Perfect Strangers (4 page)

At midday her eyes started watering and she began sneezing. Her legs and arms and spine felt sore. Her head was fuzzy and her temples ached with a dull throb. She'd caught a cold. As if the weeks of travel hadn't been bad enough, now she would have to endure more of them while sick!

If she wasn't so loyal to her Queen, Gabrielle might have surrendered to the temptation to curse Elizabeth's soul.

As a distraction, she scanned the men about her. A shudder rippled down her spine. A scruffier, rougher looking bunch she'd never seen. Six years of court life had accustomed her to well-dressed and equally well-scented men.

As day compared to night, this motley crew sported scraggly beards, and thick, hairy legs exposed beneath sleep-wrinkled kilts. Deadly broadswords hung ever ready at their hips, slapping against their muscled thighs as they rode. The plain steel hilt of daggers peeked out from the tops of their boots.

She felt as if everyone was staring at her. Well, that might be a
slight
exaggeration, she conceded. Still, the majority of men riding horseback both in front and behind her certainly were casting surreptitious, assessive glances her way.

Gabrielle's chin inched upward. Her spine stiffened resolutely as she moved in bone-weary time with the horse beneath her. Let them stare if they so desired. What did she care?

If spending half a dozen years in Elizabeth's demanding service had done nothing else, it had hardened Gabrielle to curious stares. After all, it was well known Elizabeth liked to surround herself with handsome men and women; among them Gabrielle had stood out like a lump of coal amid a bevy of exquisitely cut diamonds.

Aye, she was as much used to stares, and the occasional rude comments that accompanied them, as she was used to not showing a trace of response to either.

Outwardly.

Inwardly, her reaction was another matter; she felt dismal, discouraged, and embarrassed by her looks, for she knew that was the reason the men stared. Not for the first time did she wonder why people insisted upon forming a first impression by appearance alone.

The men seemed not to be a very chatty bunch. When they did talk, their speech was thick and guttural, most of their words incomprehensible to Gabrielle.

Was her husband-to-be among this ragged-looking group? she wondered. The question had been circling her mind for a week, her curiosity intensifying by the day. Surely if Colin was here he would have made himself known to her. Wouldn't he?

Gabrielle sneezed and wiped her nose with the hem of her still-damp cloak. There was only one way to find out if Colin was indeed part of the group, she decided finally.

Gathering up her courage, she edged her horse into step alongside that of a large, redheaded man. Her nose wrinkled. The man smelled as though bathing was a ritual to be practiced but once a year, and then, only if forced!

"Excuse me," she said hopefully, "but would you please point out Colin Douglas to me?"

If the man heard her, he ignored her.

Gabrielle frowned, cleared her throat, and tried again. "I said, could you please tell me which of these men is Colin Douglas, my betrothed?"

Finally, the man turned his attention toward her.

Gabrielle swallowed hard. Perhaps she should not have bothered him? He didn't look pleased to be yanked so abruptly from whatever thoughts were traipsing through his mind.

His voice, when it came, was gravelly, thick and angrily tight.
"Nach eil mi a'bruidhinn Beurla?"
he muttered hotly under his breath in his native Gaelic. Louder, he said, "I dinny ken what ye be saying. If ye can't speak slow and plain, lass, dinny speak at all."

The man might have had trouble understanding
her,
but except for whatever he'd muttered in Gaelic, she understood the rest of what the man said all too clearly.

She scowled darkly at his dismissive tone as well as his words. Her own expression and tone hardened when she said, a bit more loudly and a bit more slowly, "I asked you where Colin Douglas is. Can you point him out to me?"

"Colin?" One shaggy red brow cocked high. Was it her imagination, or did Gabrielle see a glint of amusement flicker in his eyes? She was unsure; the emotion came and went too quickly for her to interpret it "Is
that
who ye be looking for?
Colin?"

She nodded. Was the man daft? Who else would she be looking for, for heaven's sake?

