Perfect Strangers (2 page)

Connor Douglas ignored the girl. Instead, he stared broodingly at the fire in question, his gray eyes narrow; it was hard to tell which was hotter, his glare or the flames it was fixed upon.

The Black Douglas.

Connor shook his head and lifted his heavy pewter mug. He took a long, deep swallow of the tepid tasting ale. The nickname "The Black Douglas" had been given to him as a bairn by his father as a parody of the
real
Black Douglas, Connor's ancestor, James Douglas, notorious friend of Robert the Bruce in the 1300s. As Connor grew older, however, the tag came to stand for more than just his long black hair and craggy good looks. It was also a clear warning that Connor Douglas was also in possession of a fierce Scots temperament, and a stubborn streak that would have made his ancestor smile with pride.

Connor's reputation was long, tawdry, and only partially earned. Some said he surpassed in bravery and daring even the infamous Alasdair "The Devil" Graham. Connor disagreed. Oh, aye, he'd launched his share of successful raids and trods against Scots and English Marches alike in his twenty-eight years, but no more frequently or more cleverly than any other Border reiver he knew. Besides, The Devil had finally wed and settled down in his tumultuous ways. Mayhaps that explained why everyone was suddenly so interested in
him,
Connor Douglas.

There was no denying Connor had grown up in this country; he knew the landscape and its inhabitants well. The people who lived in this wild, uncertain wilderness known as the Border between England and Scotland needed a figure around which they could spin their yarns and write their ballads. Connor had been picked for that dubious honor seemingly by default.

A sudden sharp pain in his right shin diverted Connor's wandering attention. His gaze sharpened on his cousin. Ella's dainty size was deceiving; Douglas blood pumped hot and strong through her veins, as was evident now in the scowl that pinched her coppery brow and the way her gray-blue eyes sparkled with impatience.

With his free hand, Connor reached down and rubbed his bare shin. It smarted mightily where she'd just kicked him.

"Are ye planning to answer me within me lifetime," Ella asked stiffly, "or should I go catch a wink of sleep whilst I still can? Connor, do ye ken what time it is? All ye've said in the last hour since ye so rudely woke me up is that ye've something to tell me that I'll not like hearing. Truly, Cousin, I'm tired of watching ye gulp down ale while I poke and prod the words outta ye. I've done all but reach down yer throat and yank the words out with me fists—and dinny be thinking I've not thought aboot doing exactly that. I have!"

Connor grunted. Aye, he'd a feeling she was right. He didn't realize how much ale he'd drunk until now, when he tried to shape his mouth around the words that ran blurrily through his mind. His lips felt oddly numb, his tongue oversized and fleecy. Even his vision was muted. The great hall—and Ella—looked fuzzy around the edges.

His voice, when it came, was slurred. It took great effort for him to ask, "So what's stopping ye, lass?"

"The obvious." Her shrug was brisk.

"That being...?"

"We both ken ye'll ne'er tell me yer news, or whate'er it is yer wanting to say, until ye're bloody good and ready. There's naught I can say or do to change that."

"Yer a smart wench, Cousin."

"Nay, I be only a Douglas," Ella stated, her chin inching up proudly even as she gritted her teeth and swallowed back a yawn. Dear Lord, the hour was late. Why wouldn't Connor just tell her what he'd dragged her down here to say and be done with it? The suspense was eating at her already frayed nerves. "Connor,
please...!
"

"Och! I'm thinking, lass! Ye see, 'tis not that I dinny want to tell ye. Would I have awoken ye if such was the case? Nay. 'Tis only that... I'm unsure
how
to say it."

"Bluntly would be a ver good start, methinks."

Draining the mug of ale, he set the container aside on the floor near his chair leg, then linked his fingers over his hard, flat stomach and returned her stare with a level one of his own. The woolen kilt scratched his wrists. The subject he was about to broach—bluntly—had the power to sober him up a wee bit. His voice wasn't as slurred when he said "Afore a fortnight is out, I shall wed."

