His gray eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing her keenly, waiting for her reaction.
That reaction was not what it would have been on a day when her body didn't ache from tiredness and burn with fever. Her vision was watery, blurry, and there was a distinct blackness around the edges that alarmed her. She'd never fainted in her life, yet she'd an uneasy feeling she was about to do exactly that.
Blinking hard, she shook her head. Instead of making the blackness clouding her vision abate, the gesture served only to enhance it. This would never do! She bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to taste the sharp, salty tang of her own blood. That helped clear her head, but only a bit.
Gabrielle didn't know what she was going to do; she knew only what she wouldn't do. She wouldn't, couldn't, faint now or she would be lost. She needed to stay conscious, if only for a little while, while there might be a chance—a slim one, aye, but a chance all the same—to set this most inconceivable situation to rights.
Struggling to keep her senses sharp, Gabrielle tightened her fingers around the reins until the strips of leather bit into her skin. She'd ridden this horse for too many weeks to count and knew it well. A nudge of her knees set the nag off and running.
What should have been a brave, daring escape was cut humiliatingly short.
Two steps. That was all the ground the horse was allowed to cover before Connor Douglas casually reached out and snatched the reins from Gabrielle's hand. With a flick of his wrist, the horse came to a halt.
The quick stop came perilously close to tumbling Gabrielle out of the saddle. The blackness was back, edging her vision, but she was too embarrassed and angry to pay heed to it.
Her attention jerked to the side and down. The glare she leveled on Connor Douglas was hot enough to ignite a bonfire. "Let go of my horse."
"'Tis not yer horse, 'tis mine."
"I'll not argue over wording with you, sir! I demand you let go of those reins and let go of them now!"
"Why? Ye dinny ken which way to go."
"I've a very good sense of direction. I'll figure it out."
"In yer condition? Ha! Nay, lass, aboot all ye'll do is get yerself lost in the forest and die of the fever." His frown was dark and stormy as he scratched at the stubbled underside of his jaw. "Or mayhaps ye're going to deny ye're sick? I suppose ye could try, but dinny fool yerself into thinking I'd believe it. Yer nose is swollen and red, and yer bloodshot, watery eyes speak for themselves."
Ella nudged her cousin's side and whispered loudly enough for Gabrielle to hear, "Poor Connor. Mayhap not e'en until winter?"
His reply to the cryptic remark was a noncommittal grunt.
Gabrielle swayed and again bit the tender inside of her cheek. This time, the sting of pain didn't help. The blackness was edging in, growing strong, tunneling her vision until all she could see was Connor Douglas.
It was the one thing on earth she did not want to see.
"Obviously there has been a mistake," Gabrielle said, mirroring the words someone had spoken earlier. Her thickly clouded mind wouldn't allow her to remember who or when. Was it her imagination, or did her voice sound slurred, oddly distant? Nay, it was not her imagination, that was how her ears perceived it.
Her limbs felt weak and shaky. She had to grip the edge of the saddle hard, until it cut ridges in her fingertips, and even then her seat remained wobbly. Still, it was either that or tumble in an ungraceful heap at Connor Douglas's feet.
"There's been nae mistake," he said evenly. "Ye're exactly where ye're supposed to be."
"Nay, I am not even close," she replied stubbornly, and realized it was getting more and more difficult to force her tongue to shape words. The blackness was racing in quickly now. Even the easiest thought flowed through her fevered mind like water, refusing to freeze and solidify. "My destination is Gaelside, castle of Colin Douglas. Not Bracklenaer."
"Och! lass, I ken yer destination well enough. Do ye ken that ye're aboot to faint?"
"I most certain am not!" Gabrielle replied hotly.
She then proceeded to do exactly that.
The blackness swept over Gabrielle, the strength drained out of her body. Her limbs felt heavy yet at the same time light and limp. Her eyes flickered shut of their own accord. Her head dipped, and her chin collided with her cloak-covered collarbone.
The saddle beneath her shifted. Nay, that was wrong. It was not the saddle that shifted, it was herself... shifting out of it.
Dear God, she was falling!
