Montana Wildfire (58 page)

Gabrielle stared at him. The gesture left her speechless. Nay, that was wrong. It wasn't the gesture that stunned her so much as the
gentleness
with which he'd accomplished it.

While The Black Douglas was known for many things, consideration wasn't one of them. Was it possible the rumors and ballads about this man were wrong? That he wasn't in truth the heartless, barbaric monster they all painted him?

Gabrielle suppressed a groan. Dear Lord, she must be sicker than she originally thought to even be considering such a notion. Was this not, after all, the same man who'd flagrantly—and much too easily, as far as she was concerned—stolen her, his brother's fiancée, right out from under the other man's nose? Was this not the same man who claimed it a rightful theft, the same man who'd then boldly bragged about marrying her himself?

Aye, it was. But, Gabrielle found all of those misdeeds hard to remember when the feel of Connor's strong, cloth-covered fingers gently skimming her jaw still lingered and tingled in her veins.

"Here, lass, swallow down another bite. 'Tis good and hearty fare, just the thing for a sick wench." He'd dipped the spoon back into the bowl and now held it close to her tightly compressed lips.

Gabrielle shook her head. She was wise enough this time not to open her mouth to voice the protest that itched the tip of her tongue.

Her attention had been locked on the closed door at the foot of the bed. It now lifted to his face.

From a distance, his eyes had looked... well, merely gray. Up close, she saw that there was nothing "merely" about them. The irises
were
predominantly slate colored, yet now she noticed they were also flecked with intriguing shards of brilliant blue. The darkness of his eyebrows, and the uncommonly long, thick black eyelashes, contrasted sharply, complementing and enhancing their color.

She shook her head to clear it, ignoring the way the gesture set her temples to throbbing anew. "I'll not be marrying you, Connor Douglas, so get that notion out of your head right now."

This time, Gabrielle was prepared. She kept her teeth clenched together as she talked, giving him no opportunity to shove more food into her mouth.

Connor frowned and looked vaguely disappointed.

Gabrielle gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt almost as much as her pounding head and aching throat. Did he truly think her so stupid she would fall for that trick more than once? If so, the man had a good deal to learn about Careltons and their intelligence... not to mention their stubborn determination!

"Right now me main concern is nursing ye back to health. What's done is done, and cannot be undone. What happens after ye're well will happen. There's naught ye can do aboot it. Ye're... er, a robust lass, I'll grant ye that, but naught more than a lass all the same. If I chose to wed ye, there's not a thing ye can do to stop me."

"That's where you're wrong. There are
several
things I can, and
will
, do," Gabrielle replied tightly, even as her fevered mind scrambled to think of what even one of those things might be. "You realize that..."—
ah-ha!
—"that Elizabeth will have your head when she finds out what you've done, do you not?"

"Elizabeth isn't
my
sovereign, she's yers." Connor replaced the spoon in the bowl, then sat back in the chair, his shrewd gray gaze never leaving her. "And aye, the messenger she sent this afternoon did mention something aboot separating me head from me shoulders, but I paid the threat no heed."

She sucked in a quick breath. The Queen had sent a messenger? And The Black Douglas had blatantly ignored the threat the messenger carried? Was the man insane?! Did he not know that, while Elizabeth could ignore much, never could the woman stand to be ignored herself?

"What about your young king?" Gabrielle asked, and winced. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak, shaky, lacking its previous conviction. "Methinks James will be equally displeased with what you've done."

A reckless grin that made Gabrielle's heart skip a beat tugged at one corner of Connor's mouth. "Och! but there's the rub. Ye're right aboot him not being pleased, but I've gotten him angrier in the past. Jamie threatens only a fine." When she regarded him suspiciously, he shrugged and added, "His messenger arrived as the Queen's was leaving, and shortly a'fore twa sent by the March Wardens. Squeezed in between those was a messenger from the Maxwell. Er, I think that be the order. Truth to tell, I dinny remember exactly, there were so many messengers coming and going. 'Tis been a busy afternoon."

That even one messenger had come was music to Gabrielle's ears. Surely with so many protests and threats The Black Douglas would
have
to let her go now.

Wouldn't he?

Her gaze raked his face; Connor's features were ruggedly carved, his expression decisive. A glint of persistence shimmered like liquid gray fire in his eyes.

An uneasy feeling prickled along the nape of Gabrielle's neck. The Black Douglas looked more determined than ever to keep and wed her.

She shuddered. This would never do!

