Perfect Strangers

by Rebecca Sinclair

"T-to..."

  "Tell me, please."

  "Enough to wed me." She wrenched from his grasp and, clasping her arms tightly about her waist, turned her back on him. The motion wasn't easy, especially considering the way her water-heavy dress and cloak hung from her shoulders like lead, pulling at her and making her movements awkward, but she managed it. It was either that, or let Connor see the humiliation she knew must be evident in her gaze and her expression. Had she really just said that?! Aye, she had. "There, I've said it. Are you happy now?"

  "Nay, lass, not yet. But almost."

  Gabrielle closed her eyes briefly. The vision of Elizabeth Tudor's pinched, mocking face floated in the blackness behind her tightly scrunched eyelids. Harsh, hurtful words echoed in her ears. She tried to chase the memories away, but they refused to go. Were it not against her nature to hate a woman so recently dead and buried, Gabrielle might finally have allowed herself to feel the animosity for her former Queen that had been slow-simmering inside her for so many years.

  Releasing a shaky breath, she used one wet hand to smooth her hair back from her brow. Her fingertips strayed to her lower lip. Her mouth still felt hot and swollen from Connor Douglas's kiss. If she dragged her tongue over her lips, would his taste linger there? Gabrielle didn't dare try it to find out. Surely the sweet, musky flavor of him clinging to her skin would be her undoing.

  A heavy weight settled upon her shoulder.

  Connor's fingers dug lightly through the soaked cloth, into the tender skin beneath. There was a leashed strength to his touch, a barely restrained impatience that was mirrored in his voice when he spoke. "I dinny find the idea of wedding ye unappealing."

  "Really?" The fingertips against her lips felt icy again as they trembled against the kiss-swollen skin there. "Aye, I suppose that's true enough. The chance is good our marriage would give you the heir you so desperately want. I can see where you wouldn't be too opposed to the idea. After all, Mairghread says—"

  "Please, Gabby, dinny—"

  "—these repulsively wide hips were 'made for birthing' and—"

  "'Tis not all Mairghread said about ye." The grip on her shoulder tightened, his fingers biting into her skin now. "Och!, lass, she dinny use the term 'repulsive,' nor will I let ye use it to describe yerself. Nothing could be further from the truth."

  "Don't lie to me Connor. Not about this. Don't you dare! I'm not blind. I know the truth when I see it, and I see it every time I look in a mirror." And every time Elizabeth's cold, cruel words come back to haunt me. "Believe me, m'lord, I suffer no delusions about how I look."

  "What do ye see when ye look in that mirror, Gabby?"

  "An overstuffed goose," she replied automatically. Biting down hard on her lower lip, Gabrielle swallowed back the sob that wedged tightly in her throat. Unshed tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them flow. She would not cry in front of Connor, not about this. If nothing else, she still had her pride.

  His hand left her shoulder. Gabrielle waited to hear the telltale splash of water that would signal Connor had turned his back on her and walked away in disgust. What happened instead was so unexpected it surprised a gasp out of her.

  A splash did reach her ears, but it was closer than she expected, close enough to make the surface of the water ripple around her. Connor must have bent at the waist, for suddenly he slipped one strong arm beneath her knees and coiled the other around her back.

  Gabrielle felt his muscles bunch and strain as he hoisted the burden of her weight, which was added to considerably by her water-soaked gown and cloak.

  "What are you doing?!" she cried, even as she wrapped her arms around his neck and shifted her weight trying to spread it more evenly in his arms and make her easier to carry. Telling him to put her down never once crossed her mind; she enjoyed too much the hardness and heat of him pressing against her chilled flesh to willingly relinquish the feeling.

  He didn't answer, but instead turned toward the bank and started walking. By the time he reached dry ground his breathing was a bit labored. She thought the dampness clinging to his upper lip and brow had more to do with the effort he exerted than any remnants of his bath.

  Stopping in the middle of the small, dawn-lit clearing, he sat her down upon the ground and knelt beside her. He was gloriously naked and wet and... aye, he was aroused.

