Still, the truth remained that they were blood relations.
The irony of finding herself being dragged out of Bracklenaer by a Douglas, who was trying valiantly to get her away from the "enemy" Maxwell, was not lost on Gabrielle.
The mystery of where they were heading was soon solved. Like any good Border castle, Bracklenaer had more than one exit. The one Ella led them to was through an overtly masculine bedchamber. Rather, more precisely, into a dank, musty-smelling tunnel concealed behind one of the wide oak bookcases flanking the chamber's inner wall.
The sound of voices and footsteps receded as Ella eased the passage door shut behind them. The noise was replaced by the rhythmic plink, plink, plink of water dripping in some hidden puddle. The end of Ella's scabbard occasionally grazed the wall. Small, unseen claws scratching against the cold stone floor.
Rats? Gabrielle wondered, and grimaced. She swallowed back a cough, ignoring the way her fingers shook as they tightened around Mairghread's. Her other hand did not so much as flinch; so careful was she not to alter her grip on Ella's hand, not wanting the younger girl to sense her weakness.
Silently, the trio inched their way through the tunnel. The cool, damp air felt clammy against Gabrielle's fever-heated skin. By the time they reached the opposite end, and the faint trace of silvery moonlight that slanted in through the narrow opening, her breathing was swift and shallow, her nerves frayed.
At some undefinable point, the voices had started again. They were even louder now. So was the distinct clashing of swords.
"Where are we?" Gabrielle asked when Ella came to a stop. She'd spoken in a whisper, yet the cavernous depths of the tunnel snatched her words, tossed them repeatedly off hard stone, making her voice echo and sound louder than it actually was.
"Do ye remember when ye rode to Bracklenaer?" Ella asked.
Not a pleasant memory, that, and recalling it now scratched at a sore spot within Gabrielle. At the time she'd thought to be arriving at Gaelside, the men accompanying her that of her future husband, Colin Douglas. Being reminded of The Black Douglas's duplicity rubbed her raw. Her voice, slightly nasal from her cold, went hard as stone. "'Tis not something I'll soon forget."
"That's as it should be," Ella replied, her voice edged with pride. "Bracklenaer is a breathtaking sight at first glance. E'en at second and third and... Ooch! ye've gotten me sidetracked. Where was I? Ah, aye, in front of the main gate, across the road, there be a thick patch of trees and bramble and rocks leading into the woods. Do ye remember seeing that as well?"
Gabrielle thought for a second, then nodded. "I think so."
"'Tis where this tunnel empties out, where we be now."
"Where do we go from here?"
It was Mairghread, behind her, who answered. "As soon as the way be clear, deep into the woods where the Maxwell cannot follow."
"You run away and hide?" Gabrielle didn't mean to sound demeaning, she was merely surprised. What she meant, however, turned out not to matter. From the way Ella's slender back stiffened and Mairghread's bony hand tightened painfully around hers it was obvious that was exactly the way they'd taken her words. If she could have bitten the statement back, she would have, but it was too late now. God's blood, she'd just insulted the two women who were trying to keep her safe! She wouldn't blame them if they fled into the woods and left her here to fend for herself. That would teach her to talk before thinking in the future.
"Since ye be Sassenach," Ella said oh so calmly and coldly, "and dinny ken the way of things, I'll forgive yer ignorance. This time. Be thankful ye dinny say that to me cousin, lass. Connor isn't so patient or so generous."
"I know. I've heard the ballad."
"Which one?" Mairghread cackled softly.
Ella glared the old woman into silence.
The end of the girl's scabbard rasped against the craggy stone as she peeked through the opening. The nearest voices had begun to dwindle. "Och! Margie, 'Tis Wllie O' Nill's Tom out there banging swords with Gilby."
"Nay, it can't be. He's a mere bairn," Mairghread said.
"At fifteen summers, he'd not like hearing ye call him that, I'll wager. 'Tis his first time riding, methinks, and he's not a ver good fighter. Gilby is going easy on him."
"Fifteen already, is he? Och! but still so young."
"Ye forget, Margie, Connor was o'er a year younger when he went on his first night raid."
"Yer cousin be a fine muckle different, lass."
"Ye dinny need to be telling me—Och! that's got to hurt."
