Perfect Strangers Page 9

  Connor had suspected as much, and wondered why the devil the two women hadn't told him this in the first place. He decided it best not to quibble. If he knew nothing else about women, the Black Douglas knew that it didn't pay to rush one into telling a tale they were determined to tell at their own leisurely pace. Not, that is, unless one wanted a longer story, a story enhanced beyond credibility. "So that was when Margie was taken by the Maxwell?"

  "Er, not exactly, m'lord."

  "I ne'er said she was taken by the Maxwell. Did ye say so, Gabrielle?"

  Gabrielle sneezed twice, sniffled loudly, and shifted her gaze to the flames snapping in the hearth as her fingers toyed with the hem of her tunic. The trews suddenly felt embarrassingly snug. So much had been happening before that she'd had no time to care about the tight fit. She had adequate time to care now. Especially when Connor Douglas's gaze gravitated to her, trailed slowly, slowly over her legs, his gray eyes darkening to a mysterious shade of midnight blue. "I-I don't think so, no," she muttered finally.

  Connor gritted his teeth. Except for the ticking of a muscle in his jaw, and the way his hand closed in a fist around the arm of the chair, his demeanor remained as neutral as his voice. It wasn't easy. The sight of Gabrielle Carelton's legs, indecently encased in snug trews, had caused an odd tightness in his chest, constricting his breathing and wreaking havoc with his heart rate; the sight was an uncomfortable distraction. He forced himself to look away and focus on his cousin. "So now ye're saying she wasn't taken by the Maxwell?"

  "Did I say that?" Ella asked.

  Her tone was much too sweet and innocent for Connor's liking. It took a good portion of his self-restraint not to bound out of the chair, grab Ella by the shoulders, and shake the rest of the story out of her. Where was Mairghread? Who had taken her? Which way had they ridden off, and how long ago? He must learn these things before a rescue attempt could be launched. If only Gilby hadn't been wounded. A man would have told the story while they rode to the old woman's rescue, and done it in a far less dramatic fashion.

  It was Gabrielle who finally provided the answer he sought. Leaning forward and pillowing her elbows atop trews-encased thighs that he refused to look at again, she confided "'Tis your brother who took Mairghread."

  "Nay!" Connor roared.

  "Aye!" Ella confirmed. "Ye may not have seen him and his men, for they stayed in the back, but I did. Sassenach though she be, the lass isn't lying, Cousin. Colin rode with the Maxwell on Bracklenaer this night."

  Connor was out of the chair in a beat, and furiously matching step with his cousin in two. The dogs strained, reaching the end of their leash. "Nay!" he repeated so loudly that the family shield hanging over the hearth threatened to fall to the floor. His voice bounced off the hard stone walls, echoing around them with all the force of a close clap of thunder. "'Tis a lie. A Douglas would ne'er ride with the Maxwell. not e'en Colin would dare such an insult."

  "Ne'er say ne'er, Cousin. I ken what we saw. As for what Colin dares... Och! mon, have ye forgotten the lad is e'ery bit yer brother? E'ery bit a Douglas? Whether ye care to admit it or not! What would ye have done were the situation reversed, and he had stolen yer bride? And dinny be telling me 'nothing,' for I'll have none of that nonsense. I'll tell ye exactly what ye'd have done. First ye would have ridden over to Gaelside and confronted that unruly cousin of mine, then ye would—" Ella's tirade was cut short when Connor shot her a silencing glare.

  He stopped pacing abruptly. A thoughtful scowl furrowed his brow. What would he have done were the situation reversed? Was it not obvious?

  "I'd have reacted in the appropriate fashion," he replied finally, determinedly. "I'd have stolen me bride back."

  "Aye! Can't ye see? 'Tis exactly what yer brother was aboot."

  Connor muttered a thick Gaelic cuss under his breath. "Where Colin failed, however, I would have succeeded."

  A slow grin tugged at the corners of Ella's mouth. "Aye, and well I ken it. Nae doubt they'd have written yet another ballad aboot The Black Douglas, to."

  "Methinks they'll be writing ballads of a different nature once Margie is done with Colin. There's never been any love lost between them, and methinks this will make that rift wider. I almost, almost, pity me brother. I wager he'll be pounding upon the door, begging us to take the auld woman back within a fortnight."