While Gabrielle wasn't sure what sort of reaction the man would give her, the one he settled upon shocked her to the core.

A grin twitched at the corner of his thickly mustached lips. As she watched, he tipped back his shaggy red head and let loose a loud, deep, rumbling laugh that drew the attention of more than one of the riders nearby. They craned their necks, looking at the man with surprise. Hadn't they ever heard him laugh before?

Gabrielle gasped and winced at the booming racket. The man's mount seemed equally shocked. As though it was also unused to hearing laughter originating from its master, the horse whickered nervously and sidestepped in surprise.

She'd barely enough time to maneuver her own horse away before the two could collide. Pursing her lips, Gabrielle's frown deepened. "'Twas a simple question, sir. I fail to see what's so funny."

"Aye, lass, that I'm sure of," he said, barely suppressing the laughter that could still be heard rumbling in his thick, gruff voice. "Och! dinny look so worried. Ye'll be kenning it all soon enough, once we reach Brack—er, the keep. Hmmm, methinks by then, I'll still be the one who's laughing, whilst ye'll be scowling a fine muckle more than ye are now."

What an odd thing to say. Surely he was not crass enough to be inferring...?

Gabrielle felt a blush heat her cheeks. She thought of her size, of her plain features, and felt the familiar trickle of self-consciousness seep into her bloodstream.

With fingers that trembled only a bit, she used her free hand to fist the cloak more tightly beneath her chin. "Are you trying to say that my future husband will be disappointed when he sees the woman he's to marry?"

"Och! chan eil thu luath!
I told ye,
speak slowly.
That accent of yers is thick, and I'm having the devil's own time understanding ye."

Gabrielle complied, but only because she was so anxious for an answer. "I asked if you think Colin will be disappointed in me."

"I'd not be worrying aboot that right now if I were ye. Truly, 'tis the least of yer concerns."

"I don't understand."

"Nor did I expect ye to. Yet. Ye'll ken the way of it soon enough. And when ye do, methinks ye'll wish ye dinny."

Gabrielle sighed and shifted in the saddle. All this riding was making her backside and thighs sore!

The man's words echoed through her head. They were not comforting, if only because he hadn't given her an answer. No matter how hard she tried not to, she couldn't help but wonder—and worry—what Colin's reaction would be once he saw her. If his heart was on set on one of the tall, slender, beautiful women she'd left behind at court, he was destined for disappointment.

Her thoughts and emotions spiraled downward. Sweet Jesus, if she didn't distract herself soon, she would scream! That in mind, Gabrielle cast a sidelong glance at the man. He'd moved his mount away and was staring ahead blankly.

"Excuse me," she said, slowly and precisely, as she again guided her horse closer to his. He sighed deeply, glanced at her, and frowned in annoyance. Since that seemed to be his normal temperament, Gabrielle took no offense. "You said something before, in Gaelic, that I didn't understand...?"

"Chan eil thu luath?"

"Aye, that's it." She smiled. He did not. "I don't speak the language," she explained. "Could you tell me what it means, please?"

"Aye. It means that yer not ver swift." He scratched his thickly bearded jaw, nodded, and shrugged, as though he found it an apt translation. If he realized he'd just insulted her, it didn't show in either his manner or expression.

Gabrielle sat back in the saddle as if she'd just been slapped. Indeed, her cheeks smarted and burned as though the blow had been tangible.

Fuming, she clenched her teeth around a most unladylike response and, after shooting him a hot glare, mimicked the man by jerking her attention forward and forcing herself to stare straight ahead.

What she saw did not improve her mood.

The hustle and bustle of London was long behind them. They were now in the open, rough, and ragged countryside known as the Borders.

A more hostile and unwelcoming terrain Gabrielle had never seen. The area was called the Cheviot Hills. To her jaded eye, the seemingly endless ridges of hills looked more like small mountains.

What they lacked in height they made up for in steepness, she soon discovered. The tangled ridge of moorland was cut with valleys and gulleys that ran every which way. How these men knew where they were going was beyond her comprehension; one hill very quickly began to resemble the one after it. And the one after that.