  Gabrielle's heartbeat stuttered beneath the cage of her ribs. Suddenly, Connor wasn't the only one having trouble breathing.

  "What are you doing?" she repeated when his fingers went to the laces beneath her chin, laces that held the plackets of her wet cloak securely together.

  "Plucking you," Connor replied as he deftly untied the water-tightened bow, then eased the cloak off her shoulders. That done, his hands slipped behind her, his fingers working free the tiny seed-pearl buttons that trailed down the spine of her bodice. "I promised ye last night I'd show ye my true feelings for ye. I can think of no better time and no better way."

  "Surely you don't intend to...?"

  Their gazes met.

  Determined gray meshed with shock-widened green.

  "Aye," he replied, his voice low, deep, and husky with raw conviction, "I do."

  "Now? In broad daylight?" A blush warmed Gabrielle's cheeks. The times they'd made love before had been at night, amid the comforting shield of darkness. Panic bubbled up inside her. Daylight would expose the many flaws in her plump figure, flaws that she could pretend the cover of night had so graciously concealed. "Nay, Connor, please don't."

  "Why not, lass? Do ye not want me?"

  Gabrielle almost laughed. How could he think such a thing? Her fingers rested limply in her cold, wet lap; she twisted them nervously together. "You know I do. It's just that... truth to tell, m'lord, I'm not entirely sure that you want me."

  Connor cocked one dark eyebrow, his gaze leaving hers only long enough to shift briefly down to the part of his anatomy that gave hard, vibrant proof that he did indeed want her. So badly he ached from it. "Does it look like I dinny want ye, Gabby?"

  Her attention shadowed his, and her blush deepened to a hotter shade of pink. "Well, no, but—"

  "No 'buts' aboot it. I want ye, Gabby, and not for the reason ye think. Aye, I'll not lie and say I dinny want an heir, several of them in fact, because I do. Howe'er, if ye said ye dinny want to carry me bairns, 'twould not change the way I feel for you. I'd still be wanting to lay ye back against the cool, sweet grass, strip ye bare, and make love to ye until neither of us could think straight."

  She didn't want to ask.

  She had to ask, had to know.

  The uncertainty of his motives was gnawing at her insides, creating doubts where, perhaps, there should be none. "Why?"

  Connor's fingers left the buttons at her back. His hands shifted, his open palms gently cradling her cheeks. His expression didn't blanch, nor did his gaze waver as, without missing a beat, he replied, "Because I love ye, Gabrielle Carelton. Why else?"

  The sincerity with which he uttered the words made her spirits soar higher than the eagle that circled the sky above. She was torn between a strong sense of disbelief and an even stronger sense of unadulterated joy. Had she misheard? Had he really said he loved her? Dare she hope it was true? "But how can you? I'm not beautiful. I'm not—"

  "Ye are to me," he corrected her firmly. "Ye're maun than beautiful. 'Tis all that matters, dinny ye ken?"

  Gabrielle blinked hard, her senses spinning. The Black Douglas loved her? He thought her beautiful? Had she really drowned when he'd pulled her into the water? Died and gone to heaven? She thought she might have, for never in life had she known such elation.

  "I'm not dreaming, am I?"

  "Nay, lass."

  "And you really do mean it, don't you?" Her voice was edged with disbelief.

  Connor nodded, the gesture making his dark hair sway wetly against his shoulders. "I do. It may take me a lifetime to prove it to ye, but... Och! lass, I've ne'er meant anything so maun in me life. Why do ye think I finally relented
and tried to end the feud between Douglas and Maxwell? Do ye think I'd do that for anyone else but ye? Nay, I would not have. But ye were the one who asked it of me and, try though I do, I cannot deny ye anything, e'en that."

  Gabrielle unlinked the fingers clenched tightly in her lap and, his words filling her with a heady burst of confidence and boldness, splayed her open palms against his naked chest.

  He felt hot and damp to the touch.

  He felt oh so very wonderful.

