Perfect Strangers

by Rebecca Sinclair

  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 of emotion he could detect glistening in those pretty green eyes of hers was one of sheer fury.

  He drew in a measured breath, releasing it with equally forced leisure. Connor hesitated. His frown deepened as his chin lifted and he angled his head to the side. His eyes narrowed as he inhaled again, this time slowly, assessively. One dark brow shot high in his wide forehead as his gaze raked the wench. "If I'm not mistaken—and when it comes to this," he added carefully, "believe me, lass, I ne'er am—'tis the scent o' the best Scots whisky this side of the Teviot that I'm smelling. Ye wouldn't happen to have been tiddling... would ye?"

  Gabrielle averted her gaze to the flames crackling in the hearth at the foot of her bed. Her shrug was implausibly tight. "Tiddling?"

  "Drinking."

  "Oh. Um, well, I may have had a sip or two of the brew Mairghread left by my bed," she replied evasively. "But I'd not call that 'tiddling.'"

  Connor reached out and grasped the goblet. Half the contents were gone. He lifted it to his nose, inhaled deeply. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "'Tis a toddie."

  "There, you see? I told you I wasn't drink—er, tiddling."

  "Lass, this toddie has double the normal portion of whisky in it. Did ye not notice that when you drained half of it?"

  "Now that you mention it, I did think it a bit potent," she agreed.

  Connor's grin broadened. She hadn't lied and said she wasn't the one who'd drank it. For some reason, that pleased him. He leaned to the side and started to set the goblet back down on the table but changed his mind. "Here, now be a good lass and drink up the rest. There's nae better cure for the fever that's making yer cheeks ruddy and yer eyes o'er bright. Go on now. Slainte mhar!"

  Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then accepted the goblet with shaky fingers. And what, she wondered, would The Black Douglas say if he found out the color in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes had precious little to do with her fever... and everything to do with him?

  The silky heat of his body seeped through the woolen plaid and sheepskin beneath, through the thin linen shift to caress her hip. She only wished she could blame her too vivid awareness of this man's closeness on the whisky she'd consumed! But her conscience wouldn't allow such a deception; instead, a small, nagging voice inside forced her to recognize the thought for the feeble, worthless excuse it was.

  Gabrielle lifted the goblet to her lips and foolishly inhaled. The fumes assailed her immediately, making her eyes sting and water. Wrinkling her nose, she held her breath and took two hearty gulps, leaving only a quarter of the goblet's contents. Her mouth and throat were much too numb now to notice the whisky's passing as it slid smoothly down to the warm pool gathering in her stomach.

  She started to pull the goblet away from her mouth. To her surprise, Connor reached out and, with the tip of a index finger, tilted it so the remainder of the liquor flooded into her mouth.

  Gabrielle choked down the rest of the drink, glowering at him all the while. Outrage simmered to her core, swift and strong and hot. As if his forcing her to finish the drink wasn't humiliating enough...

  God blast it, the heathen was laughing at her!

  Well, mayhap not laughing exactly, but he was undoubtedly smiling. Small creases shot out from the weathered corners of his sharp gray eyes. Two more bracketed his sensuously thin lips. Since she could detect only those few laugh lines, Gabrielle guessed that The Black Douglas wasn't a man normally given to laughter. Pity. The gesture softened his harshly sculpted features and made him appear quite attractive in the soft bath of flickering orange firelight.

  Gabrielle swallowed hard, twice, wrinkling her nose at the sharp aftertaste of whisky and lemon on her tongue. Good Lord, what had gotten into her? Had she just thought this man devilishly attractive? And had she truly been on the verge of smiling back at him?!

  She had, on both counts.

  It was the whisky. Aye, that explained it! The potent brew had gone straight to her head and addled her normally good sense. She seized on the excuse. What other reason could there be for so blatantly uncharacteristic a reaction?

  Lowering the goblet, she opened her mouth to say something.

  What might those words have been?

  It was something Gabrielle was destined to always wonder about... for in the same instant Connor reached out and, with the pad of his thumb, wiped away the amber drop of whisky clinging to her chin.

