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  Sweet Lord, even there she was temptingly, pleasingly soft and supple!

  With a flick of his wrist, he pulled her hard against him. Her mouth swallowed his husky groan. Her breasts felt full and firm, pushing against his chest; the shape and feel of her burned through the thick leather jack, stamping an imprint into his skin that he'd a feeling would brand him forever. His tongue darted and probed and teased. He was shocked to feel her meet the passionate strokes measure for bold measure.

  The woman was a seductress!

  All thought of satisfying his curiosity with one simple kiss scattered from Connor's mind. There was nothing simple about this kiss, nothing simple about Gabrielle's unabandoned response. He'd expected her to be shy, perhaps even frightened and unwilling. He'd never miscalculated a woman and her response so drastically in his life!

  What he'd wanted was but a quick kiss, something to tame his mounting curiosity and put the matter to rest in his mind.

  What he'd gotten instead was an armful of wild, unrestrained passion.

  Gabrielle attacked his senses in ways he'd never experienced, to an extent he'd never imagined possible. The sweet, fresh scent of her filled him. The silky feel of her hair slipping through his fingers, the warm pliancy of her perfectly rounded curves straining against his body, made him ache for something infinitely more intimate. The taste of her mouth left him parched, thirsty for a taste of all of her.

  Her arms slipped around his waist, her hands splaying his back. She squirmed closer. Her hips pressed hard against his, her breasts rubbed against his chest. His breathing, what there was of it, went harsh and choppy.

  Did the lass have any idea of how much he wanted her? Of how her untamed response was driving him insane? Did she care?

  It took every last shred of Connor's self-control not to surrender to the sudden, unexpected urge to strip away the barriers of cloth separating them. He wanted—needed, craved—to feel her naked skin gliding beneath his open palms. Beneath his mouth and tongue. He wanted to touch and taste all of her. Now. So badly it frightened him. But not so badly that he would stop.

  Releasing a shaky moan, he leaned into her until her spine bowed. Her curves cushioned his front as he deepened the kiss. She needed to feel the true extent of his desire for her, needed her to decide—now, before it was too late—to be sensible and stop this madness while there was still the time and ability to do so. The hardness between his legs said that the time for stopping was growing preciously short.

  Gabrielle did not shy away, as he'd expected—hoped?—she would. Instead, she kept pace with the bold strokes of his tongue. In fact her tongue made more than a few bold strokes of its own. Strokes that left him shaking and breathless.

  Her hands stroked restlessly over his back—sometimes caressing, sometimes clenching around the leather of his jack in tight fists... always in ways that promised untold delight were the jack and tunic peeled away and his skin laid bare to her touch.

  Connor shivered. A lightning bolt of raw sensation fisted in his stomach, rippling shockwaves throughout the rest of him when he imagined her fingernails raking over his ultrasensitive flesh. His head spun. His desire escalated, spiraling upward with soul-numbing speed.

  She wasn't his wife. Yet. He should stop. So rationalized the small portion of his mind still able to cling to a tattered thread of sanity. Another, larger portion instantly countered the thought, reminding Connor that, while it was true Gabrielle was not his wife, she would be soon enough. This very night if he could manage it!

  More importantly... had she even once, in either words or in deed, indicated that she wanted him to stop?

  Nay, she had not!

  Just the opposite. The way her temptingly full body wriggled impatiently against him, the way her warm, ragged breaths puffed like a sweet summer breeze against his cheek as she clung to him and returned his kiss with an ardor that wanted—demanded—more, encouraged his yearning to satisfy the mutual need simmering like liquid fire inside them both.

  An intense throbbing shot through Connor, rocking him to the core. Och! how he wanted her! Here. Now. In any manner she pleased. The sanctity of marriage be damned; their legal joining was a negligible obstacle that would be remedied soon enough... after their physical one.

  "Gabrielle," he sighed after easing the kiss enough to whisper her name huskily against her lips. Could she hear his heart pounding? She must, for it was beating so loud and hard that Connor could barely hear his own voice over the racket "What are ye doing, lass? Dinny ye ken that ye're supposed to kiss like an innocent maid?"

