Perfect Strangers (3 page)

"Your Majesty, surely you are not suggesting—?" Gabrielle's words clogged in her throat and her heart skipped a heavy beat. While she'd thought herself shocked before, now that the heat of realization was starting to seep in, Gabrielle realized that was nothing compared to her present feelings. "I've misunderstood," she said, her voice a hoarse, cracked whisper. "Aye, that must be it. Surely you don't intend to marry me to...
a Douglas!"

* * *

"A Maxwell? Ye're wedding a
Maxwell?
I'd wondered before, Connor, but now I be certain. Ye've flipped yer kilt, and that's that."

"I'm as sane as e'er, and I ken exactly what I be doing, Cousin."

"If so, ye'd not even be
thinking
aboot marrying into such a foul, disreputable family." Ella's eyes flashed as she lashed out again, kicking Connor's shin, this time harder. "Maxwells! Och!" She shuddered and huddled more deeply within her plaid. "God rot 'em all! Sweet Jesus, Connor, dinny tell me ye've forgotten the Maxwell is the ver same family we've had a feud running with for near three centuries?"

"Hold yer tongue. How many times maun I tell ye, 'tis unbecoming for a lass to speak in such a manner," Connor growled as he again reached down to rub his throbbing shin. Damned if the girl hadn't kicked him in exactly the same spot. Och! his cousin may be small but she was a strong one! And then there was that dagger-sharp tongue of hers. Connor doubted it even crossed Ella's mind to keep her mouth shut when there was something on her mind she thought needed saying—whether it needed hearing or not. It was no wonder she, at the past-marriageable age of sixteen, remained unwed. Only Ella seemed to question why this was so. The answer was apparent to everyone else. What man in his right mind would take to wife a wench who, in speech, thought and deed, proved more of a man than her mate?

Connor shook his head and forced his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. "I've forgotten naught, and well ye ken it. Least of all have I forgotten what rabble the Maxwell be. Howe'er, I can also see what is happening around me. The times are changing, Ella. Slowly, but changing all the same. Now that young Jamie has come in to his own, he is determined to test his mettle by settling the Border. And the Ice Queen in England seems equally as determined to help him." He glanced at his cousin. Their gazes met and warred. "Use yer head, lass. Ye maun see all the changes taking place. In the last year alone hundreds of Borderers have been hanged or beheaded in Edinburgh and London. Punishment is coming faster, getting harsher, fiercer, and maun more frequent. Mark me words, the time for reiving and feuding is coming to an end. Sooner, methinks, than most expect. When that happens, the Douglas will not be losing his head over past grievances but respected for stretching out his hand in peace
a'fore
it is demanded—or, worse, lopped off."

"Ye plan to accomplish all that simply by stealing your brother's intended, a Maxwell, and wedding her?" she scoffed.

"The wench is a Carelton, Ella. She's got a mere drop of good Scots blood in her. But nay, I'm not so foolish as to think a mere marriage, even to a distant relative of the Maxwell, can accomplish so much. What I do think is that such a union will be a ver good start when the Border ways come to a head."

"That 'mere drop' of Maxwell blood running through her veins makes her fully a Maxwell in my eyes, Cousin," Ella said angrily. "Were I ye, I'd not be surprised if the rest of the clan Douglas feels maun the same. Och, to think a Maxwell will be living here in Bracklenaer, roaming its corridors at will.... Ne'er,
ne'er
did I think I'd see the day. Ye were dead right. I dinny like this idea of yers, Connor. I dinny like it even a wee little bit."

"I'm not o'erly fond of it meself, but at least I ken the rewards. As for a Maxwell living in Bracklenaer... as I said, the wench is a Carelton, soon to be a Douglas. Rest yer mind on it, Ella, and think on it this way: How long do ye think she'll actually be living at Bracklenaer?"

Ella frowned and shook her head. "I dinny ken."

"The bride was reared English to the core," he said. "How many years has she spent lounging in the Queen's court? Four? Six? Ten? I dinny remember exactly, nor does it matter. What
does
matter is that all the while the lass has been pampered and protected, waited upon and coddled. I dinny ken what she looks like, nor do I care. In me own mind I picture her as fair, delicate... and ver weak of constitution, the way English women tend to be. Now tell me, how long can such a lass survive this harsh climate of ours? One winter? Twa? No more than that, I'd wager. If I'm lucky, she'll live long enough to provide me with an heir, then..? 'Twould be long enough for me, but I shan't count on it."

Ella's gaze narrowed thoughtfully. Her expression cleared and a trace of a grin tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Methinks that by the next Day O' Truce—slated for this coming spring, is it not?—yer Sassenach bride will be resting 'neath good Scots soil, and ye'll be a widower. And proud da."

"A poor, bereft, sorely
grieving
widower," Connor corrected her with a matching grin. "And proud da, o'course. Oh, aye. 'Tis exactly what I am counting upon, don't ye ken?"

* * *

The weather is... atrocious. Especially the winters. I'll be lucky to live out the year.

The remembered words echoed through Gabrielle's head. She'd spoken them less than an hour ago to her Queen. As expected, they'd had precious little effect. Once Elizabeth made a decision, there was no chance of changing her mind. Elizabeth had decided that Gabrielle would wed Colin Douglas, and Gabrielle had been coerced into conceding that, as a loyal subject to the Crown, there was naught she could do but yield to her sovereign's demand.

Like it or not—and like it she most certainly did
not
—Gabrielle was journeying to Scotland to marry a stranger. A dreaded savage. A Northerner. Except for her great-great aunt, she'd no Scots ties. She'd never even met a Scot in the flesh, although she'd heard perfectly horrible tales about them. The prospect of meeting one now, of
marrying
one, was infinitely unappealing.

