Gabrielle hesitated. A frown creased her brow as she thoughtfully nibbled her lower lip. A half dozen years of Elizabeth's harsh words played in her mind. While she was accustomed to the sting of humiliation the thoughtless comments brought, she'd never become immune to them.
"She took care of me," Gabrielle said finally, flatly. "For a girl of my station, orphaned as I was, her thoughtfulness and care were greatly appreciated. I was young and alone, grieving over my father's death, frightened for my future. Elizabeth took me into her court, she fed and clothed me and asked only for my loyalty in return. It was enough. More than I could have hoped for." She took another, deeper sip of ale then, placing the mug on the table, slid it back across to Connor.
The pewter retained the heat from her hands, Connor noticed as he wrapped his fingers around it. The rim also felt warm as he turned the tankard around and, meeting and holding her gaze over the upturned bottom rim, placed his mouth in the same spot where hers had been only a moment before. The aroma of ale assailed him, engulfed him. As he forced himself to swallow a mouthful of the brew, all he could think of was the sweetly intoxicating flavor of Gabrielle Carelton's mouth, and of how very much he ached to stand up, lean over the table, capture her lips beneath his own and taste her again. Deeply. Dear God, the need to slide his tongue over her temptingly full lower lip, to savor the essence of her mouth, was impossibly strong. He trapped a groan in his throat when he imagined her thoroughly feminine flavor mixing to absolute perfection with the rich flavor of the ale...
'Twas a heady combination. One to die for.
"And now James has united the kingdoms," Gabrielle said, feeling the need to say something to break the sudden tension crackling between them. "Scotland and England are at last one."
Connor nodded. "Aye, for what it's worth. We shall see how long the union lasts, shall we not? I'm thinking 'twill not last o'er long." He lowered the tankard onto the table with more force than was intended. "We Scots dinny take kindly to being ruled by ye Sassenach, as the past has proven, and the future will again."
"James is not English."
"For all intent and purpose he may as well be. 'Tis no secret Jamie harbors a fascination with Sassenach ways. How long do ye think 'twill be afore he has taken himself off to London and embroiled himself in English politics, meanwhile forgetting all aboot his own country's troubles? Not long, I'll wager, as will many men who live on this godforsaken side of the Border. Under James's united rule, Scotland is destined to be absorbed by England and governed by an absent monarch." Shaking his head, Connor fingered the cold pewter handle of the tankard. "Troubled times are afoot, lass, mark me words."
"From what I've seen, your precious Borders could not possibly get more troubled than they already are, m'lord. For centuries now, two sovereigns at a time could not tame them."
"The time for taming has come and gone. Och! but if that was the only problem with this union, I'd be of the same mind as ye."
"Then you think—?"
"Nay, I dinny ken what I be thinking right now, Gabby. I only ken that these Borders have always separated two warring factions. Aye, those factions are now one. In name. The Border and the wild Border ways remain the same and will not die easily. So long as there is English and Scot, there will be differences. So long as there is a Border between the two, Sassenach and Scot will fight. Sometimes I think 'twas what we were born for. With Elizabeth's death and Jamie's ascent to the throne, the Borders are going to be pried loose from their mooring. Dinny misunderstand me, I'm no fortune teller. Where and how it all will end 'twould take a better mon than meself to predict. Right now, howe'er, me mind is on another matter, one closer to home."
Gabrielle had leaned forward and was reaching out, about to reclaim the tankard. His words made her freeze. No longer paying attention to what she was doing, her fingers grazed his. A bolt of awareness shot up her arm, wrapped warm fingers around her heart. Her gaze shifted from Connor's hand, skated up his muscular forearm, over his broad shoulder, the sunkissed side of his neck where his pulse hammered, along the hard, stubbled line of his jaw... higher.
Piercing gray meshed with inquisitive green.
Her fingertips trembled against the back of his knuckles as she arched one dark brow. "And what matter would that be, m'lord?"
"That of our wedding, lass. What else?" His attention darkened and dipped.