With what little consciousness she'd conserved, Gabrielle commanded her body to do something, anything, to stop herself from falling. While her body would have loved to obey, tried to even, in the end, it simply couldn't. Her arms, neck, and legs felt as if they'd been weighted down by chunks of lead; no amount of mental coaxing could shake off the heaviness and make them move.
Gabrielle groaned, or at least tried to. To the best of her knowledge, no sound left her tight, dry throat. Reluctantly, she realized that her only hope now was to be totally unconscious before she hit the ground, and therefore saved the embarrassment of falling at this arrogant Scot's—The Black Douglas's!—feet.
Just as she was about to pitch out of the saddle, she felt an arm slipped behind her waist. Another slid quickly beneath her knees. Both were as thick and hard as a tree limb.
Had Connor Douglas caught her? she wondered, even as the blackness came up, threatening to swallow her completely.
"Umph!"
The sound came as though from a distance, echoing in her ears as she felt him take on her full weight.
The last thing Gabrielle heard before unconsciousness overtook her was Ella's soft, melodic laughter. "Pampered and delicate of constitution, did ye say she'd be? Dainty and frail? Methinks ye've misjudged yer future wife, Connor... in a fine muckle maun ways than one!"
Chapter 3
News on the Borders moved faster than Kinmont Willie slipping out of Carlisle Castle.
The first messenger arrived at noon.
Connor and Gilby were in the great hall, sitting at one of the tables lining the wall, drinking ale and debating which would happen first: the Kerrs pilfering Bracklenaer, or the Douglas pilfering the Kerrs. Deep in conversation, neither noticed the hesitant-looking man who was led into the room by a serving wench, the latter's arms were piled with fresh rushes and sprigs of summer-dried heather.
The girl cleared her throat. "M'lord," she said, her knobby chin jerking briskly in the stranger's direction, "he's come to see ye. Says he bears a message."
Stopping in midsentence, Connor's gaze left Gilby and shifted to the stranger. The man was wearing the gray of the Douglas, but the plaid was embellished with thin strips of blue; the sight left no doubt in Connor's mind as to from whom the message came. "Dinny stand there staring, mon. Come o'er here, give me yer message, and be done with it."
The man approached the table. His eyes were narrow as his attention volleyed warily between Connor and Gilby.
Connor considered offering the man a drink, then decided against it. There was no need. The stranger hadn't traveled far to get to Bracklenaer, nor would he have far to travel home. Instead, he took a sip from his mug and regarded the man sharply from over the rim.
The stranger shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously eager to deliver his message and quit the keep, the sooner the better. "M'lord, I've a message fer ye from—"
"Me brother," Connor supplied for him. "Aye, I ken that well enough." His gaze dipped, lingered for a poignant second on the man's wear-faded kilt, lifted. From the corner of his eye, Connor noticed that the wench was taking her sweet time spreading the rushes over the floor. Eavesdropping, no doubt. "Ver well, mon, say what ye've come to say and be quick aboot it. I've business to attend."
The man cleared his throat and sucked in a deep breath before starting. "M'lord, Sir Colin Douglas of Gaelside, Duke of—"
"Och! mon, I ken who me brother be," Connor interrupted impatiently. "Can ye not skip that part and
get directly to the message?"
The man hesitated. Now that the words he'd been carefully rehearsing during the hours it took to travel between castles were not to be spoken, he seemed unsure of how to proceed.
"Mayhap if ye simply sum up Colin's threats?" Connor prompted the man helpfully.
The stranger nodded, yet he continued to hesitate.
Connor ignored the way Gilby gulped back a laugh along with a deep swallow of ale, and prodded, "'Tis doubtful Colin would send ye here without the obligatory threat of murder and mayhem in retaliation for stealing his future bride. Aye?"
"Aye!" The man's rigid posture relaxed a wee bit, and this time his nod was enthusiastic.
"Did he threaten to steal the lass back?"
"Aye!"
"That sounds typical of Colin. Did he also say I'd live to regret the hour our mither gave us birth?"
The man frowned slightly. "Well, nay, not in so many words exactly..."
"But the implication was there?"
"Maun than there, m'lord."