  The contact was shocking.

  Thunder echoed outside, a distant rumbling now that the storm had begun to abate. Rain continued to batter the glass windowpane. A log in the hearth shifted, rolled, popping and snapping as it volcanoed up a spray of sparks.

  Gabrielle was oblivious to it all. Her attention had tunneled inward, until she could notice nothing beyond the warm, rough feel of Connor Douglas's thumb whisking over the much softer, sensitive flesh of her chin.

  The drop of whisky had been absorbed almost immediately by the battle-calloused tip of his thumb, yet his touch lingered and disturbed, soothed and burned.

  Her gaze lifted, locking with his. Was it her imagination, or were his eyes a shade darker than she remembered them being only a few short minutes before?

  "Ye need rest," Connor said finally, his voice oddly low and thick. As he spoke, he turned his hand and stroked the line of her jaw with his knuckles.

  A vague nod was all she could muster. Truly, she thought herself lucky to manage that much. It was taking the brunt of her concentration not to give in to the hot, basic instinct that clawed away inside her, an instinct that demanded she turn her head a fraction and bask in the serene warmth and strength of his hand caressing her face.

  She started to close her eyes, started to turn her head into the wonder of his touch despite her determination not to...

  "Rest," Connor said, as if only in repeating the word did it finally soak into his mind, along with its meaning. He yanked his hand away, cleared his throat too loudly, and bolted to his feet. He took the goblet from her slack fingers and placed it back on the small table beside the bed. "Aye, lass, rest. 'Tis exactly what ye need. And lots of it."

  In three long strides, he was at the door. He stopped, glanced back as though he was about to say something, then shook his dark head, opened the door, and left.

  Gabrielle sneezed and sniffled, all the while trying not to notice how large and empty the bedchamber suddenly felt. At the same time, she tried also not to notice the way the side of her face felt cold without his touch, the outer curve of her hip oddly chilled without his body heat to warm it.

  Tried not to, but did.

  Even the fire that The Black Douglas had coaxed into blazing in the hearth could not warm her in those two areas.

  Her attention still on the door, Gabrielle tugged up the covers and fisted them tightly beneath her chin. The liquor formed a hot, liquidy pool in her stomach; like a stone cast in a calm lake, it sent warm ripples throughout the rest of her body.

  So why, she wondered, even as she huddled beneath the covers and lay back against the pillow, did the left side of her face and her hip refuse to be warmed?

  Chapter 5

  "Wake up!"

  The words hissed out of the velvet black night, playing on the edge of Gabrielle's sleep-clouded mind. Muttering beneath her breath, she sniffled and rolled onto her side.

  Something—a hand?—nudged her. Slee
pily, she tried to swat it away.

  A Gaelic curse warmed the damp night air. "I'll give ye this... while ye dinny look like a Maxwell, ye sure the devil sleep like one."

  The nudge was back, only this time it came in the form of a jostle. A very firm, very insistent jostle. Fingertips bit into the tender flesh of her shoulder. Gabrielle winced.

  Grudgingly, Gabrielle allowed herself to be shaken awake, and in so doing abandoned quite an interesting dream. In it, a craggily handsome Scotsman with shaggy, glossy black hair and piercing gray eyes was sitting on the bed beside her. Oh so closely beside her. Connor had left her for a fortnight to the care of his aunt and assorted guards, while the dream had been so tantalizingly vivid that—

  "Och! lass, will ye please wake up? Yer maun to big for me to pick up and carry. not that I'm foolish enough to try, mind ye, I ken me limits."

  "Who... wha—?"

  "She speaks. 'Tis a miracle!"

  The sarcasm wasn't lost on Gabrielle, whose eyes snapped open in response. Blinking hard, she squinted at the inky shadows until she was able to pull into focus the vague shape squatting beside the bed. The size and shape was unmistakable, as was the shock of brilliant red hair that, even in this inky darkness, couldn't be missed. "Ella?"

  "Aye, and Mairghread is o'er on the other side."