Earlier, Gabrielle had changed into one of the gowns from her paltry wardrobe, this one, a loose, high-waisted garment of rich rose brocade. Without the customary farthingale beneath, the skirt felt comfortably loose around her hips and thighs, much less restrictive than the trews that had preceded it. She'd used a scrap of ivory lace to tie back her thick, wild black curls. The dress's neckline—etched with a thin, matching strip of lace—was scooped; it revealed the ripe curve of her breasts.
Her skin felt hot and tingly under the touch of Connor's gaze. More so when she saw the way his expression grew dark and hungry. The gentle play of firelight sculpted and defined his features, made his gray eyes gleam as his gaze raked her from the waist up.
Gabrielle shivered. Her fingers curled around the tankard, and she dragged it toward her gratefully. It felt heavy as she lifted it, tipped the rim against her mouth, drank deeply. On her empty stomach the brew hit her hard, making her head feel light and dizzy.
Or mayhap 'twas The Black Douglas's intense gaze, not the sting of ale, that made her senses spin?
Gabrielle cleared her throat. Keeping her voice level took intense concentration. Was she the only one to notice that her grip on the tankard had grown so tight that her knuckles were white with the strain of it?
"Our wedding?" She forced a chuckle as she also forced her grip to relax, forced herself to put the tankard down carefully upon the table. "Connor, please, rest assured that your obligations have been met, albeit not in the way anyone intended. Now that Elizabeth is dead, the Maxwell and Douglas are united under the reign of your young King James. What need is there of a union between us?"
Perhaps it was a trick of firelight and shadows, but for a fleeting second, she could have sworn Connor looked uncomfortable. His gaze shifted thoughtfully, then just as abruptly returned to hers; the gray depths were as masked and unreadable as his harshly sculpted features.
Gabrielle watched closely as he lifted the tankard. Again he turned it so that his lips covered the spot where hers had been. This time there was no fooling herself, no pretending the gesture was anything but what it was: intentional. Arching one dark brow high, he tipped the tankard, swallowing down the rest of the ale.
A shiver skated down Gabrielle's spine. A burning tingle of awareness sparked in her blood; the fire crackling in the hearth felt chilly by comparison. It took a mighty surge of concentration to muster the flagging remains of her courage, to return his stare with one she hoped boldly met the unspoken challenge that sparkled like molten-gray fire in his eyes.
"There is a need," Connor said finally, firmly.
The husky timbre of his voice made Gabrielle wonder exactly what sort of need he referred to? Did she dare hope it was more than a physical yearning? Dare she wonder, even for a second, if The Black Douglas could come to care for her? And if she did allow herself to believe it, what kind of pain would she endure if she were eventually to discover he truly didn't care for her at all... the way Elizabeth had always predicted would be the case? It would tear her apart from the inside out to learn such a thing. She knew it, could feel it deep down inside her, in that dark, lonely place where she kept her emotions carefully hidden.
Lacing her fingers in her lap, Gabrielle averted her gaze to the flames snapping in the hearth and asked as dispassionately as possible, "What need is that, m'lord?"
"My need for a son."
Her gaze jerked back to him, her eyes widening in surprise. "I beg your pardon?!"
"Ye heard me right, lass. I've need for a son. Ye be young and strong, of... er, more hardy stock than I'd dared hoped ye would be. Mairghread says yer wi
de hips were made for birthing and—"
The sound of her open palm colliding with his whisker-shadowed cheek was loud.
Gabrielle's palm stung from the force of the blow. She didn't acknowledge the pain as, already leaning forward, she stood abruptly. Wood scraped against stone as the back of her knees slammed bruisingly against the bench, in turn forcing the bench to slide backward.
The urge to slap him again was strong, countered only by the gleam in his eyes that dared her to repeat the gesture, and that promised retaliation if she tried.
Instead, Gabrielle bunched her hand into a tight fist, held rigidly at her side as she glared down at him. The imprint of her hand lingered an angry shade of red on his cheek. "You miserable bastard," she hissed, the glint in her green eyes murderous. Her cheeks flamed with furious color. "How dare you suggest that the only thing I'm good for is bearing children?"
