Shifting her attention, Gabrielle frowned at the girl. Perhaps she had meant one of the other men? "What are you talking about? Who is looking at me?"
"Connor," Ella answered promptly and honestly. A sly grin tugged at her mouth. "Who else?" A frown creased the creamy skin between her coppery brows. "I've been thinking on the matter, ye ken, and I cannot remember a time when I've seen me cousin look so... aye, confused. 'Tis the emotion I see in his eyes whene'er he glances at ye. If I dinny ken better, I'd think ye've bewitched him."
"I could say the same for you and Roy Maxwell. The man has barely taken his eyes off you all morning."
Ella wrinkled her nose in disgust. "If the looks he's casting me were daggers, as he no doubt wishes they were, I'd be dead right now. The mon isn't happy to find himself being ill-treated by a mere slip of a lass."
"Most men would not be, Ella."
The girl gave a shrug of her delicate shoulders, as though dismissing the thought, and quickly changed the subject. "Colin told me earlier that Mairghread broke free only a few hours after she was taken."
Her knees gently nudging the mare's side, Gabrielle slowed the horse's pace. She had to squint against the bright March sunlight to survey Ella closely. "Are you trying to tell me—?"
"Aye," Ella replied gravely, and nodded. "I'm telling ye that e'erything we'd set out to do was for naught. E'en if we'd been lucky enough to reach Gaelside, we'd have failed in our mission. Mairghread wasn't there. Apparently me aunt can take care of herself, aye?"
"Must be the Douglas in her," Gabrielle remarked, her attention on Connor's back.
Ella was right, he did keep glancing back at her. She'd been too distracted with her own tumultuous thoughts—hot, vivid memories of their love-making kept playing with drumming persistence in her mind—to notice it before. Until Ella had drawn her attention to the fact. Gabrielle noticed it now, however, and noticed it with her entire being. Her blood warmed and she felt a tingle of awareness fire in her veins.
Her gaze met Connor's for only a beat, yet even in that short space of time, volumes of unspoken words passed between them.
His expression unreadable, Connor shifted, again facing forward in his saddle.
Gabrielle sighed and turned her attention back to Ella, only to find that the girl was no longer paying her any mind. Instead, she was staring at a different male back, and staring at it hard. The back was that of Roy Maxwell. Her expression was guarded, her forehead furrowed in contemplation.
Gabrielle shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, wondering how much longer it would take for them to reach Bracklenaer. How far away were they? They'd been riding most of the morning, surely the keep could not be too far away now?
And once they arrived? What then? she wondered. Would Connor keep his vow to see them wed posthaste? Would he—she gulped—insist the makeshift ceremony be held today? He'd admitted the banns had been read. There was no reason for delay.
Another question surfaced, this one stronger, more insistent, teasing at her unmercifully if only because there was no ready answer.
Had Connor heard what she'd said to him last night when they'd made love?
There was no way to be certain.
The only thing Gabrielle could be sure of was that she had confessed her feelings for him. Unintentionally, aye, but confessed them nonetheless. That the proclamation had slipped out, uttered in a moment of unbridled passion and weakness, mattered not at all. If given the opportunity to take the words back, she would not seize it; the circumstances surrounding them could not make the statement any less true.
Heaven help her, she did love Connor.
When had the emotion surfaced? How had it flourished? She didn't know, but surface and flourish it had, without her knowledge or consent. When she glanced at him, or he at her, her senses tingled, her thoughts spun, the world tunneled down around her until no one but the two of them existed. When he touched her, kissed her, or merely hinted at doing either, she was lost.
Those symptoms could be attributed to lust pure and raw, except for one important fact. Aye, lately when her musings had turned to the future, she thought as automatically as breathing of Connor, of Bracklenaer, of a castle full of babes with inky black hair and piercing gray eyes. Like their father.
Had a child been conceived by their lovemaking last night or the night before that? Was Connor's babe even now taking root in her womb?
The idea was thrilling beyond reason, and at the same time inordinately dispiriting.
He'd not made a similar confession, nor had he given even a curious acknowledgment of hers.
That he'd not said he loved her back cut Gabrielle to the quick.