  Gabrielle stifled the half yawn, half cough that rose in her throat and turned her head. Her vision was quickly adapting to the darkness; making out the thick, stooped shape of the old woman took only a fraction of the time it had taken for her to recognize Ella. "What is wrong? What has happened?"

  "There's nae time to explain," Ella said. "Here, put this on."

  "Do it quickly." Mairghread's aged voice cracked with urgency.

  "Aye, lass, ver quickly. There's not a second to waste."

  Ella shoved something—a pile of clothes from the weight and feel of it—into Gabrielle's arms. If the feel of the coarse material hadn't told her the quality of the clothes she'd just been handed, the stench of them would have. Her nose was still stuffy, but not that stuffy! The previous owner's smell lingered, seemly woven into every thread of the coarse fabric.

  Gabrielle's first instinct was to drop the bundle of clothes and demand to know what was going on. But, no she knew that would not be wise. She was woefully out of her element on this side of the Border, forced to trust in strangers. She could only hope her trust was not unfounded, that those who lived here would keep her safe until she learned the ways of things herself. It went against her nature and better judgment, but there was no help for it; she was, after all, among strange people whose strange ways were completely alien to her.

  And then, too—and more important—now that Gabrielle was fully awake, other sounds intruded over the harsh rattle of Mairghread's breathing.

  The angry rumble of men's voices.

  The thudding thread of feet stomping hurriedly to and fro.

  From outside, the icy rasp of steel raking steel.

  It was the last sound that trickled down Gabrielle's spine like a drop of melting snow. She couldn't tell from which direction any of it came, she only knew that the ruckus was close. Too close. Was there even time to pose a question?

  "Light a candle so the lass can see what she's aboot," Mairghread hissed.

  "Nay, I dinny dare it."

  "What we dinny dare is to tarry here o'er long. Use yer head, Ella. Without light, how much longer will it take for her to put on unfamiliar clothes in the dark?"

  By her tone Gabrielle knew Ella grumbled something uncomplimentary. After a brief hesitation, the redheaded girl lit the candle beside the bed. Gabrielle stifled a sneeze with her fist and blinked quickly against the sudden light. Her gaze volleyed between the two Scotswomen. Their worried expressions encouraged Gabrielle's already hammering heart to beat in double rhythm.

  Dropping the bundle of clothes onto her lap, Gabrielle quickly sorted through them. There wasn't much. A pair of men's trews, a baggy beige tunic, soft leather boots that looked three sizes too large. If there were undergarments, she couldn't find them. Nor did she waste time asking for any. The way Mairghread watched her with keen impatience said time was of the essence.

  For once not overly conscious of the rounded figure beneath the white linen folds, Gabrielle yanked the nightgown over her head and tossed it to the floor. She shivered when the cold, damp night air hit her flesh like a vigorous slap. The tunic felt rough against her skin as she tugged it over her head, the trews rougher still—and a good deal tighter!—as she yanked them up over her hips.

  She was right, the boots were far too large. For her size, her feet were small; they fairly swam in the leathery depths. The tunic stretched tightly across her breasts, and the trews felt uncomfortably snug, provocatively revealing. She tried not to notice the ripe aroma clinging to the clothes, and now to her.

  "I'm ready." Dressed, Gabrielle stood and faced the women, her concerned gaze touching briefly on the scabbard hanging at Ella's side, and the leather-wrapped hilt peeking out of it. Mairghread had come around to the other side of the bed while she was dressing, and now stood beside her niece.

  Remembering Ella's argument about lighting the candle, Gabrielle licked her forefinger and thumb and doused the wavering teardrop of flame. Perhaps it was a trick of light and shadow, but she could have sworn she saw a glint of respect in Ella's eyes an instant before the dim glow was abruptly extinguished.

  To her aunt, Ella said, "Margie, ye take one of her hands, I'll take the other." More harshly to Gabrielle, "'Tis maun important ye dinny let go, no matter what ye see or hear. Do ye understand?"

  Gabrielle nodded, forgetting for an instant that neither woman could see the gesture in the dark. "Aye," she whispered. "I understand."