"Och! calm yerself down, lass, I dinny mean—"
"Of course you did! What else could you have meant?" A part of Gabrielle was aware of, and embarrassed by, her high, shrewish tone; a larger part of her was too furious to care, let alone make an attempt to correct it. "I know full well that I'm not beautiful, but you do me a grave disservice to suggest by your words that I am stupid as well as plain."
"I meant only—"
"Quiet! Please, do not insult me further by lying and saying you think me comely. I know better. No man with eyes has ever mistaken me for that. 'Tis a fact I learned to accept long ago. However, no man with a grain of compassion has dared say as much, and in so crass a manner, to my face. Methinks there's a reason they call you Scots barbarians, and 'tis for more than your tactics on a battlefield. The ballads say The Black Douglas is a cruel man, but I'd no idea how cruel."
"Gabby—"
"Be quiet, I tell you! I—"
"Lass, are ye crying?"
"—don't wish to discuss the matter further. And I most certainly am not crying. As for what you've said... your opinion of anything—least of all your opinion of me!—means less than nothing." Gabrielle bit down on her lower lip until it stung and she tasted the sharp tang of blood on her tongue. The lie tasted sour in her mouth, but pride forbade her to take it back. She dashed a hot, traitorous tear from her cheek with her fist and, gathering up her skirt with her free hand, turned to leave the room.
Connor was on his feet in a heartbeat, and across the room in two. He caught up to her just as she was about to disappear into the shadowy corridor outside the arched stone doorway. Curling his fingers around her upper arm, he tugged, stopping her short.
He heard her try, and fail, to suppress a choked gasp of surprise. Beneath the brocade sleeve, he felt a tremor ripple through her.
"If I've said aught to offend ye, lass..." Connor's words trailed away when he noticed the way Gabrielle strained her neck to keep her face turned away from him. The jerky lift and fall of her shoulders told him that indeed she was crying.
The muscles in Connor's stomach fisted. God, how the sight tore at him! He longed to enfold her in his arms, press her cheek to his shoulder, stroke her soft, inky hair and croon soothing words in her ear. He'd no practice comforting teary-eyed women, but for this one, heaven help him, he would make the attempt.
If Gabby allowed it.
The rigid set of her spine and shoulders suggested that she would not. The stiffness of her posture also suggested that, if Connor so much as thought about trying to soothe her, she would slap out at him again. Blindly, wildly. His cheek still stung from her first blow; fierce Douglas pride forbade him from giving her another opportunity.
Gabrielle muffled a sniffle with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. She would have wiped the tears from her cheeks, but there were too many and they refused to stop falling. Her voice shook only a bit as she said, "Unhand me, please. You're hurting my arm."
Connor's fingers loosened, but he did not let her go. "Why? So that ye can run away? I dinny think so, Gabby."
"I am not running away."
"Then what would ye call it?"
"I'm"—sniffle, sniffle—"simply retiring for the night, is all."
"Do ye always run to yer chambers when ye retire for the night, lass?"
"Only when I've been gravely insulted and wish to be alone with my thoughts, m'lord."
Connor sucked in a choppy breath as the pad of his thumb traced small circles against her sleeve and the warm, soft skin beneath. "How many times do I have to say it? No insult was intended."
"Mayhap a part of me believes you, but a larger part most certainly did take insult."
"Is it yer habit to take insult whenever a mon offers to wed ye?"
"I wouldn't know, the offer has never been made before." Gabrielle dashed the tears from her cheek and, finally managing to gain control over her emotions, craned her neck to glare hotly up at him. "Heathen Scot though you are, surely even you cannot be so ignorant as to think that your offer is what I find so insulting. Tis not, 'tis the reason for it. Obviously you think of me as nothing more than a brood mare. That, I find insulting in the extreme. What woman with even a tattered scrap of pride would not?"
"Ye aren't making any sense." Connor shook his head, confused. "Arranged marriages are an age-old custom in yer country as well as mine. A marriage based solely on begetting heirs is not unusual. Och! but 'tis a maun honorable reason to wed. I ken few couples on either side of the Border whose marriage is based on—"
He gulped, his throat closing tightly around the word.
Gabrielle's gaze sharpened on him when Connor stopped speaking abruptly.