"Och! are ye crying, lass?" Ella asked as, sitting forward, she inspected Gabrielle's face.
Gritting her teeth, Gabrielle quickly averted her attention, dipping her head so the thick, dark curtain of her hair shielded her profile from the girl's eagle-sharp gaze. With the back of a tightly balled fist, she whisked a drop of moisture from where it clung to the dark curl of her lashes before it could splash warmly onto her cheek.
"Nay," Gabrielle answered a bit too quickly for her words to carry the tone of sincerity she strived for. "'Tis simply exhaustion coupled with this rough spring breeze. It makes my eyes water, is all."
"Is that the way of it?" Ella asked, her tone as doubtful as her expression.
"Aye, 'tis." Gabrielle shrugged vaguely. Of course the reason she'd given Ella was the true cause behind her burning, watering eyes. What other reason could there be? Surely it wasn't the way Queen Elizabeth's words, spoken long ago yet never quite forgotten, chose that untimely moment to ring a haunting chord in her mind. Words that harshly predicted Gabrielle's bloodlines would someday win her a husband, there was never a doubt of it, but her plain face and stout form would never win his singular devotion and love...
* * *
Bracklenaer's courtyard was alive with activity. Groups of servants clustered in stone-wall-shaded corners, talking animatedly amongts themselves. Some of the Douglas men had led their horses from the stalls and were now busily preparing their mounts to ride.
Connor's eyes narrowed as he guided his horse to a stop. His gaze swept his surroundings. The hair at his nape tingled with awareness, for the excitement permeating the cool, late-morning air was almost tangible enough to touch and taste.
What was happening? What could have taken place during his brief absence that accounted for such an unusual commotion? Had the Kerrs finally carried through on their threatened raid, or had something unexpected and dire happened?
An uneasy feeling trickled like a drop of ice water down Connor's spine. Aye, something was definitely amiss. He could feel it. He wished Gilby was up and about, for that was one man who would have greeted Connor with the necessary news and explained the situation in precise measure.
Gilby, however, was not about, which meant Connor would have to seek out the source of the disturbance himself.
With a quick gesture Connor indicated that Ella and Gabrielle should remain mounted and in place guarding their two prisoners. Dismounting, he crossed quickly to the nearest group of men, who were tossing saddles over the backs of their stocky, shaggy mounts and hastily securing the leather strips that held them in place.
Gabrielle watched Connor closely as he angled his head and drew into conversation the two men who continued to ready their horses as they spoke to their laird.
Frowning at Ella, she leaned closer to the girl and whispered, "What is going on here?"
Ella shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. "I dinny ken. Something's happened. Something is not right, I can feel it. And look o'er there." She nodded in the direction where Connor stood. "See that horse? The one the towheaded lad is leading into the stable? It does not belong to a Douglas. I've ne'er seen it afore."
"I have," Gabrielle said softly, and her heart skipped a beat. Could it be... ? The question had no sooner crossed her mind than the answer to it stepped out of Bracklenaer's door and i
nto the bright golden sunlight.
It had been almost two years since the last and only time Gabrielle had seen Robert Carey, warden of England's East March. So little did the man she saw now resemble the man she remembered visiting Queen Elizabeth's court that it took a second for her to recognize him.
Mud smeared his clothes, plastering them to his body. Dried blood clotted and caked around a nasty gash on his forehead, the wound caused by a recent fall. Apparently he'd been in too much of a hurry to properly attend the injury. Dirt and sweat marred his cheeks and chin and brow. Dark circles bruised the thin skin below his eyes. In the unforgiving sunlight, his cheekbones looked unnaturally high, the hollows beneath unnaturally pronounced. Exhaustion pulled his features taut and shadowed his dark eyes with a weary glaze.
His steps seemed to drag, as though his boots had been chiseled out of lead, when, catching sight of Connor, Robert waved a weary greeting and made his way over to the trio. He spotted Gabrielle, and although he inclined his head politely in her direction, when he made no attempt to approach her, her curiosity grew.