  Mairghread grasped her left hand, Ella her right. Even in the dark, the feel of each was unmistakable. On one side, her fingers wrapped around leathery skin and brittle bones, on the other enviably slender fingers and skin that felt softer than the inner petals of a rose.

  The softer hand gave an unexpected, and not at all gentle, yank.

  Gabrielle stumbled into step behind Ella. She winced, her shoulder smarting as she strained at an awkward position to make sure the same impact wasn't put on the older, more fragile bones in Mairghread's hands.

  "Where are we going?" Gabrielle whispered as they inched their way in the dark toward the door.

  "Outside, where 'tis safe." It was Mairghread who answered.

  "Excuse my ignorance, but it doesn't sound like outside is a safe place to be right now." Gabrielle tried to swallow back her alarm. The men's voices had grown louder, the sound of rushing footsteps and scraping steel closer. Were these two women insane that they would purposely seek to go out into that uproar?!

  "Because ye're Sassenach, we excuse maun," Mairghread replied. "Keep in mind, ye dinny yet ken the ways of the Border, lass. Trust us, 'tis a fine muckle safer to be outside Bracklenaer's walls than trapped inside should Johnny Maxwell—God rot 'im!—have his way and capture the castle."

  They reached the door. Ella made a sharp, hissing sound through her teeth, indicating they should stop whispering between themselves. Only once the girl was positive the other two would obey did she slowly lift the latch and ease the wooden panel open a crack.

  A sliver of sconcelight cut a swath through the opening, slicing over the floor even as Ella pressed her face to the crack and scanned the hallway. Something else intruded in the room as well: the thick, cloying aroma of burning wood.

  Gabrielle's breath snagged in her throat; she had to concentrate hard not to give in to a bout of coughing. Good heavens, they were burning the castle! Nothing in all her years of training in Elizabeth's court had prepared her for anything like this! A surge of panic swelled inside her, almost overwhelming her. Almost. As though reading her mind, Mairghread's bony fingers tightened, clasping Gabrielle's hand in a painful grip. The bite of the old woman's fingers was painful but oddly comforting and enough to still her panic. For t
he moment.

  "'Tis clear," Ella informed them from over a delicately molded shoulder. "Come, we maun hurry. If I ken Johnny Maxwell, 'twill not stay so for long."

  Ella slipped through the door, with Gabrielle close on her heels. While Gabrielle had worried about Mairghread keeping up with the two younger women, she found out quickly that her concern was misplaced The old woman might be stooped and crooked from age, but there was nothing wrong with her legs; she hustled along the hallways as fast, if not faster, than both of them, more times than not bumping into Gabrielle's back as though urging them to a quicker pace.

  The smell of charred wood was growing stronger. Since her nose was still stuffed, Gabrielle wondered exactly how potent the odor really was. Just as quickly she decided it was a question she'd no desire to have answered. She was frightened enough, thank you very much! A sneeze tickled her nose; she turned her head and trapped the brunt of it with her shoulder, grimacing when her mouth and nose came into contact with the smelly, grimy cloth of the tunic.

  They didn't head toward the central staircase, as she'd somehow expected, but instead turned down the hallway and headed away from it. Gabrielle didn't question Ella. Not only didn't she dare risk talking right now—the sounds of fighting were too uncomfortably close—but no matter what the girl thought of her, Gabrielle was certain that Ella would not put herself and her aunt in jeopardy of being taken prisoner by going toward the enemy instead of away from them. Obviously the girl had a plan. Gabrielle had no idea what that plan could be... except to get out of the keep and away from the clutches of Johnny Maxwell.

  Johnny Maxwell.

  Gabrielle grunted softly, derisively. The man was a distant relative. A dirty, murdering scoundrel, if her family's stories could be believed. She'd been taught from the cradle that the link between families was as fragile as it was unfortunate, a humiliating indiscretion to be ignored and admitted to only when cornered. It simply wasn't in their nature for a Carelton to acknowledge any Maxwell as his kin.