"What happened?" Mairghread asked, excited.
"Gilby just nipped the bairn's shoulder."
Still holding Gabrielle's hand, Mairghread stepped past her and to her niece's side. "Move o'er, I'm wanting to see this."
"Who is Willie Oh Nillis Tom?" Gabrielle asked, confused. "And what the devil sort of name is that?"
Ella stepped back, next to Gabrielle, giving her aunt enough room to look out the opening. She leaned close to Gabrielle's ear and whispered, "Willie O' Nill's Tom," she said, pronouncing the name slowly, precisely, "is Tom, Willie O' Nill's son."
"Wouldn't it be simpler to call him Tom?" Gabrielle asked. The logic made perfect sense to her, but not to Ella, if the way the girl shook her head was anything to judge by.
"Methinks ye're wrong, Margie, she'll not be an easy one to teach. Like all Sassenach, she thinks ver illogically." Ella sighed and turned her attention back to Gabrielle. Her voice edged with forced patience, she asked, "Have ye any idea how many Toms there be in these parts?"
"Er... several?"
"Aye. Several dozen. 'Tis a ver common name."
"Oh. I see," Gabrielle said, and stifled a sneeze with her shoulder. She was lying, she didn't see a thing, but she wasn't going to admit it after Ella's last comment; her pride still smarted.
"If yer to live here, lass, the least ye can do is ken our names. 'Tis so easy e'en a bairn could master it."
"In that case, it should give me no trouble."
Ella grunted. In the dim, silver glow of moonlight, the girl's deceptively delicate features tightened into an expression that said she doubted a hated Sassenach—one with Maxwell blood running through her veins to boot!—would be able to understand anything Scots, even something so simple.
"Willie O' Nill's Tom is bleeding maun fierce," Mairghread hissed from the tunnel's opening. "Methinks Gilby is merely playing with the lad before finishing him off."
Gabrielle's mouth went dry, her eyes wide. She could be wrong, but what she'd first thought was tension electrifying the damp night air now felt like something else entirely. It felt like excitement. Aye, that was it. That was the emotion she felt emanating from the two Scotswomen.
Many were the blood-filled, hair-raising tales she'd heard while tucked safely away in Elizabeth's Court of the atrocities that transpired on the Borders. She'd listened with mild interest to all the stories, even had a daring dream or two about a few, yet Gabrielle had not put stock in a single one. Surely only in fable could such folk as the rough, bloodthirsty heathens known as Borderers exist.
Or so she'd thought.
Then.
While warm and safe in London.
Now that she was here, now that she was caught amid a bloody battle and felt the two Scotswomen's morbid excitement at witnessing the destruction, she was forced to reassess her opinion. God in heaven, even the women here took pleasure from seeing an enemy's blood let! It was a staggering realization.
Gabrielle's back came up hard against the wall. The stone chaffed into her skin beneath the tunic, but she barely noticed the bite of pain.
Every word of every story had been true.
Her horrified gaze volleyed between Mairghread and Ella. If they'd felt fear before, it was apparent neither felt it now. Both had dropped Gabrielle's hands and were now jostling each other, squirming to get a better view from the tunnel's narrow opening. Their enthusiasm was palpable, as real as the surge of disgust that made the muscles in Gabrielle's stomach
clench and her knees go shaky and weak.
Gabrielle gritted her teeth, stifling a half groan, half cough in the back of her stinging throat. What had Elizabeth done, sending her here? Didn't the woman know what kind of land, what kind of people, she was sending her faithful lady to live among? What kind of heathens? Oh, of course Elizabeth knew. Twice while Gabrielle was in her service she remembered the Queen traveling to the Borders in unsuccessful attempts to tame them.
The clang of metal hitting metal startled Gabrielle out of her disturbing thoughts. She tried to gasp, but couldn't. Perhaps it was the tightness of the trews, the raid, the fever, the realization of exactly how much her life had changed... Whatever the cause, she suddenly found she could not pull even the smallest of breaths into her lungs.
Her empty hands closed into white-knuckled fists at her sides, her nails creasing painfully into tender palms.
If she couldn't make herself force in a breath soon, she was going to faint. The last time she'd fainted, she landed smack in The Black Douglas's arms.