  The smile she bestowed upon him was so radiant that at first Connor was too entranced by the sight of it to realize she was speaking. Even once he did realize it, her words did not register in his mind and he was forced to ask her to repeat them.

  "I simply pointed out that there's another feud in need of settling, m'lord."

  "There is?" he asked, dazed by both her touch and the intense desire it aroused within him.

  "Aye. The one between you and your twin."

  Gabrielle's hands were not content to remain still. She began stroking restless, distracting circles over his hard-muscled chest and belly, his shoulders and arms. He groaned when her water-wrinkled palms left a blazing trail of molten fire in their wake.

  "Later, Gabby," he said throatily, his mouth dipping with slow intent toward hers. "We'll discuss it maun, maun later."

  His mouth carried through its promise and was on hers, his tongue urging her lips apart. His kiss was ravenous; it obliterated all thoughts of family and feuds and weddings from her mind.

  Connor's arms stole around her, holding her impossibly close, and Gabrielle decided abruptly that later would suit her just fine. There was no rush... now that she knew there would be a later.

  A lifetime of laters.

  She looked forward to each and every one.

  The End

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  MONTANA WILDFIRE

  Excerpt from

  Montana Wildfire

  by

  Rebecca Sinclair

  A shiver of heat splashed through Amanda when the stranger's gaze raked the partially dried hair scattered around her face and shoulders. His attention dipped, lazily taking in the water-darkened bodice of her cream-colored shirtwaist and the dark rose skirt that clung to her hips like a clammy second skin.

  She'd heard rumors of men who could strip a woman bare with one smoldering glance, but she'd never met one who would dare. Until now. As the man's attention poured over her, Amanda had the unpleasant feeling he could see right through the saturated barrier of cloth. A warm, tight sensation curled in the pit of her stomach: unfamiliar, alarming.

  She tipped her chin up defensively. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cut his lewd investigation short.

  His gaze took its sweet time lifting to hers. His grey eyes shimmered in the mid-morning sunlight, telling her it was far too late for modesty. His appreciative expression said something else again; that he'd already decided what "type" of lady she was... and that he could tolerate her sort with little trouble.

  "I suppose you'll be wanting my help now, ma'am?" The way his tongue wrapped around the word "ma'am" sent an odd, warm-cold tremor down Amanda's spine. Somehow, he made it sound less like a title and more like a sensual endearment.

  "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," she replied stiffly, and thought, why not? Her left leg throbbed from supporting her idle weight for so long. She was wet and chilled to the bone. She knew if she didn't allow this man to help her, she might never get out of this frigid water.

  He nodded and turned his attention to Roger. "Go find some sticks and get a fire started. Don't skimp; I want it blazing. The lady's going to need all the heat she can get once she's out of there. And get some blankets, too. All you can spare. There's a couple rolled and tied on my horse. Use them."

  Roger's golden brows slashed high, disappearing beneath the curls that kissed his forehead. He glanced up at the stranger as though the man had lost all grip on reality. "You want me to do what?"

  "Get a fire started," the man gritted impatiently, even as he sank to the ground and began yanking off his knee-high moccasins. "What the hell are you waiting for, kid? I want that fire started, and I want it started now!"

  It must have been the ring of authority in the man's voice, Amanda decided. Either that, or the veiled threat glistening in his eyes. Whatever the reason, Roger spun on his heel and sprinted into the woods with unheard-of speed.

  "Looks like it's just you and me, princess," the man said as, lithely pushing to his feet, he took a step toward the river. His attention rose from the spot where the water lapped at her hips. His gaze ascended—slowly, hotly—over her breasts, her shoulders, her chin, and lips. Finally, he locked onto her fear-widened eyes.

  In that instant, Amanda knew why Roger had run. If her foot wasn't stuck, she would do the same thing. The savage glint in the man's eyes, coupled with his insolent perusal, had a terrifying affect on her.

  "You have a name?" His question was instantly followed by a loud splash. He'd just taken his first swaggering stride into the icy river.

