Perfect Strangers (17 page)

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.

Their glazes locked and held.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips pink and puffy from his kisses. Her breathing was as ragged and choppy as his own.

Connor froze, waiting, wondering if she was going to stop him.

She didn't.

Instead, she surprised him yet again by blanketing the back of his hand with her smaller palm. Arching her back, she tugged his hand up, under the placket of her jack, until his fingers were splayed over the firm curve of her breast.

Their sighs came in unison, long and deep.

The bolt of sensation that shot through Connor was pure electricity. Och! but the woman was a bold one. Where most lasses hid their passion behind coy glances and subterfuge, Gabrielle Carelton bluntly let him know, in response if not words, exactly what she wanted.

The urge to strip away the material barriers between them became too great to resist. She wasn't going to stop him, Connor knew that for certain now. And, God help him, he was beyond stopping himself.

Grudgingly, he relinquished the intoxicating feel of her to go up on his knees and yank the tunic up and over his head. He tossed it aside and in an instant had spread himself on top of her again. The entire process took less time than for two heartbeats to melt together.

The damp night air should have been like a cold slap against his unprotected skin. If it was, Connor didn't notice. He had an uneasy feeling that the heat emanating from Gabrielle's full, lush curves could keep him warm for a lifetime. His left elbow levered the weight of his torso up, so as not to crush her. Pine needles and moss dug into his skin, but he barely noticed the nip of pain.

This time he grasped the folds of her tunic one by one in his fingers, then tugged upward. Inch by inch, her creamy skin was revealed to his appreciative eye.

"You're much too slow, m'lord," she said, her voice high and breathless.

His mouth went dry when Gabrielle batted his hand away, then, as he eased back to give her room, she sat up. After shrugging off the jack, she yanked her tunic up and off. Both garments joined his, forming shadowy heaps on the damp, pine needle-scattered ground. Her hair floated down over her shoulders like a silky black cloud; after a tantalizing, split-second view, the strands artfully arranged themselves to conceal the portions of her voluptuous body that Connor ached most to see and touch and taste.

He groaned low and deep, reaching for her, only to falter. Her skin was pale and tender and flawless in the muted moonlight; he had no desire to see such perfection marred by scratches and bruises, yet that was exactly what would happen if he surrendered to the almost irresistible urge to push her onto her back and cover her body with his own.

He went up on his knees, shifted until he was behind her. His finger trembled only a wee bit when he scooped the bulk of her hair up and draped it forward over her shoulder.

He leaned into her, gasping when his bare chest came into sizzling contact with her soft, naked back. A shudder rippled through Connor.

Like a rock being tossed into a summer-calm loch, tremors shivered through Gabrielle. His skin felt hotter than fire. His hands now flanked her hips, his fingers flexing tensely, digging into the woolen trews and the tender flesh beneath. Thick black hair coated his rock-hard chest; the strand tickled the skin between her shoulder blades and caused the most peculiar tingling sensation to burn all throughout her.

Her breasts felt heavy and full, the nipples rigid and overly sensitive from equal parts cold night air and sensuous anticipation. Gabrielle wanted to feel his hands on her there, feel the heat and pressure of his fingers and palms touching her. Her body ached for it so badly that she didn't think twice about seeking immediate satisfaction for the need. She reached down and loosened his hands from her hips, dragged them up over her waist. Higher.

The skin on his palms was battle-rough, but his touch was oh so very gentle. Gabrielle sighed her pleasure. The last thing she would have expected from The Black Douglas was gentleness. The hands that now cupped her breasts, the big palms that enticingly stroked her nipples, were rumored to have committed atrocious deeds. Feeling the way he touched her, she suddenly found that difficult to believe. Surely no man who could touch a woman with such tenderness could be as cruel as rumor said The Black Douglas was.

Rumor and truth. There was a difference. A large one.

While that difference had meant nothing to Gabrielle scarcely a month ago—she'd been as willing as anyone in London to believe the horrid ballads about this man; she'd had no reason not to—it meant a great deal to her now. For the first time, she wondered how much truth those Border ballads carried, and how much was pure exaggeration.

Connor's hands moved, and he began rubbing her nipples between his index finger and thumb, and Gabrielle abruptly lost the ability to wonder about anything at all. Anything, that is, except the white-hot excitement pumping through her. Anything except the way her mind was abruptly excruciatingly aware of every place where Connor's body touched hers, and every place his body
wasn't
touching hers—yet.

She was consumed by his touch; she couldn't think or feel beyond it. God help her, she did not
want
to!

Never the sort to throw caution to the wind, Gabrielle was astonished by her immediate, lusty response to this man. And exhilarated by it. More exhilarating still was the hungry, restless way his hands caressed her, as though he couldn't feel enough of her, wanted to feel more.

That the notorious Connor Douglas—heathen Scots Border reiver though he was—showed the obvious and intense desire to touch a woman whom Queen Elizabeth had likened to an "overstuffed goose" was heady knowledge indeed. It blotted out past pain—before now, an unimaginable feat—and filled Gabrielle with a warm, rich burst of satisfaction and pride. An undiluted surge of raw feminine confidence flooded through her.