  "Ye're o'erly generous. My guess would be half that time."

  A pair of sneezes drew their attention to Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle's cheeks heated as she sniffled and shifted position, the bench beneath her felt suddenly hard and uncomfortable under the intensity of their stares. She tried to glance away, but her attention settled on Connor, and his gaze, sharp and gray and piercing, held hers ensnared.

  "Ye should be thanking yer lucky stars me brother wasn't successful this night, lass, or 'tis in front of Gaelside's hearth ye'd be warming yeself right now."

  Gabrielle stared at him mutely. Had she heard right? Had he said she should be thankful not to be rescued from The Black Douglas? She shook her head, thinking that only an insane woman would feel so.

  Then again...

  Perhaps her own sanity should be questioned? Although she'd rather die than admit it, Gabrielle felt a tiny shred of relief that the fire warming her emanated from the huge stone hearth at Bracklenaer. All things considered, it was not a rational response. Perhaps it was caused by her fever? The unexpected excitement of the night? The nauseating, charred scent that lingered in the air making her stomach churn and her head spin? While all were flagrant lies, any was better than the truth... that the heat of Connor Douglas's gaze boring into her muddled her mind, warmed her cheeks, and made her heart pound at an alarmingly fast rate. What it did to the pattern of her breathing and the stability of her knees was beyond description.

  It was Ella who voiced the thought that had just occurred to Gabrielle. "The poor lass looks confused, Cousin. And who can blame her? She's Sassenach. She cannot understand the way of things here, maun especially how a woman can be thankful not to be rescued from The Black Douglas's infamous clutches."

  Gabrielle's back stiffened. Her chin tilted at a proud angle, and her shoulders squared. Green eyes narrow, she returned Ella's gaze with a level one of her own. "Don't be so hasty to judge. I know precious few Englishmen who wouldn't be out right now trying to get Mairghread back. Yet the two of you sit idly in front of a fire, joking about her capture. Aye, you're quite right in saying that I find all of this most confusing."

  "Nae harm will come to me aunt, lass. Dinny worry aboot that. Remember, Colin is her nephew, too."

  Connor's thick, deep voice trickled down Gabrielle's spine like a drop of sun-warmed butter, melting the rigidity of her posture. Her gaze shifted to him, and she regretted the impulse immediately. The flames in the hearth snapped and popped, the muted light played in a soft orange haze over his harshly carved features. Softening planes, emphasizing angles. His hair was tousled; a thick, silky black tendril curled appealingly against his brow. Gabrielle's fingers closed into white-knuckled fists. Unfortunately, the bite of her fingernails digging into her palms wasn't the distraction she'd hoped it would be. She still longed to lean forward, to reach out and smooth that errant strand into place. The urge was as tempting as it was strong. Frighteningly so.

  Her voice, when it came, sounded a pitch huskier than usual, even considering the state of her stuffed nose and sore throat. "You don't know that. From what I've seen tonight, blood relations means precious little to you people."

  "There ye be wrong." Connor had stopped pacing; he now stood a mere foot away from her. Small and insignificant weren't feelings Gabrielle was accustomed to experiencing, yet again she noticed that with The Black Douglas's virile body towering over her, it was exactly how she felt. "Blood kinship means everything. 'Tis why I can say with such certainty that Colin will not hurt Margie."

  "And yet—"

  "M'lord?"

  An intrusive fourth voice cut Gabrielle's words short. That w
as probably for the best. Judging by the determined set to Connor's hard, square jaw, and the decisive glint in his sharp gray eyes, winning an argument with this Scotsman would be akin to Queen Elizabeth accepting a man's proposal of marriage. In other words, it simply wouldn't happen.

  Their attention shifted to the woman who stood framed in the arched stone doorway. She was tall of stature and heavy of build. Her blond hair had been worked into a plait that trailed down over a beefy shoulder; the ends grazed her matronly thick waist.

  "What is it, Siobhan?" Connor asked. "Has Gilby awakened?"

  The woman nodded. "Aye, m'lord. And 'tis surprised I be that ye dinny hear him all the way down here. He came 'round yelling aboot what he plans to do to Will O' Nill's Tom when he gets his hands on the poor lad." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "He's not shut up since."