  "I'll kiss any way you want for me to," she replied, her voice low and breathless, the pitch equally as husky as his own, "provided you kiss me like that again."

  Connor's eyes snapped open. When had he shut them? He didn't remember, didn't care. Right now he was drowning in the most beautiful gaze he'd ever seen, and he couldn't think beyond it. Her eyelids were passion-thick, the inky lashes shielding eyes that were the tumultuous color of the North Sea just before a storm; dark green and vibrant, glazed by passion.

  The sight evaporated whatever answer he might have given.

  He pulled back a little, his gaze raking her, taking in her whole face. Was the dim light highly flattering, or had she always been this lovely and he was only now noticing? Her cheeks were flushed, her lips full from his kiss, slightly moist, parted invitingly. A ray of moonlight snuck in through the ceiling of leaves; the silvery beam streaked over his shoulder and played on her hair, highlighting the curls clinging to her cheeks and brow until they appeared an appealing shade of rich blue-black.

  Connor had not thought this woman ravishing on their first meeting. Nor did he think so tonight. However, at some point, for reasons he didn't dare examine too closely, his opinion of Gabrielle Carelton had, with no concrete reason to be cited, changed. She would never be a great beauty, to say otherwise would be a lie, yet she was easy on the eye in a way uniquely her own, a way that he found surprisingly appealing.

  She wasn't the weak, frail English creature whom Connor had imagined weeks ago that he'd be saddled with. Rather, she had a sturdy body that not only adapted admirably well to the harsh Scots climate, but that also invited a man's touch and welcomed it without flinching.

  While she'd proved she could be feisty enough when riled, Gabrielle normally displayed a mild disposition that he found at once gracious and intriguing. That she'd set out to rescue Mairghread equipped with naught but his harebrained cousin bespoke an innate kindness that her sometimes haughty Sassenach temperament was deft to conceal.

  Aye, what she'd done was foolhardy in the extreme, he'd be the first to admit it. Yet her reasons were pure and unselfish. He did not have to like it, but how could he not respect and admire it? How could he be angry with her?

  The answer was simple.

  He couldn't.

  Especially not when he was holding her in his arms, feeling her body strain against his, her warmth seeping through him as he looked into her beautiful green eyes. His tongue still savored the singular flavor of her.

  Just one kiss. That was all he'd promised himself.

  There had been dozens of Black Douglases before him; all prided themselves on keeping their word. A Border ballad had been written about this Black Douglas's trustworthiness. Connor had recently caught snatches of the verse when he'd overheard one of the kitchen wenches singing it under her breath as she kneaded dough.

  With a remorseful groan, his lips again sealed over hers, his thirsty tongue probing and seeking out the rich, warm inner recess of her mouth.

  For the first time in his life, Connor Douglas had made a promise he could not keep.

  Chapter 8

  Stand up straight. I said straight! Shoulders back. Oh, for God's sake, girl, suck in your stomach. You look like an overstuffed goose!

  The words, harshly spoken by Queen Elizabeth at a time that now felt like a lifetime ago, whip-lashed through Gabrielle. The memory stung as sharply as the half-healed wound th
ey'd created deep in her soul.

  She flinched, instinctively pulling away from Connor's kiss, away from the confusion of his touch. He let her go immediately, and she wasn't sure if she should be happy about that or not. Her knees felt shaky as she staggered backward a step. Wet grass, moss, leaves, and pine needles crunched beneath the soles of her too-large, borrowed boots.

  Gabrielle's size had been a constant source of irritation to her Queen, and Elizabeth wasn't shy about letting anyone within hearing distance know it. Why Gabrielle was allowed to remain at court, when her looks so disturbed her monarch, she could only wonder. She suspected pity had much to do with it, although, if pressed, she'd have to admit not knowing a single rime when Elizabeth had allowed her actions to be guided by anything resembling such a humane emotion.

  Gabrielle's gaze had lowered, her sight fixed on the top button of Connor's jack It was made of horn, the disk dull and chipped. She tried hard not to think about the bands of muscle lying beneath.

