Perfect Strangers (31 page)

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 entered 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!

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 wide 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.