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 surrende
r 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?"
Gabrielle hesitated for one throbbing moment, then sighed long and deep and nodded. "Aye, 'tis exactly what I'm asking. And I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I like your touch, Connor Douglas. It sets me on fire and makes me want things I'd never dreamed were possible. If you've no objections, I'd like to feel more of it."
Her sudden humor was reflected in her teasing tone as she glanced at him from over her bare, creamy shoulder and carelessly tossed his own words from earlier back at him. "Ne'er let it be said that The Black Douglas refused a lady."