Perfect Strangers (23 page)

Ella stopped pacing and, fists balled and planted atop the slender line of her hips, chin tilted proudly, she stared at the small, barred window.

Connor cracked his right eye open only enough to be able to glance at the window through the shield of his lashes. The shadows were too thick to distinguish much, but he glimpsed a pudgy face and a crop of bright-red curls just beyond the steel bars.

"'Tis a woman!" Simon exclaimed accusingly.

"Eh?" The man's voice was muffled. "I can't see, lad, ye've got yer leg wrapped around me eyes. Aye, Simon, there's a woman in there; howe'er,
she
isn't The Black Douglas, merely his cousin. Look aboot, lad."

"But I dinny see... Och! there he is," Simon said, his young voice suddenly hushed with awe. "There, sitting upon the floor. Is he really The Black Douglas?"

Ella grinned, nodded, and took a step toward the door. "Aye," she said, "look yer fill, lad. 'Tis The Black Douglas in the flesh."

"Are ye sure? He doesn't look so fierce."

"And what were ye expecting him to look like?" she inquired haughtily.

"Could ye move yer leg, Simon? I can't see," the man grumbled, but if the boy heard, the lad paid him no attention.

Simon pursed his lips, his red brows drawing into a scowl. "'Tis rumored The Black Douglas stands o'er seven feet tall."

"An exaggeration." Ella shrugged. "Suffice to say that Connor Douglas is taller than maun. And a good few inches taller than that despicable twin of his. Nay, ye can't tell it at a glance, lad. 'Tis impossible to predict how tall a mon stands when he's scrunched down so."

"And wide," the boy said as he scrutinized Connor. "'Tis said The Black Douglas's shoulders are so wide that Bracklenaer's doors had to be widened to allow him to pass."

Ella snorted and clucked her tongue. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Do ye believe e'erything ye hear, lad?"

"Aboot The Black Douglas, I do," Simon announced proudly. Ella was sure she heard more than a smidgen of admiration in the boy's tone, and saw more than a wee spark of admiration light the gaze the boy ran fondly over Connor's supposedly sleeping form. "'Tis exactly like him I want to be when I'm a mon full grown. 'Tis exactly like him I
shall
be."

"Does that mean we can look forward to seeing ye warming the dungeon in Bracklenaer in, och! say another score or twa?"

"Nay! A Maxwell is not so easily caught by their enemies. The ballads praise The Black Douglas's cunning and quickness. I'm of a mind that if such were true, I'd not be looking at him now."

"Och! lad, believe me, if the fight were a fair one, 'tis true, ye'd not be having the pleasure of seeing him now. Unfortunately, such wasn't the case."

Simon's frown deepened thoughtfully. The man upon whose shoulders he perched again demanded he move his leg, but Ella did not think the lad heard, so intently was he looking at Connor. "Are ye telling me The Black Douglas was taken unarmed? He dinny e'en put up a fight?"

"How could he? He was ne'er given a chance. E'en the fist of The Black Douglas's is nae match for Gordie's broadsword, lad." Ella took a step toward the door and, lowering her voice as though afraid she'd awaken her cousin, whispered confidingly, "They dinny tell ye? Yer brothers Gordie and Roy took Connor prisoner whilst he slept."

Ella suppressed a smile; the boy's horrified expression did not disappoint her.

"Nay!"

"Aye!"

Connor stirred, and the cell grew abruptly silent.

Through the shield of his lashes, Connor watched the boy slip his right hand through the bars. The lad's knuckles looked youthfully pudgy as his fingers opened.

Ella, God bless her quick-thinking Douglas heart, coughed noisily to mask the sound of the object the boy dropped clattering atop the hard, cold stone.

"Ne'er let it be said that a Maxwell won unfairly," the lad said with a maturity that belied his bairnishly rounded cheeks.

"Fair or nay, that a Maxwell
did
win this day is all that matters now," the man holding the boy grumbled. Simon had only a fleeting second in which his glance volleyed meaningfully between Ella and the object hidden by the shadows near her feet before the man stepped away from the door, hauling his youthful burden with him. "Now, get ye down, lad, a'fore I end up with me shoulders permanently stooped from bearing ye."

"A Maxwell has nae need to cheat, don't ye ken?" the boy argued, his voice fading a bit as the man set him down on his feet. "We can win against the Douglas fairly. Just ye wait and see."

"What's that ye say? Lad, have ye learned so little from yer da? There's naught unfair or shameful aboot finding yer enemy's weak spots and taking him down by them."

"Mayhap," the boy murmured. "But there's much to be proud of in taking yer enemy a'ter a fair fight. For example, were
I
the one who'd come upon The Black Douglas this morn instead of Gordie and Roy..."

The boastful ring of the boy's words faded. A pair of receding footsteps—one's stride long and sure, the other's short and quick as it hurried to keep step—indicated the man was escorting his young charge away from the cell door and down the shadow-strewn hallway.

Connor forced his suddenly alert muscles to keep their reclining pose when he would rather have bolted to his feet and satisfied his curiosity by inspecting the object the youngest Maxwell had left behind. Prudence held both his and Ella's impatience in check until they heard the thunk of a door closing in the not too far-distance.

Assured they were alone, Connor opened his eyes and pushed to his feet. By the time he reached his cousin's side, Ella had already retrieved the object.

"Och! Connor will ye look at this. 'Tis a
skean dhu,
and quite a fine one." She turned the small dirk this way and that, holding the weapon up as though trying to get one of the dreary gray rays of sunlight that managed to sneak in through the window to glint off the small emerald embedded in the short, thick hilt. The steel blade was squat, but sharp and nonetheless deadly.

