Perfect Strangers Read Online Free PDF

sneezes.
    She was about to learn just what he had meant.
    Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered to life with double speed. A heavy feeling settled like a chunk of lead in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Gabrielle thought she could live quite happily without that knowledge. She was certain that whatever she was on the verge of learning, she was not going to like it.
    "Och! Cousin, will ye please hurry up? 'Tis not polite to keep yer future bride waiting."
    The voice, soft and delicate and as light as a fresh springtime breeze, drew Gabrielle's attention to the door of the keep. Running down thick stone stairs was a girl of about sixteen. At least Gabrielle thought it was a girl.
    Trews encased the creature's thin legs. A baggy leather jacket, with a faded yellow tunic beneath, hung from her shoulders, disguising the form beneath. A sword, smaller than the type the men around Gabrielle carried, hung from the girl's waist.
    Gabrielle frowned. It was a girl... wasn't it? Truly, it was hard to tell. Squinting, she looked again, harder, as the figure raced energetically across the carpet of wet grass separating them. Aye, it was a girl all right. The features were too delicate, the cheekbones too high and smooth, the mouth too full and pink to be those of a boy. Yet at first glance, if not for that unbound, wild shock of long red hair flying out from behind her, Gabrielle would have sworn the girl was a boy.
    The girl skidded to a stop next to Gabrielle's horse so quickly she almost tripped and landed on her backside for the effort. Gabrielle eyed her warily.
    The girl's eyes were bright blue, fringed by enviably long, thick coppery lashes. Her gaze was straight and direct as it met Gabrielle's.
    Settling small, balled fists on her hips, the girl cocked her head to one side. A frown furrowed her brow as her gaze raked Gabrielle's face, then, one copper eyebrow quirking high, dipped to scan over her cloak-hidden figure.
    "Are ye sure ye've Maxwell blood in ye?" she asked bluntly.
    "None that I'd willingly admit to," Gabrielle answered with equal terseness.
    "Hmph! Ye dinny look like any Maxwell I've e'er seen."
    A hint of a smile curved Gabrielle's lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."
    "Take it any way ye like, ye still dinny look like a Maxwell." The girl's attention turned to the man at Gabrielle's side, and she demanded of him, "Gilby, ye great lug, are ye ver sure this is the right wench? Are ye absolutely certain? Mayhap there was a mistake? 'Twas nae doubt night and hard to see. Methinks ye may have picked up another—?"
    "Nay, Ella," the man called Gilby replied gruffly, "there's been nae mistake. This is the one."
    Ella pursed her lips. Her frown deepened to a scowl. If the way she kicked at the ground meant anything, she wasn't pleased by Gilby's reply. "Well, there's naught for it, then. She'll have to do." She glanced behind her, and her expression lightened. Lifting her voice, she called out, "'Tis aboot time ye got out here, Cousin. The first person to greet yer future bride should have be ye, not me!"
    "And so it shall be, lass. Though somehow I'm doubting 'twas a proper greeting ye came out here to give the wench."
    The girl had the decency to blush, even as Gabrielle shifted her attention from Ella to the possessor of that deep, rumbling voice.
    Gabrielle's breath caught in her throat.
    He had shaggy black hair—the color at least three shades darker than her own—and sharply chiseled features; she wouldn't call him handsome exactly, but his craggy features were intriguing. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest wide; the latter was partially exposed by the untied laces of a cream-colored tunic. Gabrielle tried not to notice the dark, springy curls that peeked up from the separation of fabric. Tried not to, but did nonetheless. Her attention dipped. His stomach was flat and tight, banded by the folds of a black-and-gray plaid kilt.
    Her gaze strayed lower still, and she swallowed hard. The man's legs