Excerpt from

California Caress

by

Rebecca Sinclair

© 1989, 2011 Rebecca Sinclair

“You rat,” she hissed, her lips thinning into a hard white line. “You knew he wouldn’t stop, didn’t you?” She paused, taking a deep gulp of air. “Of course you knew. That’s why you didn’t stop me from making a total idiot out of myself, isn’t it? Because you knew he wouldn’t care enough about what was happening in here to even think about offering help.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he scolded, his tone patronizingly dry. “Of course I knew he wouldn’t stop. Yelling and screaming goes on around here night and day. Nobody thinks a thing of it. Where are you going?” To his surprise the woman gathered the cloak tightly around her and marched with rigid determination toward the single window behind his chair.

“As far away from you as I can get,” she informed him briskly as she gave a push to the smeared bottom pane of glass. Her heard skipped as beat as the wooden frame stuck, then slid high. Unfortunately, it slipped down just as easily, but that minor hindrance could be worked around. She was feeling braver, more confident with the cool night air wafting around her, clearing her senses. Her headache receded to a dull throb.

“We’re on the second story,” he informed her, his tone dry and unemotional. From the sound of his voice, he hadn’t bothered to get up; a fact that hardly surprised her. “It’s quite a fall.”

“Not if I land on that drunk,” she said as she peeked out the window and saw the sprawled from of a man lying face first in the dirt. She wasn’t sure, but she would have sworn it was the same one who had almost smacked her in the face with the swinging bar door.

By the time Hope felt the viselike grip wrap around her upper arm, she had already managed to swing both legs out the window and was perched on the sill. She used one hand to prop up the frame above her head while the other steadied her precarious balance. The rose-colored skirt was hoisted well above her knees, exposing more than a proper amount of creamy calves and delicately turned ankles. The folds of her cloak, still inside the room, floated down the wall and draped over the crudely planed floor.

“You’re not going anywhere, young lady,” the man growled as a hand wrapped around her other arm. It was all she could do to keep the window from falling on her legs as she was forcefully dragged back inside.

As her back came up hard against his chest, she suddenly prayed Luke would disobey her as he always did and come looking for her, fast. The sight of her gigantic brother would certainly knock that overly inflated ego down a peg or two, something this man sorely needed.

“Let go of me this instant, you idiot,” she demanded, trying to twist away from his grasp. She might as well have been heaving herself against a brick wall for all the good it did her.

In a repeat performance of what she had done to Luke, Hope pulled back her foot and kicked for all she was worth. Apparently she was worth more than she thought, especially if the man’s grunt of pain was anything to judge by.

“Stop it,” he ordered as the heel of her boot collided with his shin yet again.

“Not until you let me go,” she snapped, slammer her heel down on his toe. Unfortunately, his boots made sure the blow did little damage. She resorted to kicking again.

This time the man waited until her foot was drawn back and ready to strike, the unexpectedly let her go. Hope, unprepared for the sudden release, tumbled backwards, her bottom meeting the hardwood floor in a bone-jarring collision. The force of her momentum thrust her backward, her legs pinned by the twisting skirt and cloak. It was sheer luck that she was able to reach out in time to stop her head from hitting the floor.

So much for fighting fair!
She thought as she staggered to her feet and faced her opponent. Expecting a man the size of the rest of the prospectors of Thirst Gulch, it was not a pleasant surprise to see that this one towered over her by almost a full head. Her courage floundered.

“Are you done?” he asked bitterly. Like a dancer, he balanced his weight on one foot while the other rubbed against his sore shin. He wasn’t taking the chance of bending to inspect the damage, she noted, and surmised the reason as a rightful mistrust of what she might do next.

“Are you going to let me out of here?” she countered with an indignant toss of her head. A mistake, that, as her pounding temples were quick to inform her.

The gesture made the chestnut curls ripple over her shoulders, swaying freely at the small taper of her waist. In the scuffle, her cloak had parted, the front pleats working their way to the back so the coarse wool now flowed freely over her shoulders. The parting served only to draw attention to the low-scooped neckline of her dress.

Noticing where the man’s attention lay, she quickly flipped the cloak into place, nestling into its folds as though she hadn’t so much as a stitch on beneath. Indeed from the way those sea-green eyes had ravished her exposed flesh, she might as well not have. There were rumors of the way some men could look at a woman as though undressing her with their eyes, but never had she experienced the sensation—until now.

Planting balled fists on her hips, she valiantly gathered what was left of her courage and proudly returned his glare, measure for angry measure. “I demand you let me out of here.”

One golden brow arched, and she would have sworn she saw a fleeting trace of amusement. “You demand?
You
demand?” The chuckle that filled the room was brief and filled with sarcasm. “You are hardly in a position to
demand
anything, sunshine. And I’m not your jailer. If you want to leave, leave.” The tanned brow was much too innocently smooth for Hope’s liking as he cut a mock bow and swept the interior of the room with a large palm. A crooked smile twisted his lips. “If you can.”

Instantly, she turned back to the window, but the voice behind her stopped her cold before the pane was halfway up.