Perfect Strangers (8 page)

"If you're thinking... Oh, nay, I will
not.
I
—"
Her words were cut short as, seizing the opportunity of her open mouth, Connor shoved the spoonful of soup past her lips. He used the bowl of the spoon to not only catch the drop of broth that trickled down her chin but to also nudge her gaping mouth shut before more broth could spill out.

Gabrielle chewed swiftly, barely noticing that the once-tasty soup now had the flavor of mud. A wave of irritation swept though her. Oh, but it was difficult to suppress the urge to finish what she'd started, and tell this heathen exactly what she thought of him and his impatient preacher.

She swallowed down the soup and was in the process of opening her mouth to vent her mounting ire... only to find she had no breath left in her lungs to vent it with. Her breathing had paused just beneath her hammering heart when Connor plucked the cloth from her hand and wiped the residue of broth from her chin.

Gabrielle stared at him. The gesture left her speechless. Nay, that was wrong. It wasn't the gesture that stunned her so much as the
gentleness
with which he'd accomplished it.

While The Black Douglas was known for many things, consideration wasn't one of them. Was it possible the rumors and ballads about this man were wrong? That he wasn't in truth the heartless, barbaric monster they all painted him?

Gabrielle suppressed a groan. Dear Lord, she must be sicker than she originally thought to even be considering such a notion. Was this not, after all, the same man who'd flagrantly—and much too easily, as far as she was concerned—stolen her, his brother's fiancée, right out from under the other man's nose? Was this not the same man who claimed it a rightful theft, the same man who'd then boldly bragged about marrying her himself?

Aye, it was. But, Gabrielle found all of those misdeeds hard to remember when the feel of Connor's strong, cloth-covered fingers gently skimming her jaw still lingered and tingled in her veins.

"Here, lass, swallow down another bite. 'Tis good and hearty fare, just the thing for a sick wench." He'd dipped the spoon back into the bowl and now held it close to her tightly compressed lips.

Gabrielle shook her head. She was wise enough this time not to open her mouth to voice the protest that itched the tip of her tongue.

Her attention had been locked on the closed door at the foot of the bed. It now lifted to his face.

From a distance, his eyes had looked... well, merely gray. Up close, she saw that there was nothing "merely" about them. The irises
were
predominantly slate colored, yet now she noticed they were also flecked with intriguing shards of brilliant blue. The darkness of his eyebrows, and the uncommonly long, thick black eyelashes, contrasted sharply, complementing and enhancing their color.

She shook her head to clear it, ignoring the way the gesture set her temples to throbbing anew. "I'll not be marrying you, Connor Douglas, so get that notion out of your head right now."

This time, Gabrielle was prepared. She kept her teeth clenched together as she talked, giving him no opportunity to shove more food into her mouth.

Connor frowned and looked vaguely disappointed.

Gabrielle gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt almost as much as her pounding head and aching throat. Did he truly think her so stupid she would fall for that trick more than once? If so, the man had a good deal to learn about Careltons and their intelligence... not to mention their stubborn determination!

"Right now me main concern is nursing ye back to health. What's done is done, and cannot be undone. What happens after ye're well will happen. There's naught ye can do aboot it. Ye're... er, a robust lass, I'll grant ye that, but naught more than a lass all the same. If I chose to wed ye, there's not a thing ye can do to stop me."

"That's where you're wrong. There are
several
things I can, and
will
, do," Gabrielle replied tightly, even as her fevered mind scrambled to think of what even one of those things might be. "You realize that..."—
ah-ha!
—"that Elizabeth will have your head when she finds out what you've done, do you not?"

"Elizabeth isn't
my
sovereign, she's yers." Connor replaced the spoon in the bowl, then sat back in the chair, his shrewd gray gaze never leaving her. "And aye, the messenger she sent this afternoon did mention something aboot separating me head from me shoulders, but I paid the threat no heed."