Gabrielle closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. Thinking of Connor now was the last thing she needed to quell her panic... she realized too late. His harshly carved features, inky black hair, and piercing gray eyes stabbed through her memory. The world around her seemed to recede and tilt in the background. The earth beneath her was solid, she knew, yet it felt like the planks of a ship, pitching and swaying sickeningly beneath her feet.
"Och! I dinny ken a lad's lanky body could hold so much blood!"
"Aye," Ella whispered in agreement, "yet still he fights. Methinks Gilby will end him by skewering him through the belly. What thinks ye?"
"The throat," Mairghread said with grisly enthusiasm. "Gilby will give the lad a second grin and send him to hell. It be maun quicker, albeit a good deal messier."
"Methinks it cannot get messier. Look at the blood! 'Tis all o'er. E'en Gilby is covered in it, as is the ground and—"
Gabrielle grimaced when her stomach churned, lurched, then convulsed with a heave.
Fresh air.
Aye, fresh air! Gabrielle seized on the thought. She had to get a breath of fresh air, had to get it soon. Already her vision was getting familiarly dark around the edges. Thanks to the memory of her arrival at Bracklenaer, she knew exactly what that meant!
Gabrielle's gaze went to the opening, past the two women huddled there, locking desperately on to the midnight sky and the icy drizzle of rain that fell from it. Did it do nothing but rain in this country?!
Her feet felt leadened as she lurched forward. Her hands were shaking almost as violently as her knees as she settled her palms atop each woman's shoulders, clenched with a strength she'd not normally have given herself credit for possessing, then parted Ella and Mairghread as though they were double doors.
The women were apparently too shocked to protest. Or Gabrielle too desperate and too intent on her goal to notice if they did.
She was only a few short feet away from filling her burning lungs with much-needed fresh air.
Gabrielle didn't burst from the narrow opening so much as stagger and explode from it. The rain pounded the top of her head, splattered her face and neck and shoulders. Its icy drops accomplished exactly what she'd meant for them to: they made her shudder and suck in a long, deep gasp of blessedly fresh night air.
Hers wasn't the only gasp.
The two men, scarcely ten feet in front of her, came to an abrupt halt. Their attention jerked in Gabrielle's direction.
The one standing had to be Gilby, for she remembered the big redhead as the man who'd brought her from the inn in Dumfrees to Bracklenaer. That meant the other one—much younger and lighter of hair and complexion—the one on whose stomach Gilby had a booted foot planted and was standing over, the one he was about to lunge the point of his sword into the chest of, must be Willie O' Nill's Tom.
Once his surprise at seeing her had worn off, and it did so with alarming swiftness, Gilby raised his sword and prepared to strike.
Later, Gabrielle would regret that she'd no time for thought or deliberation, but only one throbbing heartbeat of time in which she was forced to take immediate action.
Chapter 6
Connor bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted the sharp tang of blood on his tongue. He was hoping the sting of pain would distract him, stop him from laughing.
It didn't.
He shifted his thoughts, tried to concentrate on the lingering odor of smoke, on how much work it would take to rebuild the small portion of the first floor that the Maxwells had torched; luckily, the damage was minor. That plan didn't work very well, either; he could still feel a grin tugging at the muscles in his cheeks, tempting him no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. Oh, aye, he knew this was not a laughing matter. Yet things could be worse and, grave though the situation might be... well, it was comical the way Ella flailed her arms, stomped her small feet, and otherwise used her whole body to reenact the account she breathlessly narrated.
How much of what his cousin said was actual fact, Connor didn't know. Yet. Nor was there any way to discern it. Until Gilby regained consciousness, he'd only Ella and Gabrielle's version of the mishap to go by; he wasn't sure about the Sassenach, but he did know his cousin was wont to stretch the truth a wee bit if it suited her purpose.
"It all happened so fast, Connor! We snatched Gabrielle the way ye asked, and the three of us made it to the tunnel without mishap. E'erything seemed to be going smoothly. Until we reached the end of the tunnel. One minute, we were waiting until 'twas safe to scoot into the woods and join the others, the next..." She shook her head, sending the tight red braid swaying against the curve of her bottom. "Ye should've been there, should've seen it. 'Twas so much blood!"