  Connor tipped his head back and laughed.

  Gabrielle shivered; the sound was like black velvet—smooth and rich and dangerously appealing. It sent a tingle through her blood that both baffled and warmed her.

  "'Tis good to hear," he said to Siobhan. "Naught else could assure me as well that the mon will indeed recover."

  "Oh, aye, he'll recover," Siobhan said, then snorted and rolled her eyes. "That is, if he stops thrashing aboot and pretending he isn't wounded. Och! but he be a stubborn one. Why, he'd nae more opened his eyes when he tried to crawl out of the bed. It took me and twa others to hold him down, and all the while he kept muttering something aboot getting dressed and hunting down Tom afore dawn. The knowledge that a mere lad wounded him seems to have pricked his pride."

  "As well it should, especially when the lad in question is a Maxwell. Dinny look so concerned, Siobhan. I'll go up and see him. While I'm there, I'll have a talk with Gilby and see to it that he takes care of himself whilst he heals and make sure he gives ye nae more trouble. Meanwhile..." Connor had started to walk toward the door, but he stopped, hesitated, then turned back to Ella and Gabrielle. His gaze quickly raked the former, then narrowed and darkened as it lingered assessively on the latter. "Ella, take Gabrielle back to her room, please. We dinny want her to get sicker from exhaustion, and 'tis been a maun eventful night."

  That said, he spun on his heel and followed Siobhan out of the room.

  Gabrielle listened to the sharp click of his bootheels on stone. They slowly faded as he ascended the stairs leading up to the bedchambers. When she could no longer hear them, she turned her attention to Ella, who had plopped down on the bench across the table from her. "What about Mairghread?"

  The girl frowned. "What aboot her?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" Gabrielle countered, surprised. "Ella, the old woman must be rescued. Immediately."

  A spark of mischief lit her blue eyes, but her voice remained calm and neutral. "If there's any rescuing to be done, 'tis up to me cousin to do it. We be women, and as such 'tis not our concern."

  "I beg to differ. It most certainly is our concern. At least 'tis mine. If I'd not run out of that tunnel when I did, none of this would have happened. Mairghread would be here, sound and safe."

  "That be true enough, there's nae arguing it."

  A frown pinched Ella's brow as she glanced at Gabrielle slyly. "What I fail to understand is why ye should be caring aboot what happens to Margie...?"

  Gabrielle shrugged tightly. "I suppose you could say I feel somewhat responsible for her current circumstances. Also... Ella, the woman was most kind to me earlier. I'd like to repay her kindness if I can."

  "And exactly how would ye go aboot doing that?"

  "By rescuing her myself if there's no other way."

  "Well, guddle me," Ella muttered, then shook her head. Her laughter was soft and musical. "Lass, ye dinny e'en know where Gaelside is!"

  "True," Gabrielle acknowledged thoughtfully. Her gaze had dipped to the fists clenched tightly atop her lap. It now lifted and boldly met Ella's. A sly, challenging grin tugged at her lips when she added, "But you do."

  Chapter 7

  There was but one thing that could make the women who worked in Bracklenaer's kitchen cleave to their quarters, no matter how great the temptation to stray and snatch juicy bits of gossip. Only one thing that could make the hounds chained to the hearth cower and whimper. Only one thing that could make the men of clan Douglas—hard, strong men who'd fought in many battles and ridden hard on many a midnight raid, men reputed to be the most stalwart on either side of the Border—cast wary, restless glances among themselves.

  That thing was The Black Douglas when angered.

  Connor wouldn't have said he was angry. Och! nay, he'd bypassed that tame emotion when, upon leaving Gilby's chamber, one of his men tersely informed him that Ella was missing. He'd sailed smoothly into raw fury when an immediate search unearthed no sign of Gabrielle Carelton. A sentry, whose breath smelled ripe with the pungent fumes of whisky, had been quizzed and admitted to seeing what he'd thought at the time were "a damned gonnie-looking pair o' kelpies" spiriting themselves away from the castle.

  There had been no kelpies, of course. What the man had actually seen was Ella and Gabrielle riding away from Bracklenaer as though the devil himself was nipping at their heels.

