Perfect Strangers (19 page)

Chapter 9

Two completely opposite sensations pierced Connor Douglas's sleep-fogged brain.

The first was that Gabrielle's warm, naked body was pressed against his own naked side in the most enticing way. Her head was pillowed atop his chest, the dark curls at the crown tucked beneath his chin and jaw, tickling his skin ever so nicely. She was curled into him in a way that suggested, even in sleep, she strove to melt her body right into his. Her left arm draped possessively over his waist. Her left knee was bent; the petal-soft inside of her thigh blanketed his hips in a deliciously intimate manner.

The second—not at all welcome—realization was that, at some point while he'd slumbered, someone had placed something that felt dangerously hard and sharp against the pulse beating sleepily in the base of his throat.

It was the latter sensation that jarred him awake.

His eyes snapped open in the same instant his right hand went for the sword he'd laid atop the ground at his side. An increased pressure at his throat—only enough to draw a single hot drop of blood—stilled his hand. His fingers went slack, the moss scratching at palms and fingertips that had so recently slid over Gabrielle Carelton's silky, naked skin.

A glint of moonlight bounced ominously off the broadsword being held on him.

Connor's breath caught as he traced a slow path up the weapon. Up. Up.

Then up some more.

At this angle, the blade looked oddly asymmetric—too sharp at the tip, too thick at the hilt—and so very long.

The arm he'd wrapped around Gabrielle's shoulders tightened, even as his gaze settled, and settled hard, on the man whose lean fingers were wrapped around the leather-covered hilt.

It might have been a figment of moonlight and shadow, but Connor could have sworn Gordie Maxwell pulled back an instinctive fraction of an inch as their gazes met and warred. But in the space of a wink, the weathered creases shooting out from the corners of Gordie's eyes deepened and a cocky grin tugged at what little could be seen of his lips between his shaggy red beard and mustache.

Och! but this was
not
a good situation! Even if he could somehow mange to get to his sword before Gordie Maxwell slit his throat, Connor's problems would only be starting. At least a half dozen more armed and hardy-looking men stood in a semicircle behind Gordie. All were alert and watchful of the exchange playing out before them.

"'One glance of the Douglas eye, 'tis said, can turn a Maxwell foe to dead,'" Gordie's grin broadened when, behind him, one of his men finished reciting the newest verse of the most popular Border ballad. "What say ye to that, Douglas? Methinks the balladeers would be turning a different phrase if they saw ye thus. Or mayhap they were referring to the fear ye inspire when ye've got yer clothes
on?
Truth to tell, ye dinny look so fearsome right now."

"'Tis the poor lighting," Connor growled, "or yer notoriously bad eyesight. If I'd me sword in hand, ye'd be spouting something entirely different. Like yer entrails o'er the ground after me blade sliced them out."

Gordie's laughter was rich and thick; the point of the sword tremored against Connor's throat. "Do ye think it, Douglas?"

"Nay, Maxwell,
I ken it."

The force of his statement made Gabrielle stir restlessly against his side. Connor stilled expectantly, as did Gordie and his men. To their surprise, and Connor's relief, the lass did not awaken. He'd no desire for her to open her eyes and find her kilt-draped body being ogled by a ragged-looking band of reivers.

Connor's stomach muscles fisted when, as though following the path of his thoughts, Gordie's attention shifted to Gabrielle. The man's green eyes narrowed, shrewdly raking over what he could see of her form. And Gordie could see far too much of her body for Connor's piece of mind!

"The Carelton wench?"

Connor nodded tensely. "Aye."

"'Tis not the way I expected to meet me long-lost relative."

"If I'd had me way, ye'd not have met her at all."

Gordie shrugged. "She's a... er, fair buxom lass," he observed. Did Gordie's voice reflect appreciation or distaste? Connor wondered. He could not tell; the man's stoic expression and keen gaze gave nothing away. "She doesn't look like a Maxwell."