Every miserable rumor Gabrielle had ever heard about the brutish Scots bombarded her now. The men, she'd been told, wore rags, drank more heavily than they swore, and had a penchant for beating their womenfolk—not to mention one another—when they weren't out pilfering the English countryside... or the
Scots
countryside for that matter, since they seemed to have no preference from where they plundered and stole. The women were said to be harsh-looking, harsh-mouthed, and filthy. The terrain on the Northern side of the Border was said to be rough, craggy, and strenuous to traverse, the food gruesome and unpalatable.

Gabrielle closed her eyes, groaned, and wished to God she had more time. But she didn't. Elizabeth had tersely informed her that she would be leaving for her new "home" within the hour.

Gabrielle's head spun. Everything was going so fast! She barely had enough time to pack her belongings. Not that there was much to pack.

Planting balled fists on her ample hips, Gabrielle glared down at her half-filled trunk. For the last quarter hour she'd been haphazardly tossing everything she could think of into it. She still had room to pack more, but pity take it, there was no more to add. Her wardrobe was of fine quality, thanks to Elizabeth, but sparse, her material property equally as meager. Except for her clothing, there was only one other possession she'd rather die than leave London without: the necklace her mother had given her when Gabrielle was but an infant.

Like a hummingbird, her mind flitted, no more taking the time to perch on one thought before swiftly taking flight and fluttering to the next.

Would what little clothing she owned be warm enough to see her through the rest of a harsh Scots winter? What would Scotland be like? Was it truly as rough and wild as its inhabitants?

Last, but by no means least, dare she think of her future, and of her forced marriage to Colin Douglas, the estranged twin brother of the infamous Black Douglas?

The Black Douglas.

The nickname of her betrothed's brother sent a chill icing through her veins. Gabrielle shivered violently. Bad as the situation was, it could be worse. She could be marrying
Connor
Douglas, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness, cunning, and daring—not to mention blood-lust and vengeance—was well known throughout England as far north as Kintail and as far south as London.

Were
Connor
the Douglas she was being forced to wed...

Nay, she could not,
would not
think about it.

Besides, The Black Douglas was the least of her concerns right now. Her intended was
Colin
Douglas,
not
Connor. Elizabeth had been most adamant about that, and Gabrielle most thankful. There was no time to waste worrying about something that would never be. She had enough to worry about, thank you very much. Her departure. Her imminent marriage. Her acceptance into a clan of foreigners who no doubt would hate her on sight.

Gabrielle chased that last thought out of her mind. She'd deal with the certain hostility when it came, and not a second before.

Slowly, she cast a last, wistful glance about her bedchamber. Had she forgotten anything? A nightgown? A corset? Nay, she saw none of those. Even her precious silver hairbrush and mirror were tucked securely away. With her belongings packed, the starkly furnished room looked depressingly empty.

Gabrielle's sigh was one of resignation as she slammed the lid of the trunk closed. Her fingers trembled as she belted the leather ties that would, hopefully, hold the trunk shut throughout the rigorous journey ahead.

Two clipped knocks sounded at the door just as she was securing the last buckle.

"Enter!" Gabrielle called out, distracted.

The door was pushed open by a tall, thin, dark-haired young boy.

"Rumor has it you're off to Scotland and a husband," the boy greeted her with annoying joviality. Only his dark eyes shimmered briefly with a glint of sympathy for her predicament.

Gabrielle nodded tightly. Here, once again, was proof that at court, gossip traveled faster than a runaway carriage. No doubt there were more than a few confidants of the Queen who'd learned of Gabrielle's upcoming nuptials long before she herself had been told!

"Are you ready, m'lady?" the boy asked.

"W-what?" Gabrielle asked, jarred from her thoughts.

He bowed, his hand sweeping toward the open door. "I asked if you were ready to go."

Gabrielle swallowed hard. There was a tightening in her throat, chest, and stomach. Her voice cracked as she replied, "Aye, as ready as I'll ever be."

Chapter 2

They traveled for two weeks before entering the far north country that was known as the Borders. The craggy, wild landscape was unlike anything Gabrielle had ever seen before.

Her aching body—especially her tender and bruised backside—was all too aware of every jostling mile she spent atop this shaggy-looking nag the Scots called a horse.

While with the Queen's men, they'd stopped at inns that Gabrielle had thought shoddy. A week ago she'd been transferred to the care of her future husband's men. Apparently the Scots didn't believe in inns—or
beds
for that matter. At the end of each impossibly long day of travel, they simply stopped, usually in a small clearing, and dismounted for the night. They cooked in the open and slept on cold, hard ground sheltered by nothing more than a big woolen strip of cloth. Or, in Gabrielle's case, her cloak. Long into the nights she'd lain awake, her sore body feeling every jutting lump of sod beneath her, her mind toying with images of the inns' lumpy beds that she'd sneered at but now longed for mightily.

Last night it had rained.

She'd hoped that Colin's men would be sensible enough to seek shelter. They hadn't. Like the seemingly endless string of nights before it, they'd slept under the cloud-strewn sky.

A more miserable evening Gabrielle could not remember ever spending. By morning, she was drenched. The men had allowed her to change clothes from the trunk of her meager possessions they'd secured atop a rickety wagon.

A warm, blessedly dry dress had helped. However, the only cloak she owned was the one she'd used for cover from the rain during the night, and the thick woolen garment had soaked up the rain like a sponge. She had wrung out as much of the moisture as she could, but it was a poor effort; the cloak remained saturated. Unfortunately, she'd no choice but to wear it. The air was too nippy and the wind was too strong for her to dare ride on without even its damp protection.