Ella stared at him for a full minute. "I dinny understand. It took ye the better part of an hour to tell me
that?"
Her frown deepened as she shook her head. "Nay, there maun be more to it. I know it, can feel it. Do tell me what yer
not
telling me, Cousin."

"There be twa things, actually." Connor scratched his darkly stubble-dusted chin, his gaze never leaving Ella's. "First, my bride-to-be is promised to another."

"Who?"

"Colin."

She pursed her lips. "I dinny like the sound of this already."

"Ye need not like it, Ella. The decision's been made, the plan already set into motion."

"So ye're going to steal yer brother's intended, is that the way of it?" she asked flatly, and he nodded. She muttered a hearty Gaelic swear beneath her breath. "Heavens above, Connor, when are ye going to let the past go? What's done is done. It cannot be changed."

"Mayhap. But it
can
be avenged." Connor gritted his teeth and the muscles in his cheeks and jaw bunched tight beneath his swarthy skin.

"Ye were right aboot one thing, Cousin. I dinny like hearing this." Ella began pacing in front of the smoldering hearth. "Ye said there were twa things," she added cautiously. "Much as I'm sure I dinny want to hear it, I maun ask: what be the other?"

"The lass is English."

Ella's eyes widened and her cheeks drained of color. "A S-Sassenach?" she stammered.
"Ye're wedding a
Sassenach?! Och! Connor Douglas, are ye out of yer e'er loving mind?!"

* * *

"A Scotsman?" Gabrielle gasped. While she'd have liked to blame too-tight corset lacings for her sudden light-headedness, she knew better. It was the Queen's disclosure that had knocked the breath from her lungs and made her head spin. At the mere
thought
of wedding a heathen Scot, she shuddered visibly, her horrified gaze on the monarch. "You want me to marry a... a
Scotsman?!"

"I do." Elizabeth nodded firmly. She was standing in front of Gabrielle, who was still seated atop the delicate settee and at the
unfair
disadvantage of having to crane her neck and look upward to meet the Queen's gaze. Knowing the woman, Gabrielle could have sworn Elizabeth had planned their positions this way. "You've no objection to carrying out an order from your Queen"—one of Elizabeth's pale eyebrows arched in silent challenge—"do you?"

"I—" Gabrielle swallowed hard, her mind racing. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but her thoughts were too jumbled and chaotic.

Surely Elizabeth was jesting. Aye, that had to be the explanation. Anything else was untenable!

With a quick glance, Gabrielle assessed her sovereign. In the last six years of service, rare was the time she'd seen the sorely aging Queen look more serious. The blood pumping through Gabrielle's veins felt as cold as mountain water. "An order?"

Again, Elizabeth gave that clipped little nod.

Gabrielle gulped and rubbed her palms together nervously. Had she ever felt so trapped? Aye, once. When she was six years old, two of her cousins had cornered her against one of the rose trellises in her mother's garden. The boys had chanted nonsensical rhymes about her plain looks and teased her unmercifully about her even-then burgeoning weight. Gabrielle had tried desperately to get away from them, but they wouldn't let her pass. It wasn't until she was in tears and screaming for her father that the boys, either bored or fearing reprimand, finally gave up and wandered away... no doubt to find some other poor soul to torment. Though the incident had occurred fifteen years ago, it was still fresh in her mind.

She bit her lower lip, the sting of pain yanking her back into the present. It was a fact that if her Queen ordered her to marry a Scot, then marry a Scot she must do. Her family had always been loyal supporters of the English Crown.

Still, was there not
some
way of dissuading Elizabeth? If so, Gabrielle could not think of it; her mind was still too numb with shock for her to be able to concentrate long on any one thing, let alone a plan to escape Elizabeth's dictate.

Marry a Scot?

Lord in heaven, what had she ever done to deserve such a horrendous fate?

Gabrielle glanced down at the fingers—short and thick, the skin ruddy from a recent washing, the fingernails bluntly cut and well manicured—she now twisted nervously atop her silk-clad lap. The answer, when it came, hit her like a slap across the face.

Robert Devereaux, the second Earl of Essex.