"What is he doing here?" Ella asked coldly, unintentionally voicing the question that was at the same time playing in Gabrielle's own mind. The girl's gaze sharpened on Robert as the man joined in the conversation with Connor and the other two men.
"I've no idea." It was Gabrielle's turn to shake her head. An excellent question, that. Exactly what was Robert Carey doing here, at Bracklenaer? The keep, after all, wasn't even located in the same jurisdiction as the March which Robert oversaw. And didn't that make his unexpected presence all the more mysterious? "Unless..."
Icy fingers of dread curled around Gabrielle's heart, tightened, squeezed with painful tightness. Apprehension settled in her stomach like a chunk of ice. She shuddered, unwilling to give credence to her suspicion, yet at the same time unable to think of a more plausible reason for Robert Carey to be at Bracklenaer.
The explanation she'd come up with made her blood run cold.
Despite Connor's unspoken instruction that she remain where she was, Gabrielle swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. She hurried over to where the men stood, and her consternation doubled when, upon seeing her, the two abruptly stopped talking.
Connor glanced at her, and while he looked a bit irritated that she'd not obeyed him, he looked more upset about something else. That he wasn't chastising her lack of obedience was telling in itself.
Gabrielle mustered her courage and turned her attention to Robert Carey. Her smile faltered. "Greetings, m'lord. You look, er..."
"Like bloody hell, no doubt." Robert tried to smile and failed. "Most men who'd also left London the morn before last would, I've no doubt."
Left London the morn before last? For what purpose? Gabrielle was afraid to ask for fear he would tell her the answer, and that the answer would be something she did not want to know. "Still, it's good to see you again."
"And good to see you, m'lady," he responded stiffly but politely as, with a grimace, he cut a weary bow. "I wish only that our second meeting could take place under more pleasant circumstances."
Gabrielle's hand fluttered to her throat; she felt the pulse there accelerate to an anxious pace. Her palms were clammy, her muscles tense. Was it the sun beating down upon her head that set her temples to pounding, or the way she gritted her teeth in nervous anticipation? Robert's words had not eased her fears, they'd increased them twofold.
"What is it you mean?" she inquired finally. While it was true she might not be entirely prepared to hear the answer, dreaded hearing in fact, her curiosity was nonetheless great; it gnawed at her, growing more persistent with each heavily expectant second that ticked past with torturous slowness. Her ignorance of the reason for Robert Carey's presence frayed her already tattered nerves. The need to learn once and for all why he'd come to Bracklenaer so she could set her fears to rest was greater than her reluctance to hear any bad news she suspected he carried.
"Gabrielle, Carey is here only long enough to fetch a quick meal and fresh mount before—" Connor's mouth snapped shut when his words were cut short by Robert himself.
"Queen Elizabeth is dead," Robert blurted, too tired and in too great a hurry to waste time imparting the information gently. "I ride to Edinburgh with the news that James has been named her successor. Gabrielle, the day no one thought would ever come is finally here. Scotland and England are united under one crown!"
Gabrielle gasped and staggered back a shaky step, as though she'd been delivered a powerful blow. Connor, prepared for her reaction, quickly stepped to her side. His strong arm coiled about her waist and he drew her close to his side, lending her support and strength.
Gabrielle's cheeks drained of color. Her lips moved, yet no words came out; her voice refused to budge past the lump of emotion suddenly wedged in her throat.
Elizabeth is dead?! She shook her head, dazed. "Nay, 'tis not possible! Why, just last month, I—"
Robert softened tiredly. He reached out and placed a hand on Gabrielle's shoulder, his fingers squeezing gently. "'Tis not only possible, 'tis true. I was with her just before she died, and saw her body afterward. Elizabeth is dead, dear lady."
Gabrielle stifled a sob behind one tightly clenched fist. Her knees felt treacherously shaky; she leaned gratefully against Connor. His support helped immeasurably, both physically and emotionally. Surrendering to it, she turned her head and buried her face against the hard strength of his shoulder. A tear spilled over her lashes, splashed warmly on her cheek, rolled down her neck, then disappeared beneath the limp, soiled collar of her tunic.
The tear was followed by another.
And another.