Connor's gaze shifted between the dirk and his cousin. Did she have any idea the value of the object she held? Nay, he doubted it. Gently, as though reaching out to take the hand of a long-lost and treasured friend, he took the weapon from her. "Show some respect, lass. 'Tis not just any
skean dhu."

"Surely ye dinny mean...?" She tipped her red head and looked at him quizzically.

"Aye, surely I
do,
" he said, and as his gaze lifted from the dirk to meet Ella's, he grinned broadly. "'Tis the one Colin stole from me near a half score ago. The one our da gave to me upon his deathbed."

Connor held the dirk up, his gaze admiring it respectfully even as his brow frowned with the memory. The weapon was small, but the symbolism of it was weighty indeed. The dirk was a weapon the real Black Douglas, James, friend of Robert the Bruce, had taken into many a battle with him, a weapon that had been tucked into the boots of all the lairds of the Douglases of Bracklenaer since.

Until the weapon had been entrusted to Connor's care, that is.

Colin had stolen the precious dirk the night their father died... and in so doing launched a blood feud that almost rivaled in violence the one between Maxwell and Douglas. Almost.

Connor ran the calloused tip of his thumb over the flat surface of the emerald. After all these years, the stone was still smooth and fine. The weight of the dirk felt comfortably heavy in Connor's hand. Finally, it was back where it belonged. Now, if he could only set to right the rest of his world so easily.

His gaze shifted to the door, and his grin broadened as a plan began to form in his mind...

Chapter 11

"Yer kin doesn't treat ye ver well, lass. I hope for yer sake the ones ye have back in England treat ye better."

"I've no relatives in England," Gabrielle answered the man who looked like Connor, but who most certainly was not Connor. "If I did, I'd not have been at Elizabeth's court..." She paused, frowned. "I
probably
would not have been there," she corrected hastily. "And had I not been at Elizabeth's court, I'd not have been ordered to marry Conn—Coli—er,
you,
and therefore would not be in this despicable situation now."

Gabrielle's gaze shifted, scanning the room. Not an easy feat since the night was closing in and no candle had been left for them.

Three hours—and what had felt like several dozen staircases—ago, they'd been led here by a gloating Gordie Maxwell.

The room was small and dank, the only furnishings a bed and a chair; neither had weathered the years kindly. It was on the former which Gabrielle sat, and the latter upon which Colin Douglas sprawled. Outside, a harsh wind whipped over the Borders, howling over craggy hills and valleys. Even in the vague light of dusk, Gabrielle's discerning eye couldn't detect a single tapestry lining the walls to block out the cold, seeping draft.

The mattress was straw-stuffed, and felt as lumpy and as stiff as a gnarled slab of oak beneath her. It gave a token crunch when Gabrielle shifted, so she sat further up on the bed. Since the relic possessed no headboard, she leaned her shoulders back against the bare wall. The cold, damp feel of the stone soaked quickly through her tunic, into her skin, making her shiver. A sneeze tickled the back of her nose. Her eyes watered as she sniffled it back.

"Och, dinny fash yerself, lass. Dry yer tears. We'll be rescued. Eventually."

His voice, she thought as she stared dejectedly at a point where age-darkened mortar converged the corners of four stones on the opposite, shadow-strewn wall, did not sound very much like Connor's. While Connor had a deep, husky voice that washed over her like sun-warmed honey and made her feel tingly and vibrantly alive, his twin's voice was rougher, cloudy, and left her feeling nothing at all.

Gabrielle's attention moved to her reluctant companion, and she frowned when a sharp, tingly bolt of awareness shot through her. It was as unexpected as it was intense. The dim lighting combined with the way the man's large body lounged in the chair and dominated, while at the same time ate up, what little space the small room provided, made her think of Connor. A stab of longing pricked at her heartstrings.

She quickly suppressed the emotion. This man might look like Connor but he was
not
Connor.

"Your men will be here soon?" she asked, and noticed that her own voice was only slightly higher than normal, only slightly breathless. "You're confident of that?"

"My men?
My
men?" His chuckle was harsh and short, not at all comforting. "Nay, lass, I dinny think so. I've naught men to be here. Soon or otherwise."

Colin's eyes were now firmly shut. His dark head was pillowed against the chair back's meager padding. The fabric—so frayed that the stuffing beneath exploded from countless moth-eaten holes—might once have been a fine gold brocade. Might. There was no way to tell for certain. Age had faded the color, while a score or two of hard use had worn the threads and tattered them until the material was unrecognizable as anything but unforgivingly old, coarse of texture, and vaguely dark yellow in some spots, dirty brown in others.

"If you've no men, then how can you say so confidently that we'll be rescued?"

"'Tis a matter of reasoning." His left shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. "Gilby."

Gabrielle shook her head, trying and failing to follow his logic. "Gilby?"

"Aye. The mon will not allow his laird to stay in the Maxwell's keep a second longer than is necessary. Either a ransom will be demanded, and paid promptly, or an escape attempt launched. Mind ye, me guess would be the latter. Have ye not heard any of the ballads they sing aboot The Black Douglas, lass? Me brother and his men have been in and out of Caerlaverock so many times they maun ken the layout of the keep better than Johnny Maxwell himself."

Gabrielle's hopes plunged with all the speed and surety of a stone being tossed into a deep lake. Shaking her head, she said sharply, "Your confidence is misplaced."

"Mayhap ye'd think so—and truly I can see why ye would—but I ken better. Yer a Sassenach, therefore yer ignorance can be forgiven; ye simply cannot be expected to grasp the way of things here. I, on the other hand, am a Border reiver born and raised. Trust me when I say we'll be rescued, and rescued soon." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Connor's men are loyal to a fault. And maun reliable. Especially his clan captain. I've nae doubt Gilby will be along shortly to fetch his laird... and us along with him."