Perfect Strangers Page 13

  "M'lord, is that y-your...?" Her words trailed off, even as the color in her cheeks heated to a vibrant shade of crimson-peach.

  It took Connor a second to realize what she was talking about. Because of her unreserved response, he'd forgotten for a second that she was very much an innocent in the ways of physical love.

  God in heaven, was she so innocent in the ways of a man and a woman that she thought...?

  Aye, he realized as he gazed down at her, that was exactly what she drought. He was torn between two equally strong urges; the first was to laugh, the second was to prove exactly how his "...?" felt like when it moved inside her!

  "Nay, lass," he said finally, when he had breath enough to speak. "Soon, but not yet. 'Tis what I'm preparing ye for."

  "Preparing me for? You mean there's"—she gulped hard—"more? You can make me feel better than this?"

  She stared up at him with an innocent sort of amazement; her dazed expression and the hungry look in her eyes combined to warm a heart Connor had thought long ago frozen over.

  "Aye," he murmured, "maun more. Relax, lass. Let me show ye."

  Gabrielle did as he bid. She tried to relax. Tried, and failed. Her senses were soaring too high for that. A strange, burning sort of tension had settled deep inside her muscles, pulling them taut with white-hot anticipation.

  Connor's hand started moving again.

  She closed her eyes, arched her back, reveled in the tidal wave of exquisite sensation that washed over her. His strokes were long and deep and sure as he caressed her in places no one had ever seen before, let alone touched in such a gloriously intimate way. Her hips moved with the tempo he set, then her thighs tightened around his forearm, urging the pace quicker.

  A choppy moan whispered past her lips when Connor dipped his head and whisked her nipple with his lips. Shaggy strands of black hair fell forward over his shoulders as his tongue made teasingly warm, moist circles around the rigid, rosy peak of flesh.

  Gabrielle clutched at his upper arms, her fingers digging into his skin as she felt the muscles in her stomach, and lower, convulse with exhilarating pleasure.

  She tried to pull him down atop her, wanting to feel the hard length of his body covering her, but he stubbornly refused. Instead, the strokes of his hand quickened, and he did something with his thumb that made all the sensations that had come before seem infinitesimal by comparison.

  The tension that had flooded through her now centered, the crux of it focused on the juncture between her thighs. Another alien but highly pleasant sensation pooled inside her, gathering quicker than a wild sea storm.

  "Dinny fight it, lass. Let yerself go," he murmured encouragingly as he quickened the pace of his hand to a dizzying speed.

  The first spasms crashed over Gabrielle like waves breaking over rocks. She cried out in surprise and pleasure as the fierce undertow of sensation dragged her downward, threatening to drown her in its fiery wake. Her cry melted into a husky groan as her body convulsed and vibrant strokes of color exploded behind her tightly closed eyelids.

  Her groan mingled with Connor's own as he slipped his hand free and levered himself on top of her. With his free hand, he guided himself into her.

  "'Tis sorry I am to cause ye pain, lass, but 'tis the way a maid becomes a woman. Just a sting, I promise ye. The pain will not last."

  In one long, sure thrust, he shattered the restrictive barrier of her maidenhead.

  Gabrielle gasped. Her fingernails bit into the flesh on his shoulders and her body went rigid beneath his.

  She felt perfect, so very tight and wet and warm. Despite his body's burning desire to move inside her, Connor stilled, waiting with more patience than he knew he possessed for the shock and sting of the necessary pain to pass.

  The pressure on his shoulders eased. Her open palms stroked his back restlessly. Her index finger traced a thick scar located just beneath his shoulder blade, a scar he'd acquired years ago on a decidedly unsuccessful midnight raid against the neighboring Kerrs.

  Gradually she began to move tentatively beneath him, as though testing to see if more pain was in store. When there was none, the movement of her hips swiftly became bolder, more insistent.

  Connor gritted his teeth, biting back a groan as he began gradually to move inside her. She met him thrust for hungry thrust, and the way her body milked his pushed his self-control to the limit. If he didn't slow the pace, and slow it soon... och! no matter how good his intentions, he would not be able to last long.

  Her legs entwined with his and her hands strayed downward. Over the small of his back. Lower. She sighed like a contented cat as she drew him deeper inside her still.

  "Ah, yes, again," Gabrielle murmured, her voice as soft and amazed as the expression he found himself looking down into.

  The muscles in Connor's stomach clenched when he felt her shudder beneath him, her inner muscles tightening spasmodically around that most sensitive part of his body.

  His hands curled into white-knuckled fists around broken twigs, damp leaves, and the scratchy hem of the kilt. He picked up the pace, driving into her, his need for fulfillment suddenly so intense that his vision went blurry around the edges.

  In a blinding rupture of sensation, the tension in his body gathered, then, when it was almost unbearable, burst.

  Connor groaned her name as he thrust his hips forward, burying himself inside her as deeply as he could go.

  Again.

  And again.

  It took far longer than Connor would have thought possible for the aftershock of relaxation to wash the tension out of his body. When it finally did, he shifted, lowering much of his weight onto the bed of her curves.

  He nuzzled her ear with his nose. The soft, sweet fragrance of her filled him to overflowing, and he smiled with satisfaction when he felt Gabrielle's instinctive shiver of response.

  He opened his mouth to say... something. The words evaporated unspoken off his tongue as relaxation surged into something stronger and more lulling. He was tired. Nay, exhausted. Yet in a thoroughly contented sort of way. Surely whatever he'd been about to say could wait a wee bit?

  That thought in mind, he shifted onto his side, taking care to keep their bodies joined. Slipping one arm beneath Gabrielle's head, he coiled the other around her waist and pulled her close.

  She felt warm and good in his arms. Her ripe, full curves fit the planes and angles of his body flawlessly. She snuggled against him, her cheek cradled against his shoulder.

  As Connor let his mind and body come untethered, drifting naturally toward much needed rest, he was vaguely aware that he'd never felt such overwhelming protectiveness as he did right now for the woman who lay in his arms. His last thought before sleep overtook him was that making love had never felt so good and right as it did tonight, with this woman... and it never would again.

  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 ext
end 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?!"