Connor cushioned his cheek atop Gabrielle's sun-warmed head and drew her fully into his arms. Had he ever felt so helpless in his life? Nay, not that he could recall. He'd no liking for Elizabeth, nor could he honestly say he would mourn her death, yet he could feel Gabrielle's pain as though it was his own. Her grief sliced through him like a sharply honed dagger, tearing at the strings anchoring his heart and tugging at it in a way he'd never suspected was possible.
Gabrielle Carelton wasn't a delicate woman, yet he felt a surge of protectiveness swell up inside him. He wanted to shelter and protect her, to absorb her with his body, to sip away her tears with his mouth... he wanted to make her pain go away. He would take on her anguish himself if he could, if it meant she would be spared feeling it.
He had close to forgotten Robert's presence, and Connor turned in his direction. The man's expression was grave, befitting the occasion, yet there was a sparkle of enlightenment in his eyes, as though Robert saw what others did not—the reluctant, unspoken emotions Connor harbored for the woman who stood crying in his arms—and was pleased by them.
Connor's arm tightened around Gabrielle. The fingers of his free hand opened, tunneling through her silky hair as he cradled her head against his chest. The damp heat of her tears soaked through his tunic.
Dear Lord, it felt as if her tears were seeping straight into his skin, branding him.
* * *
The afternoon and early evening had passed by in a blur.
Once she'd calmed, Connor had left her to seek out news about Gilby's condition while Ella took care of the prisoners. Feeling oddly lost and alone, Gabrielle retreated to her room—nay, Connor's room.
Forgoing the evening meal, she'd instead preferred to closet herself away with her confusing thoughts, wrapping herself in a blanket of grief.
It wasn't until the rest of the castle's occupants had retired to their beds that hunger finally got the better of her and she snuck out of her room and into the great hall below.
She rumbled absently around the kitchen, but her meager appetite deserted her without warning and she retreated to the hall. Sitting at the table atop the dais, she stared pensively at the flames snapping and popping in the huge stone hearth.
One of the hounds chained nearby whimpered and rolled sleepily onto his side when Connor Douglas enter
ed the room. Gabrielle didn't notice his presence, so caught up was she in her thoughts.
Connor came upon Gabrielle quite by accident. Thirst had prompted him to enter the hall in search of ale. What he'd found instead had been an unusually silent Gabrielle Carelton.
She seemed oblivious to his presence when he crossed the room and filled a tankard from one of the large wood barrels tucked in a shadowy corner of the hall. Nor did she notice when he approached the table.
"Drink this, lass, 'twill help warm ye." Connor eased himself onto the bench across from Gabrielle. Age-chipped pewter scraped against the scarred oak tabletop as Connor slid the half-filled tankard of ale across the table to her.
"Thank you, but I'm not cold," Gabrielle murmured dispassionately, even as she wrapped her fingers limply around the tankard.
"Nay? Then what are ye, lass?"
"I don't know." She shook her head vaguely and a thick lock of raven hair fell forward into her eyes. She brushed it back, her gaze lifting to meet his. "I know this may sound strange, m'lord, but I'm not cold, I'm not hot, I'm not... well, I'm not anything. I feel numb."
"'Tis to be expected. Ye've suffered a shock."
"You mean Elizabeth's death? 'Twas not that much of a shock. The woman was old, and 'tis common knowledge she ailed on and off for most of her life. There are many who predicted she'd be dead decades ago." She shook her head. "Nay, her death was not unexpected to most, and anxiously awaited by many."
"I sense ye are not one of the many."
"You're correct," Gabrielle confirmed with a sigh. "I'm not." She lifted the tankard; the pewter felt cold against her lips as she tipped it and swallowed the yeasty-tasting brew. Unlike the whisky she'd drunk before, the liquor did not burn her tongue and throat, but slid with deceptive ease down to her stomach. "Elizabeth had her faults—I'd be lying if I said otherwise—yet there was also much about the woman to admire."
"She took care of ye well, then?"
Stand up straight. I said straight! Shoulders back. Oh, for God sakes, girl, suck in your stomach, you look like an overstuffed goose!
Perfect Strangers Page 21