  Slowly, her attention lifted, locked with his. His eyes were passion-dark. At least she thought—hoped—passion was the emotion she saw in those piercing gray depths. As the memory of Elizabeth's words arrowed through her, however, leaving her breathless and numb, Gabrielle was suddenly unsure.

  Was Connor looking at her with pity, or passion? And did it matter? Aye, it mattered a great deal! The uncertainty weighed heavily on her mind, for her reaction to him depended upon the answer.

  If it was pity he offered, she wanted none of it.

  If it was passion...

  Gabrielle licked her suddenly parched lips. His taste lingered; the sharp flavor of his kiss was something she would savor in the lonely, sleepless nights ahead, no matter what had prompted it.

  I'll kiss any way you want for me to, provided you kiss me like that again.

  Had she really spoken such bold words? She had. More importantly, had she meant them? Aye, most definitely she had!

  Gabrielle ached for Connor to kiss her again. Her body yearned to lean into his, press against his hardness, feel his heart beat against her breasts. Never had she experienced anything so wonderfully exhilarating. She had to fight the urge to take the hand he'd lowered to his side and put it back on her waist, her hip, the sensitive curve of her bottom. What she wouldn't give to feel the heat of his fingers burning through the material separating them, searing their powerful imprint into the tender flesh beneath.

  The wants and needs raging through her right now were not those of a lady. Then again... Gabrielle's head was spinning with an abundance of strange desires and sensations, none of which had been constructed on ladylike foundations.

  If nothing else, life at Elizabeth's court had provided her with a thorough education in the ways of men and women. Even if she hadn't participated, Gabrielle had observed it all keenly. And learned. She knew the intricate dance of courtship could be performed with a mere glance, a seemingly inadvertent flick of the wrist, the hint of a sensuously curved smile. In the right combination, all three could bring a man to his knees. She'd seen it happen time and time again.

  While it was doubtful anything, especially a woman as plain-looking as herself, could bring The Black Douglas to his knees, that didn't hinder Gabrielle's thoughts from wondering. After all, she didn't want to bed the man, she only wanted to kiss him again. Please, just once more. Suddenly it seemed imperative that she know whether the hot, sizzling sensation she'd felt shoot like a bolt of lightning through her veins—a sensation that still left her feeling weak and tingly, that had made her toes curl into tight balls inside the too-large boots—had been her imagination, or if it had been caused by the feel of Connor Douglas's mouth moving hungrily over hers.

  She'd a feeling it was the latter. Now, she sought proof.

  In a move that would have left Elizabeth gasping at its brazenness, Gabrielle took a step forward, closing the space between them. Perhaps it was Elizabeth's harsh words, still ringing in her memory, that made her give a toss of her dark head and put a confident curve to her smile a second before she tilted her chin and sealed their mouths together.

  She swallowed Connor's sharp exhalation of surprise, even as she leaned forward still more, leaned against him, leaned into him. The unfamiliar sensation she'd felt before was back, stronger than ever. It tingled in her blood and danced like frantic butterflies in her stomach. Her head felt light, her senses spiraled.

  Ah, yes! She'd wondered, now she knew. There was no longer any doubt the sensation, whatever it was called, could be traced directly back to Connor Douglas, and the way his mouth opened over hers.

  Unlike the last, this kiss was light, gentle. His lips whisked airily over hers with sweet promise, yet she sensed an underlying urgency.

  Gabrielle splayed her hands over his chest. The leather of his jack felt soft and cool, moist from the rain, the wide chest beneath hard as granite. Her fingers closed around the material in tight fists as she tried to pull him closer. He went without even a hint of reluctance.

  A moan escaped one of them.

  Heat stained Gabrielle's cheeks a bright shade of pink when she realized the soft, plaintive sound had come from herself. It sounded oddly high, breathless and throaty.

  Her moan echoed in his ears like the sigh of waves lapping at rocks. Connor shivered. His arms coiling around her waist, he hauled her hard against him.

