Siobhan—Och! but his feelings for the lass and her cooking be a fine muckle strong!—methinks returning her would be a grand start. Johnny Maxwell wouldn't argue with the gesture, for certain."

  The smile that had been tugging at the corner of Gabrielle's lips now blossomed as she returned her gaze to Connor. "Well?" she prompted. "Do you not think 'tis at least worth a try?"

  "Mayhap," Connor replied with a vague shrug.

  "If you'll not do it for your clan, then do it for me. You once said you'd do anything if I but asked..."

  Connor groaned. "Dinny say it, lass. Please."

  "Don't you see, Connor? I have to." Gabrielle hesitated, licked her lips nervously, wondered if perhaps she'd pushed the matter too far, then just as quickly decided it was too late to drop the matter now. The subject of ending the feud had been broached, a suggestion as to how to end it had been offered... nay, fear of The Black Douglas's reputed temper aside, the matter was simply too important to her not to pursue. Her fingers loosened, trembled slightly as her open palm stroked the hard muscles of his upper arm. "I'm begging you, let Roy go. Take the first step in ending this feud by sending Siobhan back with him."

  "Do ye ken what yer asking of me, Gabby?"

  "Aye, I do." She nodded firmly. "I'm asking far less of you than Elizabeth asked of me."

  "A feud generations strong does not just end so easily, not merely by returning a ... a cook."

  "I'm not so foolish as to think it will. What I am is smart enough to realize that the feud will not end at all if one family does not stop the fighting. M'lord, you vowed a few moments ago that you would defend me with your
life's last breath if need be, did you not?"

  "I did," Connor admitted grudgingly.

  "I'm not asking that of you, I'm not asking of you anything so exalted. All I ask is that you take this one small step in trying to bring peace to the Maxwell and Douglas. That's all, I'm simply asking you to try."

  Connor's indecision was as tangible as the dark wisps of smoke curled up from the sconce Roy Maxwell held and twisted toward the low stone ceiling. She trapped her breath in her throat as she watched a variety of emotions play in Connor's narrow gray eyes. Suspicion. Reluctance. Caution. Then, in the end, resignation.

  "Ver well, lass," Connor said tightly. He lowered his sword, hesitated, unwillingly resheathed it. Roy's sigh of relief was audible. "'Twill come to naught, I vow, but a Douglas is a mon of his word." He shifted his attention to Roy, and his expression hardened. "Go. Take Siobhan with ye. And whate'er ye do, mon, take pains once you're back at Caerlaverock to tell Johnny Maxwell exactly why the wench is being returned and what is expected of him. Make sure yer da understands the magnitude of what accepting such a gift means. Och! what are ye waiting for? Get ye gone!"

  Roy didn't need to be told twice. After hesitating only long enough to send Gabrielle a thankful glance, and Connor one that questioned his sanity, Roy bobbed his head and dodged past them. In mere seconds he'd disappeared up the steep, narrow stairway, the only indication of his nearness the receding click of his booth heels atop bare stone.

  Connor waited until he heard the doorway at the top of the stairs slam shut before turning his attention back to Gabrielle. He'd no idea what he planned to say to her, and the second their gazes met, he no longer cared.

  The lass was smiling up at him and... Och! but he'd never felt his heart speed up and somersault against the cage of his ribs quite this way in his life!

  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.

  Most surprising of all, however, was that while Gabrielle found herself mouthing the familiar lyrics in her own language... she couldn't help but wonder how the words would sound in Gaelic. A bit harsher, yet she'd a feeling the no-longer-so-foreign tongue would add a harshly passionate texture to the complex ballad of love, deception, and bittersweet reunion.

  Connor's arms were lifted, his hands smoothing water from the dark hair plastered to his scalp and the back of his neck. What was it, she wondered, about the nape of a man's neck, that gently curved expanse between shoulder and hairline, that displayed vulnerability in even the fiercest warrior? Or Border reiver?

  Gabrielle's mouth went dry as she watched the water sluice down Connor's spine. His skin was slick, his flesh a shimmering shade of bronze in the early-morning light. If he'd been close to her, she would not have been able to resist the temptation to angle her head and lick off the silvery droplets of water beading on the shelf of his shoulders. They would taste crisp and sweet, she knew, her tongue curled against her palate in thirsty anticipation.

  The humming stopped abruptly. His hands, which had been working the excess water out of the shaggy fringe of his hair, stilled. Awareness pulled taut the rigid sculpture of muscles in his back and shoulders.