"Were there naught other more specific threats he sent ye here to relay?"
"Just one more, m'lord."
"And that is?"
"Methinks this one may not be a threat so much as a warning."
Connor shrugged and motioned with his hand for the man to continue. The wench, he noticed absently, had abandoned her pretense of spreading the rushes and heather; she'd taken a seat not far away and was now listening openly, eager to snare a tidbit or two of gossip.
"All right, mon, what be me brother's warning, then?" Connor asked, checking his impatience.
"I am to tell ye specifically that he will slice off yer..." The man gulped, his gaze skipping to the wench then back to Connor. "Er, that is to say, he means to relieve ye of a certain part of yer anatomy if ye so much as lay a finger on the beautiful and fragile Lady Gabrielle Carelton."
Gilby and the serving wench laughed heartily, until even the huge dogs that stretched lazily in front of the hearth picked up their heads, ears perking as they looked around to see what the commotion was about.
Connor, who had lifted his mug and was in the process of downing the rest of the ale, felt the yeasty liquid clog in his laughter-tightened throat. He choked and sputtered. "Beautiful and fragile?" he asked when he was finally able to catch his breath. A warning glare at Gilby and the wench toned them down to snickers. "Colin said that?"
"Aye, he did," the man replied hesitantly. "I dinny see what's so funny aboot it, though."
"Nor will ye, unless me brother has suddenly become smart and crafty and accomplished his threat to steal the lass back."
"And we all ken that the chances of that happening," Gilby interceded, "are aboot as good as me being crowned King of England in that dour old puss's place. Ha!"
Connor slammed his empty mug down on the table and released the chuckle he'd been sup pressing. His attention returned to the messenger. "Do ye have instructions to take back a reply?"
He shrugged warily. "I have nae instruction not to."
"Ver good. Ride back to Gaelside and tell me brother..." Connor pursed his lips and scowled thoughtfully. "Aye, tell Colin that I said to use what little brains God gave him and cool his hot-blooded heels for once. The Lady Gabrielle was rightfully stolen, and no March Warden on either side of the Border can argue that point. 'Tis no fault of mine if me brother can't keep proper track of his belongings, don't ye ken? The lass is in my care now, and in my care she shall stay. Howe'er..." A shrewd grin tugged at one corner of Connor's mouth and his gray eyes gleamed as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "tell him that if he will not listen, and he's truly of a mind to rescue the"—ahem!—"beautiful and fragile lass, he's welcome to try." His gaze narrowed on the messenger. "Whate'er ye do, mon, dinny forget to tell him that last part."
"I'll not forget."
"Good." Connor gestured toward the door to the hall. "What are ye waiting for? Be off with ye. Ye've an important message to deliver."
The man nodded briskly and turned toward the door. He reached the arched stone doorway, then stopped. Looking back over his shoulder, the man paused for a beat before saying in an oddly timid tone, "M'lord, rumor has it that ye and but fifty men crept into Caerlaverock, whisked away two dozen of the Maxwell's beasties and half that again in prisoners, without e'en disturbing the laird's sleep. Rumor also has it that Johnny Maxwell wasn't aware of his losses until the next morning when he sat down to break his fast... but the table stayed empty. One of the prisoners taken was his cook." A spark of admiration flashed in the man's eyes. "'Tis quite the tale of daring... if it be true. Is it?"
"Tell me, do ye believe e'ery rumor ye hear?"
"W-well, nay," the man stammered. "Howe'er, I've been hearing a fine muckle of rumors aboot The Black Douglas of late. E'eryone at Gaelside is curious to ken how many of them be true and how many be so maun talk."
"I dinny see that it matters. True or not, people believe what they will." Connor forced his shrug to look negligent as his attention shifted. He waved to the wench, indicating she should fetch more ale. She stood and retrieved his and Gilby's mug, then quickly disappeared around a corner at the opposite side of the hall, heading down the dimly lit corridor that led to the kitchen.
There was no need to glance at the doorway to see if the messenger had left; the man's bootheels echoed on the stone steps leading down to the ground-floor entrance.
Connor glanced at Gilby and sighed. "Dinny ye think it a wee bit strange?"