"Aye, and yelling," Gabrielle added with a nod of her dark head as she watched Ella pace in front of the fire blazing in the great hall's hearth. The half dozen hounds, usually asleep at this late hour, scrambled to their feet and tipped their heads as though sensing and reacting to the young woman's agitated excitement.
"Dinny forget the swearing," Ella reminded her.
"Good heavens, how could anyone forget it?" Gabrielle replied with a shiver. "I think there was more cursing than yelling," she told Connor, "if you can believe it. Never have I heard such language before. M'lord, I blush just remembering it."
One dark brow cocked as Connor glanced at Gabrielle. In the crackling firelight, her cheeks looked flushed with excitement; his shrewd eye couldn't detect even a hint of a blush. For her first raid, he had to admit that she'd held up quite well. Admirably so. His glance volleyed between her and his cousin. "'Tis not surprising," he decreed finally. "Gilby was hurt, of course he swore. 'Tis what men do in such situations. I've been kenned to—"
"Gilby?!" Ella and Gabrielle exclaimed in unison.
Gabrielle waved a hand, indicating that Ella should continue the story.
Ella gave a toss of her fiery red head and abruptly stopped pacing. Planting her fists on her hips, she glared at Connor as though he'd lost his mind. "Nay, Cousin, ye've got it wrong. Whilst I dinny doubt that Gilby cussed—God's truth, I dinny remember, so maun happened so fast—'twas Mairghread we be talking aboot."
It took a second for the full impact of what Ella said to sink in. When it did, Connor found himself grinding his teeth together in order to keep his jaw from sagging in disbelief. "Margie?"
"Aye."
"Mairghread Douglas?!"
"Aye!" they echoed.
"Who else have we been jabbering aboot?" Ella asked smugly. "'Tis what we've been trying to tell ye, Cousin. She be the one who did all the cursing."
"And you should have heard what she called your man's mother!" Gabrielle added. "'Tis not fit to repeat, and even if 'twere, 'tis simply not physically possible!"
Clearing his throat, Connor's narrowed gaze shifted to Ella. "After the swearing was through, what happened?"
"She attacked Gilby."
Gabrielle nodded. "Aye, jumpe
d right on his back, she did. And clung to him like a she-cat. 'Twould have been a comical sight were the circumstances not so dire. Your man, Gilby, dropped his sword in the struggle—she had her arms wrapped around his throat and he couldn't breathe. By the time he managed to shake her off, the boy had already recovered his own sword."
"From there," Ella added with a grimace and shiver, "the situation became maun unpleasant."
"Maun unpleasant? 'Tis possible?" Connor asked, surprised. From what he'd heard, the situation couldn't get worse. Nay, that wasn't true. The Maxwell might have been successful in stealing Gabrielle from him, that would have been a good deal worse.
"Aye," she replied gravely. A few red curls had come free of the plait, curling softly against her cheek and brow. Ella swept them behind her ear, crossed her arms over her stomach, and again began pacing in front of the hearth. The hounds whined and scooted out of her path as far as their leashes would allow. "But that isn't how Gilby got hurt."
"Nay?"
"Nay." It was Gabrielle who answered. Ella merely snorted in agreement, gave a toss of her fiery red head, and picked up her pace in front of the hearth. "His back will no doubt be sore come morning, but I don't think he was hurt when Mairghread jumped on him. The second he saw her flying toward him, he dropped his sword and put his hands up for protection. I was already outside the tunnel. Ella tried to grab your aunt and haul her back into the tunnel, but the old woman is amazingly quick. 'Tis lucky for your aunt that Gilby was unarmed by the time she reached him. Ella says he wields the blade expertly, that you and he learned to fight together, and that he's almost as good as you."
"Aye." Connor sighed and raked his fingers through his inky hair. The story was getting more convoluted by the moment. More and more he wished Gilby would regain consciousness, and regain it soon, so that he could learn precisely what had happened without female embellishments and melodramatics. "But I still dinny understand how—"
"Don't rush me, m'lord, I'm getting to that part," Gabrielle admonished saucily. "At the same time Gilby was dropping his sword and Mairghread was cussing and pouncing on him, the boy Willis Tom Something, was fumbling for his own blade and gaining his feet. 'Twas he who wounded Gilby."
Perfect Strangers Page 8