The notorious reiver was kissing and nibbling the side of her neck, sucking patches of her flesh into his mouth and causing the most delicious pleasure-pain to sizzle inside her. Moaning softly, Gabrielle tipped her head to the side to give him better access, even as she tilted her chin up and cushioned the back of her head against the solid shelf of his right shoulder.

"How auld are ye, lass?"

His voice felt like a caress against her skin. "You don't know?" she asked.

"Should I?"

"Aye. You expended a great deal of effort, not to mention the risk you took, kidnapping me from your brother's hands. You've stated plainly that you intend to wed me in his place. Why you'd want to do that, I can't... nay, I
don't want to
know about. All things considered, I'd think you'd know all there is to know about me."

She could feel his lips move against her neck as he spoke. The feeling made it hard to concentrate on what he said.

"Truth to tell, lass, I ken scarce little aboot ye."

"Then why would you—?"

"Ye were to marry Colin and settle the feud between Douglas and Maxwell. I've nae liking for the latter, I admit. Howe'er, if 'tis to be, and our stubborn monarchs insist that it shall, then
I
will be the one to do it. That ye were Colin's bride was reason enough to snatch ye and wed ye. I'd nae idea what ye looked like afore ye stepped foot on Bracklenaer soil, and kenned less what sort of wench ye be. Nor did I care."

Gabrielle stiffened. "You kidnapped me and professed a desire to wed me
only
to thwart your brother?" Her blood ran cold as another, more potent realization stabbed into her heart. "Is that what this is all about, Connor? Are you trying to seduce me now for no other reason than to accomplish that goal?"

The idea caused a strange, fistlike tightening in Gabrielle's chest, traitorously close to her heart. She ignored the sensation as she waited breathlessly for his answer. It was a long, torturous time in coming. A time that she filled in with scrambled thoughts.

It all made sense now.

How many ballads claimed The Black Douglas was relentless? Too many to be ignored. When the man set his sights on something, whether it be lifting beasties from a rival family or wooing the charms from a hesitant maid, he did not surrender until success was his. He might change tactics, but he never cried defeat.

And if he'd set his sights now on wedding her? Aye, she thought, what then?

Gabrielle tried to swallow, but her throat was suddenly too dry and tight for it. If Connor pretended to enjoy touching her to melt her defenses and seduce her, would not such a seduction aid him in reaching his goal? And why,
why
did the thought hurt so very much?!

"Has a mon e'er bedded ye, lass?"

She should take offense at such a question. She did not. It was a legitimate query, especially when one considered the lusty way in which she had responded to his kisses and caresses.

What would Connor say if she told him the truth? That no man had even expressed a desire to bed her? That her experience extended only so far as one dry, chaste kiss shared, almost as if by accident years ago, with one of Elizabeth's favorites? A kiss that had been initiated by the Earl of Essex but never repeated, nor had he ever showed a desire to repeat it.

Gabrielle frowned and inhaled deeply of the chilly, pine-scented night air. She had to fight the sudden, strong urge to reach for her tunic and cover herself. "Do you really need to ask? Isn't the answer obvious?"

"Aye, 'tis. And if only
because
of its obviousness, ye've overlooked one prime fact. Ye've naught to judge a mon's touch by but hearsay and suspect motives. If a mon had bedded ye afore, ye'd ken that desire this hot and strong can't be faked. I'll be the first to admit there's aught a determined mon can do, but feigning desire for a wench who does not appeal to him isn't one of them."

His mouth was back on her neck again, his hot breath puffing over her, his lips moving sensuously against her flesh; the feel set her senses on fire, chipping away at the hastily constructed wall of self-defense she'd thrown up around herself only a few short seconds before.

"I must have misunderstood, m'lord. It sounded almost as though you just said you... desire me?" The question was out before she could bite it back. Even if she'd had the chance, she doubted she would have. She wanted, nay,
needed
to know the answer. Her pride and self-respect demanded it.

His answer did not come in words, but in a gesture that was far more compelling.

Connor's hands had been cupping her breasts, but he'd forced them to remain unnaturally still. Slowly, slowly, they now slid downward, flanking her hips once more. His fingers curled inward, digging into her trews and tender flesh as he pulled that part of her body back against his.

Her bottom came up hard against him.

"Do ye feel that, lass?" he asked huskily as he ground his hips against her softness. The wisp of wool whisking against wool, of his kilt rubbing against her trews, sounded unnaturally loud.

Gabrielle shuddered. "Aye, m'lord, how could I not?"

"Exactly. But do ye ken what 'tis ye're feeling?"

"I-I'm not sure."

"Then I'll tell ye." His voice was low and oh so sensuously rough; it scratched warmly down Gabrielle's spine. "What ye're feeling is me body's reaction to ye. 'Tis the way a mon responds to a woman he desires beyond all rhyme and reason. The good Lord, for whate'er purpose, made sure a mon's physical response is to natural and strong to be controlled or denied. Howe'er, in all His wisdom, He gave us the ability to govern, nae matter how difficult it may be—and, truth to tell, lass, with ye warm, luscious body filling me arms, 'tis maun difficult than I'd e'er kenned it could be!—what we do aboot slaking our desire." His pause was long and tension-thick, as though he debated his next words before daring to give them voice. "If ye asked it of me, I would stop now."

"And if I asked you
not
to stop?" she queried huskily. "What then?"

"Is that what ye're asking, lass?" His voice was deep and raspy. "Are ye sure?"