"Aye, if ye ask me," grumbled one of Gordie's men, "she looks maun like a Johnstone."

"Who asked ye?" Connor growled. Wet moss and leaves crunched under bootheels as the man took a quick step back under the heat of The Black Douglas's glare. Again, Gabrielle shifted against Connor in her sleep, this time murmuring something unintelligible beneath her breath.

Gordie seemed unfazed by the exchange between Connor and his man. As though he was talking to himself as much as to Connor, he finally observed aloud, "She's for sure a deep sleeper."

"Aye," Connor grudgingly acknowledged, "so 'twould seem."

"Ye mean ye dinny ken it a'fore now?"

"And how would I be doing that, Maxwell? The lass has ne'er been sleeping when she's with me a'fore this."

Gordie's gaze narrowed, his green eyes darkening as his fingers wrapped more tightly around the hilt of his sword. The tip of the blade dug a wee bit more firmly into the tender skin of Connor's neck; he could feel another hot drop of blood trickle down the side of his neck.

"'Tis sorry I am to be hearing that, Douglas," Gordie said, yet in truth he sounded anything but "A telling admission, dinny ye think? I wonder how 'twill sit with me da."

One of the men chuckled. When Gordie made no gesture to silence him, a few others joined in.

As the men's mirth died down, Gordie again directed the crux of his attention on Connor. Or, more accurately, on Gabrielle. The expression on the man's face was one of unabashed interest.

The muscles in Connor's jaw knotted. Not for the first time did he fervently wish he could reach his sword before his enemy slit his throat.

"The lass needs to be woken. I'd do the chore meself, but I'm of a mind that ye'd not like me methods," said Gordie, his voice far too calm for Connor's liking. "We ride in five minutes. We'll not reach Caerlaverock a'fore sunrise, but if we ride hard, 'twill be less. Wake the lass and get her clothed, Douglas. Be quick aboot it lest I think ye need help."

Gordie bent and retrieved Connor's sword, which he'd kicked teasingly out of reach before waking Connor, then straightened and turned his attention on his men. He murmured something and the band stepped back a few feet, respectfully facing the opposite direction.

The men, Connor was quick to notice, remained within hearing distance, with Gordie Maxwell closest of all. One wrong move and the ragged-looking pack would be upon him in a moment—with the huge, deadly blade of more than one Jedburgh axe finding its mark in his body.

Connor raked the fingers of his free hand through his tousled black hair. Over the peaks of the trees, he saw the sky was beginning to brighten from forbidding black to a bleak, dull shade of gray.

Moss and leaves rustled when he shook his head in disgust. He was naked, unarmed. What kind of defense could he provide the lady sleeping with such sweet innocence against his side? A pathetically poor one, that's what kind. Wouldn't the Borderers who wrote those dreaded ballads not love to see The Black Douglas thus?

The way Gabrielle continued to sleep was a silent yet bitter condemnation. Even so deep in slumber, she curled against him like a child, instinctively trusting him to guard and protect her.

That he couldn't do either was grating to Connor's already chaffed nerves.

God's teeth, there was no help for it. With the Maxwell and his men waiting impatiently, he'd no choice but to do as Gordie bid and wake the lass up.

"Gabby?" He nudged her shoulder, all the while trying not to notice how soft and warm her skin felt beneath his palm. Her inky lashes flickered against her cheeks, but her eyes remained closed, her expression bairnishly peaceful.

"Gabby!"
He nudged her a wee bit harder. "Och, sweeting, please, 'tis time to wake up."

"Who—? Wha—?" The confused furrow between her eyebrows smoothed and she smiled warmly. "Oh, 'tis only you, Connor." With the back of her fist, she muffled a yawn. Connor swallowed hard when her wonderfully full curves pressed provocatively against him as she arched her spine and stretched. "For a moment I thought... well, I suppose it doesn't matter what I thought, does it? Is it morning already?"

