Free Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair Page A

Douglas.
    Gabrielle wasn't surprised. Nor was she pleased. Her spine stiffened and her chin inched upward. She faced him squarely. The flutter of alarm tickling the pit of her stomach was forcefully suppressed. "Skulking around in the shadows now, are you, Douglas? Haven't you ever heard of the term 'knock'?"
    "'Twill be a cold day I'll hell afore I'll knock on me own bedchamber door, lass."
    The words slid through Gabrielle much the same way the first sip of whisky had only moments before. Shocking at first, then radiantly hot. This time the warm, breathless tingle of response that rippled through her did not come from a manufactured source. The Black Douglas's deep, husky voice was all too real, as was her tumultuous reaction to both it and his nearness.
    The temptation to huddle protectively beneath the covers was strong. The proud Carelton blood—smeared by only a small taint of Maxwell—that pumped hot and fast through her veins was stronger still.
    Her shoulders squared instead of slumped as her green eyes narrowed. Her gaze pierced the darkness, meeting and warring with his. "Your bedchamber is otherwise occupied."
    "Aye," he said, and took that final step, his attention never leaving her, "and well I ken it. Mairghread's found her bed and I be on the way to finding another for meself. I wanted to check on ye first, though, to see how ye fared."
    "I fare—" She sniffled and, for lack of anything else available, tried as inconspicuously as possible to wipe her nose on the sleeve of the white linen nightgown she only now realized she wore. Who had changed her into the garment? She was afraid to ask for fear he might tell her. "I fare well, thank you. As you can see, I'm getting better... getting better—" achoo —"getting better by the... by the " — sniffle, sniffle, achoo! "—minute."
    Lightning and thunder splintered the night.
    It was a minor disturbance compared to the tension crackling throughout the bedchamber.
    "'Tis cold and damp in here. not good for a sick woman." He turned, his long strides carrying him to the hearth. Fresh kindling and logs had been stacked beside it. He used the former to rekindle the fire, the latter to stoke it until it blazed.
    That done, Connor straightened and went back to the bed. The mattress crunched and sagged beneath his weight when he sat down on the edge of it. A frown creased his dark brow as his gaze drifted over the chair that, earlier, his aunt had pulled close to the bed. Why had he not sat there? His frown deepened to a scowl when he realized that, for one of the few times in his life, he didn't have a ready answer.
    Sitting on the bed had not been a good idea... Connor realized a split second too late. The curve of Gabrielle's hip was a mere fraction away from brushing his outer thigh. Even through the thick wool of his kilt, he could feel her fevered heat seeping into his skin, into his blood.
    Connor angled his head, looking down at her. The color in her cheeks was high. From the storm? From her fever? Or from the same awareness that was suddenly coursing through him, hotter and faster than the lightning that streaked through the sky outside?
    As he watched, her attention shadowed his. Her gaze shifted to the chair, then back to him. One black eyebrow arched in a silent question.
    It was a question he'd asked himself, and one that Connor registered with only a portion of his mind. The crux of his attention, much like his bedchamber, was otherwise occupied. While the lass was heavy of build and plain of features, she had the most captivating eyes he'd ever seen. Crisper and clearer than a meadow in early summer. Would her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiled? Would the green depths sparkle like shards of sunlight glinting off a tumultuous sea?
    It was not something Connor would be discovering any time soon. The lass was not smiling now. Exactly the opposite. It was a glare she'd fixed on him, and fixed on him hard. As for sparkling... well, the only shimmer