  From what the sentry could discern, their direction could be none other than Gaelside.

  The white-hot, sizzling sensation that pumped hot and fast through Connor's blood made "angry" seem as docile as a sunswept knoll of grassland.

  In five minutes he'd shrugged into his jack and strapped a saddle onto a rugged stallion whose shaggy coat was as black as his owner's mood. Five more minutes saw him galloping hard across the ragged countryside, his ire mounting with each jostling gait.

  That Gabrielle Carelton would do something so irresponsible, rash and, put quite simply, asinine, he could almost forgive. Almost. The lass was Sassenach, after all, fresh from the pompous ways of Elizabeth's court, sheltered and protected from the harsh realities that were part of Connor's everyday life. He didn't expect her to know about, or to defend herself against, the wild ways of the Border and its people. A woman such as her couldn't begin to guess at the grave danger she'd put herself into.

  Ella, on the other hand...

  Och! it would take Connor far longer to forgive his cousin for her impetuousness. If he ever forgave her at all, and he had his doubts about that.

  What could Ella have been thinking?! She knew the land and it customs as well as he did. Only a fool, an Englishman, or a Maxwell wouldn't understand how risky it was for two women to be out riding at such a wee hour. The black velvet sky sported only a sliver of a moon; it was a fine night for riding, and Connor had no doubt many neighboring families had taken full advantage of it.

  His fingers gripped the reins so tightly his knuckles smarted and throbbed. His knees must have unwittingly dug into the stallion's sides, for his horse whickered and sidestepped in alarm.

  Connor's breath caught and a shiver of pure ice trickled down his spine when he imagined Gabrielle and Ella encountering a group of reivers on their way to or from a successful night's ride. Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached and his temples pounded fiercely, he forced his thoughts away from that course before it could be brought to its natural, and highly unpleasant, conclusion.

  With a flick of his wrist Connor guided his mount around the dark silhouette of a leaf-bare birch tree. The lighting was dim, but that suited him. The Black Douglas had no need for illumination; he could traverse this land with his eyes closed. The rough, craggy landscape was as familiar to him as every weather-parched crease in his aunt's forehead.

  There was a stream a quarter mile to the north. Connor turned the stallion in that direction, hoping his usually good intuition held true and that the women had indeed stopped there to rest before traveling on to Gaelside.

  It was a risk, he knew, to waste time, veering off the set path to find out if such was the case, but a risk he deemed worth taking. Ella might be as acquainted with the countryside as himself—she was a Douglas, she could ride for ho
urs without tiring—but Gabrielle Carelton was different. The Sassenach might not be as slender and delicate as he'd thought she would be, but that didn't mean she was used to traversing such a harsh, unforgiving landscape. She wasn't. Her bottom and thighs were pleasingly soft and supple... not the unsightly, hard-muscled limbs of a woman used to riding for extended periods.

  Aye, a Sassenach like Gabrielle would surely require regular breaks from riding. And what better place to rest than where the horses could graze at their leisure and sip upon crisp, mountain-fed water?

  He heard the gentle gurgle of the stream before his horse cleared the dense patch of trees. Squinting, he made out the twisting, snakelike form. The water babbled at a docile pace, its surface suffused by the few streaks of silvery moonlight that managed to sneak past the latticework ceiling of branches and leaves.

  The air was thick with the acidy tang of the spent storm, a fragrance that mingled with the smell of horse and man. The temperature had dipped; it was cold enough for Connor's breath to turn to vapor. A drop of rain that had gathered in the cup of a leaf slipped free, splattering icily on the top of his head.

  Connor hadn't expected to be lucky enough to spot the women immediately and therefore was not disappointed when a quick scan of both sides of the stream bed told him that he was alone. He saw no indication that the pair had passed this way. Then again, he also saw no indication that they hadn't. The woods were thick, the narrow, twisting stream a few miles in length; they could have stopped at any point.

  In which direction should he go?

  The decision took only a second to make.

  Instinct having served him well in the past, Connor gave the stallion a nudge with his knees and guided the horse along the eastern bank, still heading in Gaelside's general direction. His narrowed gaze studied the wet ground, paying particular attention to the muddy patches around puddles. He looked for hoofprints: the ground was certainly wet and soft enough to hold an impression.