"On what, m'lord?" she prodded coldly. When he still refused to finish the sentence, she determinedly finished it for him. "You know of few couples on either side of the Border whose marriage is based on... love? Is that the word you're having so much trouble saying?"
"Aye," he growled, his gray eyes narrowing angrily. He hated the way his tongue tripped awkwardly over the word, hated, too, the way his mind tripped even more awkwardly over the prospect of voicing it.
"Have you ever been in love, Connor?"
He gritted his teeth, making the muscles in his jaw bunch hard, and shook his head. "I've no time to waste on such silly emotions."
"You think love silly?"
"Quite."
Gabrielle opened her mouth to say something, but abruptly changed her mind; the glint in her green eyes suggested that the words she settled upon were not the ones that originally entered her mind. "I pity you, Connor Douglas. Not only can't you say the word, you can't even feel the richness and depth of the emotion."
"I dinny lack for emotions, lass. Ye be wrong aboot that."
"Mayhap, but you obviously lack the most important one. Love. Methinks 'tis what the term 'barbarian' truly means."
That said, Gabrielle reached up and untangled her arm from his shock-slackened fingers. Turning her back on him, she quit the hall without a backward glance.
That he'd been insulted, Connor did not doubt. Exactly how the insult had come about, however, he wasn't so sure of. He knew only that without her presence to warm it, the great hall felt suddenly chilly and... aye, lonely in its vast emptiness.
Connor stared at the empty spot where Gabrielle had stood for a full two minutes after the clipped echo of her footsteps faded away. He might have stood there a good deal longer if not for the two sudden, sharp pains in his shin that snagged his attention.
His gaze jerked down and to the side, colliding with one that was a bit bluer, wider, and fringed by long, thick copper lashes.
"So help me, Ella," he snapped, "if ye dinny cease kicking me, I'll see ye wed to—"
"Ye be a real charmer, Cousin," Ella said sarcastically, ignoring the threat he'd been about to voice. "I cannot remember the last time I heard a mon turn a woman's head with such honey-sweet words." Crossing her arms over her waist, she met Connor's glare with a steady one of her own. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Even Roy Maxwell has a smoother tongue than yers, and that mon was purposely insulting me. 'Tis wond
ering I am, why ye dinny ask Gabrielle to open her mouth and show ye her teeth. Indeed, ye might as well have asked her to bare all. A Douglas ne'er does anything by half measures, don't ye ken? If ye're bound and determined to treat the lass like ye're doing nothing maun important than buying a horse, ye may as well do it right."
"If Roy Maxwell has insulted ye..."
"Roy Maxwell isn't the point. Gabrielle Carelton is. I'll thank ye to be sticking to the subject at hand. Dinny be trying to change it again."
"Have a care, Ella, I'm in a foul mood and of a mind to take ye over my knee."
"I've just come from the dungeon, and Roy Maxwell's voice is still ringing in me ears. Since me mood isn't any better than yers," she gave a careless shrug, "I'm almost of a mind to let ye try. Almost."
Connor clamped his teeth around a terse reply. Spinning on his heel, he retrieved the tankard, left the table long enough to fill it to the cold, pewter brim, then returned. Thinking only of turning his back on his annoying cousin, he sat where Gabrielle had sat... then instantly wished he'd chosen another spot.
Was it possible for the bench to radiate the woman's heat, even now, or was his imagination getting the better of him?
Connor swore under his breath, then lifted the tankard and gulped down half its contents in two huge swallows. Perhaps whisky would have been a better choice? The potent liquor would be more numbing to his senses, something he could most certainly use just now.
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Complete intoxication would be the only way he'd be able to chase wayward thoughts of Gabby from his mind, he realized. Even then, the remedy would be temporary. Aye, he could get blindly drunk, mayhap even forget about the lass for a wee bit, but as sure as the sun would rise come dawn, he knew that when he sobered, his traitorous thoughts would stray right back in that woman's direction.
Gabrielle Carelton was like a fever in his blood, one that ran strong and deep, one he could not seem to shake himself of. When he wasn't with her, he thought about her. Who was she with? What was she doing? Was she happy or, at the very least, content?
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