A friend only, Gabrielle and Robert had spent much time in each other's company since he'd come to court. Oh, she was careful to make sure they were never alone, but apparently that didn't matter. In a court prone to rumor, much like any court in any kingdom, the latest gossip to be bandied about was that Gabrielle Carelton and Robert Devereaux were carrying on a sordid, lusty affair... right behind Elizabeth's narrow back.

When the rumor had reached Gabrielle, her reaction had been to tip back her head and give a hearty laugh. As if a man like Robert Devereaux would ever be interested in a heavyset, plain-looking woman like herself. Not bloody likely!

Through the shield of her lashes, Gabrielle snuck a look at Elizabeth. The Queen didn't look amused. It would seem the rumor had finally reached Elizabeth's ears. Gabrielle was surprised it had taken so long.

How had Elizabeth received the tidbit of misinformed news?

Gabrielle could well imagine!

Elizabeth had always been a self-centered woman who demanded she be the center of attention—both inside and outside palace walls. As she'd aged, and what little harsh beauty she had started to fade, Elizabeth's desire for attention—especially
male
attention—had blossomed into an obsession.

What Gabrielle hadn't considered—until now,
until it was too bloody late!
—was how much it would sting Elizabeth's pride to have it publicly displayed that her latest suitor—whom Elizabeth seemed more interested in than those many gentlemen who had come and gone before him—was distracted by a woman as unattractive as Gabrielle Carelton.

Gabrielle's attention had dipped again to the fingers she twisted atop her lap. Her gaze now rose slowly, meeting Elizabeth's. If there was a trace of sympathy in the Queen's face, she couldn't find it.

Gabrielle's hopes plummeted. "Would Mariella Rose not be better suited for such an"—she hesitated a beat—
"honor,
Your Majesty?"

"I considered her, but in the end it was obvious you would best suit my needs."

"But why?" Gabrielle couldn't help but prod for information.

"Unlike Mariella, you've a trace of Scots blood in your veins, lady. That suits my objective perfectly."

"'Tis but a very
small
trace. Miniscule."

"Aye, but a trace all the same. 'Tis Maxwell blood you have in you, is it not?"

Gabrielle nodded reluctantly. The relationship was one any Carelton worth his name admitted to only under extreme duress. "I don't understand. What has the shadier part of my lineage to do with—?"

"Everything, dear lady. Absolutely everything."

Sweeping aside her nightdress and robe—the occasional times Elizabeth rose early she did not dress until shortly before noon—she took a seat next to Gabrielle on the settee. Silently, Gabrielle sent up a prayer the delicate piece of furniture held the added weight. Reaching over, she took Gabrielle's hand in her own. Elizabeth's expression was cold.

Behind her back, some in court referred to their sovereign as The Ice Maiden. Never having had occasion to touch Elizabeth before, Gabrielle had always disregarded the term. Now, however, she thought the nickname well suited to the Queen. Elizabeth's fingers were very long, delicately shaped, enviably slender... while her skin was more arctic than a pane of glass during a roaring winter blizzard.

Elizabeth gave Gabrielle's fingers a squeeze that Gabrielle assumed was meant to reassure and encourage. In truth, it did neither.

"You've not been with me long," Elizabeth said, "surely not as long as some, but you've been one of my ladies long enough to know the troubles I currently face. The Borders between Scotland and England are in a severe state of turmoil..." She rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed tiredly. Again. "As your protector, provider, and friend, I ask for your help in settling those savages down."

"And as my Queen...?"

"I demand it,"

"'Tis a heavy task you ask of me. I'm not entirely sure how I, simply by marrying a barbaric Northerner, can accomplish it."

"Rest assured I do not expect so much of you. To tame the entire Border single-handedly simply would not be possible, especially for you." The old woman snorted as though she'd made a joke. "However, your marriage will be a start by uniting two of the most powerful families on either side of the Border. 'Tis my hope an alliance of this nature will settle one of the fiercest feuds the Borders has ever seen. A feud, I might add, which has recently been reborn with a vengeance, and which grows worse by the day."