She sucked in a quick breath. The Queen had sent a messenger? And The Black Douglas had blatantly ignored the threat the messenger carried? Was the man insane?! Did he not know that, while Elizabeth could ignore much, never could the woman stand to be ignored herself?

"What about your young king?" Gabrielle asked, and winced. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak, shaky, lacking its previous conviction. "Methinks James will be equally displeased with what you've done."

A reckless grin that made Gabrielle's heart skip a beat tugged at one corner of Connor's mouth. "Och! but there's the rub. Ye're right aboot him not being pleased, but I've gotten him angrier in the past. Jamie threatens only a fine." When she regarded him suspiciously, he shrugged and added, "His messenger arrived as the Queen's was leaving, and shortly a'fore twa sent by the March Wardens. Squeezed in between those was a messenger from the Maxwell. Er, I think that be the order. Truth to tell, I dinny remember exactly, there were so many messengers coming and going. 'Tis been a busy afternoon."

That even one messenger had come was music to Gabrielle's ears. Surely with so many protests and threats The Black Douglas would
have
to let her go now.

Wouldn't he?

Her gaze raked his face; Connor's features were ruggedly carved, his expression decisive. A glint of persistence shimmered like liquid gray fire in his eyes.

An uneasy feeling prickled along the nape of Gabrielle's neck. The Black Douglas looked more determined than ever to keep and wed her.

She shuddered. This would never do!

If she must wed, she would obey her Queen and marry the man Elizabeth had chosen for her. She would marry Colin Douglas, the nicer of the Douglas twins. It was a much more tolerable fate than the alternative: being espoused to the man about whom horrible Border ballads had been written, the man whose nickname mothers on
both
sides of the Border used as a threat to make their children behave.

The seed of a plan sowed itself in the back of her fevered mind. It was a shaky plan, daring and risky, with little chance for success. Still, she'd nothing to lose by at least
trying.

Her gaze shifted to the bowl The Black Douglas cradled in one big hand. Her smile was as wide as it was forced as she asked sweetly, "Might I have more soup now? 'Twould seem I'm hungry after all."

What Gabrielle thought but did not say was that strength was one property she'd need in abundance if her plan, tenuous though it was, had even a marginal chance of success.

Strength, and a lot more courage than she thought she possessed!

Chapter 4

"Say that again. I couldn't have heard ye right, lad."

"Ye heard correctly. Early this week, the Black Douglas stole Colin Douglas's bride right out from under his twin's nose."

"Och! I dinny believe it. Where?
How?"

Short and well-toned lean, Gordie Maxwell had a thick shock of unruly red hair that he now impatiently combed all ten of his fingers through. His bootheels clicked against the hard stone floor as he paced in front of the hearth situated to the left of his father's desk. "In Dumfrees. As to the 'how'... well, methinks the younger Douglas twin shall be a fine muckle embarrassed for many fortnights to come when word gets out of how easily his bride was snatched from him. Connor simply had his men replace those of his brother's at the place where the transfer of the lady from the Elizabeth's men to that of the Douglas's was to take place."

"And the Queen's men dinny ken the difference?"

"If they had, would not the Lady Gabrielle be at Gaelside now, instead of Bracklenaer? Yet Bracklenaer is precisely where she be. Nay, Da, they dinny ken the difference. To a Sassenach, one Scot be the same as the next, ne'er mind the minor discrepancies in a mere two Douglases. 'Twas in Douglas hands they were ordered to relinquish the lass, and in Douglas hands she
was
relinquished."

"The
wrong
Douglas's hands," Johnny Maxwell pointed out tightly.

"Aye," his eldest son agreed, "but rumor has it the lass wasn't aware of that fact until recently."

"How on earth could she not ken who'd taken her?"

"She's also Sassenach, Da," Gordie said and shrugged, as though that explained everything. In a way, it did.