"The message?" Gilby asked.
"Och! nay, that was expected. Colin is Colin; 'twould have been odd if he'd not made any threats. What I be talking aboot are these... these rumors going aboot."
"Ballads," Gilby corrected easily, "is what they are now. They were rumors only for a short time before someone paced them and put them to song."
"Rumors, ballads, whate'er they be, they're be a fine muckle strange."
Gilby shrugged. "'Tis the way o' things. Ye dinny need me to tell ye that Borderers are wont to write ballads and tell tales, the taller the better."
"'Tis not the rum—er, ballads themselves that bother me, Gilby, 'tis their subject matter. Ye should ken better than maun that there's naught extraordinary about me. Why this sudden attention? Why waste prose on me and my not so daring but really quite ordinary deeds?"
The Black Douglas's first in command thought about this for a moment. "Now that The Devil is wed and settled down to raising his bairns, they've naught left to sing about him but lullabies. Ye have to admit, Connor, ye did ride on Caerlaverock exactly as the mon said."
"But not with fifty men!"
"Aye," Gilby agreed, "with twenty. Which is e'en more daring than accomplishing the deed with a mere fifty."
"Methinks 'tis a good thing me brother's men dinny ken that or they'd have me canonized."
The thought made Gilby laugh. The sound bounced off the hard stone walls of the hall like resonant claps of thunder.
The serving wench returned, and gave Gilby an odd glance as she set the two fresh mugs of ale in front of them. Just as she was about to turn away, Connor reached out and gently grasped her wrist, stopping her short.
She glanced down at him, puzzled. An impatient light shimmered in her eyes, and it was obvious she was anxious to get back to the kitchen and finish telling the other servants what had just transpired in the hall.
"Has the lass come 'round yet?"
She nodded her dreary brown head. "Aye, m'lord, aboot an hour ago."
Connor let go of her slender wrist and sat back in surprise. "An hour ago? Why dinny anyone come and fetch me?" he demanded.
"She asked us not to disturb ye."
"not to disturb—?! Saints alive, wench, dinny I tell ye to get me the second she awoke?" Connor's scowl was dark and fierce. He'd lifted his mug to take a deep sip, but the girl's words stopped him short. He set the mug back down on the table hard enough to make a goodly portion of the foamy contents spill over the side, down his hand
, and onto the scarred oak tabletop.
The girl opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. Her gaze shifted briefly to Gilby, but she found no help there. This time when she spoke, her lower lip trembled, and her voice was weak and edged with hesitancy. "A-aye, ye did, but..."
"Tell me something, Alice. Do ye now obey a Carelton's orders over my own?"
Alice's eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. "Nay! Ne'er!"
"Then why was my order not carried out, whilst hers was?"
"I-I—"
Alice was saved having to answer the question by the sound of more footsteps stomping on the stairs outside the hall. They grew louder instead of softer, indicating an approach instead of a retreat.
The relief in the girl's eyes was tangible. When Connor gestured tightly for her to leave the room, she did so without a trace of reluctance.
"A messenger, m'lord," a gruff male voice announced from the arched doorway. "From King James."
Connor lifted his mug, his fingers tight around the handle. He drained two thirds of the tepid contents in a single gulp, all the while wondering how many more messengers were to come, and how much worse the day was destined to get.
* * *
"Will ye not be a good lass and open yer mouth a'fore the broth spills all o'er the covers? As ye nae doubt can see, me hand isn't so steady as it once was, and I've nae desire to be changing the bed simply because ye're to stubborn to open yer mouth."
Gabrielle sat back against the pillows cushioning her back from the hard wooden headboard. "I keep telling you, madam, that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself. Give me the spoon and I'll happily prove it to you."
The old woman laughed; to Gabrielle's sensitive ears, it sounded more like a harsh cackle, harder and colder than the stone walls off which it bounced. "Och! 'twas a good try, lass, but not good enough to slip past the likes of me. Now, open yer mouth."
Gabrielle clenched her teeth together and shook her head. The gesture made her head pound, even as she eyed the old woman speculatively.
Perfect Strangers Page 4