  She went willingly; her only struggle was to squirm, trying to get closer. It wasn't possible, although he found himself doing the same thing.

  Feeling her against him wasn't enough. Connor wanted, nay needed, to be closer to her still.

  Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers linking. Her breasts, so wonderfully full and firm, prodded against his chest as she returned his kiss with a voracious hunger that astonished him.

  Trapping a groan in the back of his throat, Connor stroked and probed the sweet inner recesses of her mouth with his tongue. Milk and honey... aye, that was what she tasted like. His hands caressed her back in quick, restless strokes. His palms itched to peel away the barrier of cloth, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. Restraining the urge wasn't easy, but surrendering would risk frightening her and having her pull away.

  Such was a risk Connor was not willing to take.

  Truly, he had kept his promise. He'd but kissed her once... och! all right, twice. But only to satisfy his curiosity. No matter how badly he might have wanted to, he would not have kissed her again.

  And he hadn't.

  She had kissed him.

  Oh, how that changed everything!

  The gesture was so unexpected it knocked the breath from his lungs and at the same time toppled what little self-control he'd been able to maintain.

  Without realizing what he was doing, Connor scooped her body close and, bending, gently eased both of them to the ground. She made a hot, soft, heavenly bed upon which he cushioned himself. He lay half on her, half on the damp, moss-strewn ground.

  His mouth left hers. Trailing tiny nibbles along the line of her jaw, he shifted slightly to the side and bent his right knee, nudging her legs apart.

  Slowly, slowly, his leg lifted.

  The top of his thigh rubbed intimately against her.

  Her hips thrust upward, and she moaned. The sound was cut short by her sharp, quivering gasp.

  Gabrielle's eyes were scrunched closed. Behind the velvet black of her lids, a burst of color exploded as her legs clamped tightly around the granite hardness of his thigh. Like the colors on an artist's pallet being washed away by a heavy rain, electrifying streaks of blues and reds and purples trickled together and merged.

  "Do ye like that, lass?" he asked.

  The moss pillowing the back of her head crunched when she nodded. "Oh, aye. Please, m'lord, do it again."

  Connor gritted his teeth. The lass was a constant source of surprise. Her unexpectedly enthusiastic response was going to be the death of him! Feeling her body beneath his, feeling her squirming against the shelf of his thigh, created a sensation
in him that burned like liquid fire. A sensation more intense than anything he'd ever known.

  "Ne'er let it be said that The Black Douglas refused a lady," he growled... and did it again.

  And again.

  And yet again.

  The muscles in Gabrielle's stomach tightened as she clung to him, moved her hips in tune to the strokes of his thigh. Ah, Sweet Jesus, she didn't know exactly what it was Connor was doing, or why it made her breathing accelerate and her nerve endings tingle, and at that moment she did not particularly care. All she wanted was for him not to stop!

  Her hands strayed to the collar of his jack, her fingers slipping beneath. The cloth of the tunic felt scratchy against her fingertips as she slipped the jack, with its protective lining of heavily padded steel, over his shoulders and down his arms. He helped by shifting his weight from one arm to the other. All the while, his mouth, which had discovered the sensitive length of her neck, and reveled in the way she shivered and moaned, never left the heavenly taste of her skin.

  In the past, Connor had always considered the loveplay before bedding a wench something to tolerate and provide as a courtesy to the lass. Oddly, as hard as his body was driving him to take this woman, he felt no rush. It was most strange, yet he had to admit that he could have continued to kiss and stroke and caress her until the sun came up... and not be bored with it or grow tired of it.

  His right hand had been splayed over her waist; it now roamed over her in slow but fevered strokes. Her reaction to his touch was magnificently eager. When his fingertips grazed the temptingly full undercurve of her breasts, her shiver was as ardent as it was unrestrained. His mouth surrendered the salty-sweet taste of her skin for a moment before he groaned and reluctantly lifted his head to look down at her.

  Gabrielle's eyes, which had been tightly closed, flickered open. Thick black lashes framed eyes that were dark green and passion-glazed.