"Och! this is not good news, Gordie. not good a'tall." Johnny rested his elbows atop his desk, cradling his weathered forehead in his palms. "I kenned that Connor Douglas is bold," he sighed, "but... guddle me, I ne'er thought he'd do something like
this!"

"They dinny call him The Black Douglas for naught."

"Aye, and well I'm starting to ken it," Johnny moaned. "'Tis a blessing and a curse, that nickname... a might fearsome reputation goes hand in hand with wearing it. Many's the Black Douglas of yore who were shown respect not for their merit but simply because of the tag. This time howe'er... aye, methinks this time be different. Methinks this time, the lad they call The Black Douglas is out to carve himself a status equal to none. A fame that in the end, shall stand above all others." His black eyes narrowed, clouding over with an ill-tempered memory, Johnny grudgingly added, "Any respect the lad is shown has naught to do with a mere nickname, but 'tis well earned."

Gordie, who'd been standing by the long, slit-shaped window, turned his head and stared at his father as though he'd never seen the man before. "Earned by deeds such as his latest ride against Caerlaverock? Dinny tell me ye've so soon forgotten that!"

"Forgotten? Ha!" Johnny's laughter was as harsh and dry as the weathered skin that stretched taut over his harshly carved cheekbones. He sat back in his chair, his shrewd gaze lifting and falling slowly as he assessed his son. "Och! nay," he said, waving the thought away with a gesture of his hand, "the Douglas's raid is naught more forgotten than 'tis lived down—which is to say 'tis neither. If I had to guess, lad, I'd wager young mithers will be singing that dreadful Border ballad aboot the episode long after we're both deep under this country's fine soil."

"Have a care, Da, ye're beginning to sound as though ye admire him," Gordie growled accusingly.

"Mayhap I do."

"Nay!"

"Aye!
How can I not? Oh, aye, I'll admit 'twas a time I'd nae small reputation of me own, but that was when I was maun, maun younger. E'en in me prime I'd not have dared aught so bold against a family so strong, a family I'd a centuries-auld blood feud with. Yet The Black Douglas dares that and, with his latest escapade against his twin, maun. Kidnapping the Lady Gabrielle threatens to bring down upon his head the wrath of both young James
and
that sourpuss old Bess. One doesn't have to
like
what Connor Douglas does to admire his guile and daring for doing it, don't ye ken? Och! lad, stop scowling and shaking yer head at me."

"I dinny believe I'm hearing this, and from me own da nae less! Are ye going to let a Douglas,
any
Douglas, get away with stealing a goodly portion of Caerlaverock's beasties and to many prisoners to count?"

"O' course not."

"But ye just said—"

"That I admire Connor's daring, naught else." A slow, sly grin tugged at the corners of Johnny Maxwell's lips as he linked his fingers together and rested them atop the generous hill of his stomach. "I dinny say a word aboot not seeking me revenge. Och! lad, we be Maxwells! Revenge is in our blood. We couldn't stop seeking it—especially against those God rotten Douglases—any maun than we could stop breathing."

Gordie returned his father's grin. "Now,
that
I'm liking the sound of. Tell me, what do ye plan to do?"

"Weeell..." Johnny's smile broadened. "Naturally I've filed a bill with the March Wardens against The Black Douglas. It shall be heard on the next Day O' Truce. I admit I'm sorely grieved to loose Siobhan—och! that wench was a mighty fine cook!—but I'm not so foolish as to think we'll be getting her back any time soon, if e'er. Yer mither and sisters are already busy weaving us new blankets to replace the ones taken by The Black Douglas. There's naught else that can be done aboot the raid, not
legally,
except the obligatory counterattack, which we've already planned." Johnny shrugged and lifted his right hand palm upward in a gesture indicating he was helpless to do anything more, which indeed he was. About that matter. He swiftly turned the conversation to a matter he
could
do something about "Now that I think on it, mayhap The Black Douglas's latest escapade be not so bad for us after all."