Gabrielle tugged the hood of her cloak up over her head to shield her face from the whisk of the strong breeze. Her surroundings were as dreary as her mood. Desolate and bleak, the hills stretched on for what looked like an eternity.

So did her future.

* * *

"What are ye doing, Ella? Ye've been standing in front of that window half the day staring at naught. Did ye forget there be chores still left to be done?"

"I've forgotten naught. The chores will get done, Cousin. Eventually. Ye needn't worry, the evening meal will be ready on time."

"Ye still haven't told me why ye're staring out the window," Connor reminded her.

"I'd think it obvious."

Connor shook his head and sighed. Women were a constant source of confusion. Why they
thought
what they did,
said
what they did,
did
what they did... Och! but it rarely made a grain of sense to him. Figuring out the fairer sex was a job for much better men than himself, he'd concluded years ago.

His cousin, Connor had also concluded, was a stranger lass than most. A frown furrowed his brow. Mayhap it was time to find Ella a husband? God knows she was over the age for it. Let whomever the poor fellow ended up being deal with her; she was ever an annoyance and frustration to Connor!

"Nay," he said finally, "'tis not obvious. Why dinny ye tell me?"

"I'm waiting for yer bride to arrive. What else?"

He blinked hard, his frown deepening into a scowl. "Why?"

"Och! mon, but ye can be dense sometimes. While ye may not be the least bit curious about yer future wife,
I
maun certainly am. I want to see if she looks the way ye said she would."

"She'll look like a Sassenach. 'Tis what she is."

"Aye, I ken that well enough. But will she be as tiny and frail as ye think? And if so, how do ye plan to get an heir from her? The hardest part of winter is fast upon us, Cousin. What if she does not survive until spring?"

"Then we shall bury her in true Scots tradition," Connor replied matter-of-factly. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a negligent shrug. "Whether she survives the winter or nay, the end result will be the same. Maxwell and Douglas will be united by marriage and the feud tempered, at least somewhat. Meanwhile, me dear brother will have been cheated out of having accomplished the feat. Dinny ye see, Ella? The marriage will have served its purpose no matter how long—or short—a time the wench lives. Oh, I admit I'm hoping to get an heir from this, howe'er I'm not so foolish as to be counting upon it. I'm of a mind an heir would simply be a nice reward for all the trouble I am taking to fetch the lass."

Ella glared at him from over her slender shoulder. Were she closer, she would have kicked him, he was certain of that. Hard. Connor made a mental note to tame her of that unladylike habit
before
finding her a husband.

"Now I be kenning why they call ye The Black Douglas, Connor," she said tightly. "Have ye no heart? No soul? No compassion whate'er? How can ye speak so indifferently of burying yer own wife?"

"She's not me wife yet," he reminded her coolly. "Right now we're talking aboot naught more than putting to her final rest a lass who is a complete stranger." Connor lifted his chin and scratched the underside of his jaw as he regarded her thoughtfully. "Tell me something, Ella. Exactly when did
ye
start troubling yerself o'er the welfare of a Maxwell?"

"Hmph!" Ella quickly shifted her attention back to the window. Her lips parted, her intent to voice a hot retort, but the words evaporated off her tongue as quickly as they came.

A sudden commotion outside jerked her attention past the cold pane of glass. "Ye'd best brace yerself, Cousin," she said. The rest she called out over her shoulder as she raced excitedly toward the door that led out of the great hall. "Methinks the complete stranger in question will not be such a stranger come nightfall. Yer wife has arrived!"

* * *

So
this
is how the Scots build a castle,
Gabrielle thought... only because it was all she would
allow
herself to think at the moment.

She sneezed, wiped her nose, and tried not to notice how the gesture smarted; Lord knows what damage she'd done to her poor nose with a day of blotting on coarse wool; she only hoped the tip of her nose wasn't as red as the soreness there implied.