"Aye, lass, almost."

"And what a wonderful morning 'tis. I feel so... so
relaxed."
Her grin was wicked. "Truth to tell, m'lord, I think I could doze here in your arms for the better part of the day. What say you to that? Do you think 'tis possible? Never before have I felt so cherished and safe as I do right now—"

Her words stabbed through Connor like the finely honed blade of the dagger one of the Maxwell men had seen fit to appropriate from the cuff of Connor's worn leather boot while the latter had been sleeping.

"Now listen to me, Gabby," Connor said, his voice stern as he cut her ruminations short, "and listen well. 'Tis imperative ye follow me instructions without question. Now, I dinny want ye to fash yeself aboot it, but the fact is, we've... er, a wee bit of a problem. Ye need to get up and get dressed. Quickly. Whilst they still be giving ye the chance to do it in relative privacy. Methinks the Maxwell will not extend his generosity long; we maun accept it whilst we can."

Gabrielle gulped, her green eyes widening in alarm. "Did you say
Maxwell?.'"

"Good God, lass, will ye lower yer voice? Aye, 'tis exactly what I said. Maxwell." Connor had to hurriedly shield her eyes with his big hand when her horrified gaze seemed drawn to the area where Gordie Maxwell and his men waited. "Nay, dinny look o'er there, 'twill only upset ye. Trust me, 'tis a maun disheartening sight. Just do as I say and dress yeself quickly. I dinny like at all the way a few of those men were gawking at ye whilst ye slept. Those trews aren't maun better, but at least they'll cover ye."

"Gawking?" Gabrielle asked, startled. Had she gotten no further than that part of his words? Connor wondered. Clutching the kilt modestly over her breasts, she sat up as gracefully as she could. With her right hand she swept the thick mane of love-tangled black hair back from her face until it tumbled silkily down her back. "Did you say some of those men were gawking?
At me?"

Connor gritted his teeth. 'Twas no time for conversation, but he recognized the determined expression on Gabrielle's face and knew she would not rest until her question had been answered.

He set about doing so in the shortest manner possible. "Aye, a few were most assuredly gawking," he admitted grudgingly. "Me kilt is goodly sized, and 'tis thankful I be that I thought to toss some of it o'er us as we slept, but it's not
that
big. There was a fair deal of ye to gawk at, lass." A scowl creased his brow, and something in her eyes suddenly made speed lose a wee bit of its relevance to the strong, tightening fist of emotion—could it be jealousy?—clenching and unclenching in his stomach. Curiosity suddenly plagued his mind. "Now that I think upon it, lass," he added thoughtfully, "ye dinny sound like ye're offended."

"I'm
not
offended. Just the opposite, I'm quite flattered. I've never been gawked at before, and I must admit it's a most complimentary feeling. You Scots certainly have a very distinct criterion for physical appeal than the ones I'm accustomed to. Truth to tell, 'tis a welcome change." Gabrielle shook her head and, as though to herself, her voice a pitch higher than normal, repeated in surprise, "Those men were gawking. At
me.
Ha! What would Elizabeth have to say about
that?!"

The grin that curved over Gabrielle's lips was full and appealing. He was captivated by it.

As though sensing Connor's distracted attention, Gordie Maxwell quickly interceded to remind both Gabrielle and Connor of his unwelcome presence. From over his shoulder, he growled threateningly, "Yer time is running short, Douglas. We leave in three maun minutes. Whether ye both be dressed or not makes nae difference to me. I maun admit, though, 'twould make an interesting sight to see the notorious Black Douglas riding into Caerlaverock as naked as the day he was born. Compared to the other dribble I've heard sung of ye lately, methinks the ballads
that
sight would inspire may actually be worth lending an ear to!"

Connor swore in Gaelic as he reached over Gabrielle and gathered up their clothes. He dumped them in a wrinkled heap in his lap, sorting his from hers as quickly as possible.