Free Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair

last night. If she was sick now and all she'd been exposed to was a bit of rain, who knows how ill she would have been after spending a night tossing atop the hard, wet ground amid a storm of this magnitude!
    This time it didn't cut through her as harshly as before. Oh, nay, just the opposite. Now that her tastebuds had been shocked into accustoming themselves to the potent brew, she was surprised to discover that the wicked concoction was actually quite tasty. More delicious still was the sweet, hot feeling of relaxation that seeped through her veins, warming the chill from her bones even as it eased the stiff aches and pains in her muscles.
    Gabrielle grinned. What would Elizabeth say if she saw her charge now? She pictured the old woman's tightly compressed lips puckering as Elizabeth glared disdainfully down the thin, rigid line of her nose. It was a glare that had brought high-powered men from all over the world to their knees.
    The Queen, however, was not here to chastise or to glare, thank heaven. That was just as well, because the whisky worked wonders, and with amazing swiftness. While her aches and pains weren't completely gone, they weren't nearly as pronounced or troublesome as they'd been a few moments ago. Her cough had subsided, her sinuses had cleared a bit, and the pounding in her head had diminished. Except for the vaguely bitter aftertaste, the whisky was a miracle potion! Why wasn't this brew being hawked as a fever remedy on every street corner in London?
    She lifted the goblet and took another drink of whisky, even though her thirst had passed. As any good Carelton could tell you, if one of anything worked well, two would work better... and three better still.
    Gabrielle set the goblet aside and lay back against the pillow. She stifled a yawn with her fist and arched her spine, stretching tentatively at first, then, when her muscles didn't cramp in protest, more expansively. Aaah, but that felt divine.
    Another clap of thunder boomed.
    Gabrielle gasped, startled, remembering suddenly that summer had come and gone, and that the day—rather, it was night now—was anything but clear.
    Rain and wind flailed at the castle's thick stone walls. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky like the sparkling blade of a newly polished dagger. The silvery flash came and went in a blink.
    The mattress rustled as Gabrielle pushed herself to a sitting position. Mayhaps another sip of whisky wouldn't be out of order? Heaven knew the unexpected jolts of thunder had made sure the effects of the first three wore off with alarming speed. While she'd been aware from the instant she awoke exactly where she was—Bracklenaer, home of that thieving Scots heathen known as The Black Douglas—only now did that knowledge really begin to penetrate her fever-and liquor-dulled mind.
    She swallowed hard, and in that same instant became aware of something else. Keenly aware of it.
    She was no longer alone.
    The fire had petered out; smoldering embers did naught to brighten the room beyond a dim glow that hovered only a foot away from the hearth. But did she really need light to know there was someone clinging to the shadows, watching her? Nay. Gabrielle felt the heat of an unseen gaze move over her.
    "Mairghread?" she called out uncertainly. It was not the old woman, Gabrielle would bet the Queen's crown jewels on that.
    Cloth rustled. The sound of a bootheel clicking atop stone that echoed between harsh bursts of thunder sounded ominously loud. Near the door, where the shadows clung and twisted like thick London fog, there was movement as the intruder stepped forward.
    Gabrielle sneezed, then sniffled loudly and squinted at the form. Her heartbeat quickened.
    The intruder was tall, broad, as undeniably virile as it was male.
    He took another step forward, which brought him a mere stone's throw away from the bed. Any doubt Gabrielle had harbored fled like leaves scattering before a brisk autumn wind.
    The intruder was The Black