  "O-of course." Closing her eyes, Amanda stifled a groan in the back of her throat. Her voice deserted her. Not for all the money in the world could she have forced her eyes open at that moment, forced herself to watch as that dangerous-looking man stalked toward her like a hungry wolf hunting down its trapped, defenseless prey.

  "You going to tell me what it is?"

  His voice was closer. Amanda thought that reason enough not to answer him. That, and the feel of the water being disturbed around her. The icy current lapped at her stomach. She rolled her lips inward and ordered herself not to shiver. It wouldn't do for this man to think her tremors were caused by his nearness and not the water's numbing coldness.

  And he was near. She could sense it, feel it.

  "Okay, princess, let me put it another way. You want to get out of this river any time soon?"

  Amanda's eyes snapped open. A split second too late, she realized it for the mistake it was. The stranger was standing close. Too close. The span of his shoulders and chest cast a chilly shadow over her, blotting out the warmth of the late morning sun, blotting out everything. The water was cold, but it would have needed to be covered with a thick sheet of ice to counterbalance the intense male heat his lean body radiated.

  The earthy, leather-and-spice smell of him surrounded her, seeped through her, seeped into her. The scent warmed her blood, thawing what Amanda had begun to think would be an everlasting chill. She didn't feel chilled right now. Just the opposite; she'd never felt so hot in her life!

  The man angled his head to look down at her, and Amanda saw that he'd removed his hat. His straight black hair scattered flatteringly around his face. The breeze tossed the inky strands around his shoulders. Her gaze picked out a thin, tight braid, no thicker than her pinkie, woven into the underside of his hair, just behind his left ear. She trailed the braid down to a small brown feather, anchored by a leather thong tied to the end of it.

  On another man, that braid would have looked more than odd; it would have looked feminine. She wondered why it didn't work that way on him.

  "Well, what's it going to be, princess?" he asked, his warm breath puffing over her cheeks. "The way I see it, you've only got two choices. Either you stand there gawking at me all day, or you answer my question so I can dig you out. I'd say it's your call."

  Ques
tion? she thought dazedly. Had he asked her a question? Maybe. She couldn't remember. It was hard to remember her name with him standing so close. Amanda told herself her lengthy stay in the water had warped her mind as well as her fingertips, but she wasn't convinced. No, more likely it was seeing the man's eyes up close that robbed her of the will to speak... as well as a good deal of breath!

  His eyes weren't grey, as she'd first thought, but a rich, smoky silver. The intensity of his gaze was enhanced by a fringe of thick, sooty lashes, and emphasized by his deep copper skin.

  "Guess I was wrong. Looks like you don't want out after all," he said as, tearing his gaze from hers, he pivoted and began wading back the way he'd come.

  Only after his body heat—the smell of him, the confusion of him—had been removed, did Amanda shake herself to her senses. By that time he was climbing lithely onto the grassy riverbank. "Wait, Mr....!"

  He didn't turn around. "Un-uh. That was my question, princess. And until you answer it, you're staying put."

  Amanda blinked hard. That was it? All he wanted was for her to tell him her name and then he'd help her out? That seemed reasonable enough. No, it wasn't reasonable at all! A gentleman would never leave a lady stranded in the middle of frigid water merely because she hadn't supplied her name the second he'd snapped his fingers and demanded it. Then again...

  Her gaze narrowed on his back, on the way the tough denim pants clung wetly to his heavily muscled thighs and calves. She reassessed. This was definitely no gentleman. Her deduction had nothing to do with his native heritage. It had everything to do with the way he dressed—truly, those pants were indecent!—and the way he walked—make that swaggered. His every move screamed arrogance and authority. Which would have been fine, were it an unintentional, spontaneous thing. It wasn't. Amanda had a gut-feeling this man knew exactly what kind of cocky, insolent impression he made on people, and that he played it to the hilt.

  When he turned his head and regarded her from over one shoulder, Amanda knew she was right. She also had an uneasy feeling that he knew what she was thinking.