Perfect Strangers (25 page)

Her attention shifted to Colin. Even in this dim light, his expression was unmistakable; he was relieved to see the weapon transferred to a less skilled hand.

The line of Gabrielle's jaw hardened. The man was in for a surprise. Little did he suspect her determination to see to it that his relief was to be painfully short-lived. Her spine stiffened, her green eyes narrowed rebelliously.

Could she use the dagger if need be? Aye, she thought she could. Especially if it meant proving to Connor that his trust in her had not been misplaced.

A small portion of Gabrielle's mind acknowledged that although violence was uncharacteristic for her, it was well in keeping with her barbaric surroundings. A larger portion of her mind refused to acknowledge the same, and indeed refused to do anything but focus intently on Colin Douglas.

She watched, waited.

Colin would make his move and make it soon. She knew it, could sense it.

And when he did? What then?

Gabrielle wondered if she would have the courage and strength needed to commit a violent act. Oh, but how it went against her upbringing. In the end, she could only hope and pray that, if and when the time came, she would find the inner strength needed to do what was necessary.

The time came more quickly than she'd anticipated.

No sooner had the thought entered Gabrielle's mind than Colin Douglas grinned and lunged for her.

She reacted swiftly and on instinct. In a quick, jerky motion, she lashed out with the dagger. The blade sliced through Colin's tunic, carving a bloody arc into his shoulder as she ducked out of his reach and scooted to the side.

Toward Connor.

Toward safety.

In the second it took to reach Connor, she was shaking and breathless. Ella was staring at her with an expression akin to awe. Behind her, Colin Douglas howled in pain and clutched at his wound; ribbons of blood streamed past his fingers, the drops splashing on the cold stone floor.

The footsteps in the hallway quickened, drawing closer; their beat was out of time with the wild thumping of her heart in her ears. A voice called out in alarm as the first man reached the door and thrust it open.

"Douglas!" The intruder was Roy Maxwell, and his furious roar demanded attention. As Gabrielle watched, Roy's green eyes narrowed and his gaze swept accusingly from an ashen, wounded Colin to an ashen, defiant Connor. "Dinny be a fool, mon. The castle is full of men. There'll be nae escape for ye this night."

"Aye," Connor agreed tersely, "men who are no doubt celebrating their victory down in the hall. How many of them are sober enough to come to yer aid?"

From the corner of her eye, Gabrielle saw Ella inch slowly toward Roy. The man, intent on Connor, seemed not to notice. Gabrielle held her breath expectantly.

A grin curved over Roy's lips, while a glint of confidence sparkled in his eyes. "It takes but one Maxwell to do the job, Douglas. Have ye nnot learned that? 'Twas the same amount that took ye prisoner."

"Wrong. There was not one abductor, there were o'er half a dozen. And
they
were armed," Connor reminded his adversary coldly.

Roy's grin disappeared as quickly as it had formed. His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but his reaction time was leadened, as though the men below weren't the only ones deep into their cups.

His fingers grappled with air. The sword was not there.

"Looking for this,
fule?"
Ella asked. It was her turn to grin as she pricked the nape of Roy Maxwell's neck with the tip of his own sword; the hilt was warm in her palm, for it was a mere second ago she'd cannily slipped the weapon, unnoticed, from where it nestled in the sheath at his side.

Roy stiffened perceptibly. He started to angle his head to look behind him, but the blade nipping at his skin must have made him think better of it because he stopped abruptly.

"Call me a fool if ye'd like, lass," Roy spat through gritted teeth, "but 'tis
ye
who be a fool if yer thinking to get out of Caerlaverock alive. Me clan will not allow it."

"Yer clan will not have a choice," Connor intervened, his alert gaze volleying between Roy and his wounded twin. The latter had stumbled backward and was now leaning against the far wall, inspecting his wounded shoulder. Connor tried without success not to notice the way Gabrielle clung to his arm, the way her ripe body shuddered violently against him, the way his body—good Lord, even
now
—responded to her closeness, her touch.

"There are always choices, Douglas."

"Are there?" Connor countered. "E'en when a Maxwell's life is on the line?"

"Do you dare threaten me? In my own home?" Ray's nostrils flared indignantly. "Make no mistake, Douglas. Killing me will gain ye naught."

"Mayhap." It was Ella who answered, and her voice was equally as cold and hard as her cousin's. "Whether honored to commit the deed or only watch it, either would give me great pleasure. Or do ye forget so soon the way ye dragged me to me horse this morn? Me shoulders still ache from yer roughness, and I'm of a mind that these scratches and burns from the rope ye bound too tightly around me wrists might ne'er go away. Och! aye, seeing ye suffer is something I will not deny I've a strong yearning for."

The man winced when, to emphasize her point, Ella flicked her wrist and lightly jabbed the sensitive nape of his neck with the tip of the sword.

A few drops of blood trickled under the collar of Roy's shirt; they felt discomfortingly warm and sticky. His jaw hardened as he gritted his teeth, waiting for the blade to sink deeper or lift to strike the killing blow. As the girl had so arrogantly stated, he'd tested her mettle earlier and not found it lacking. Oh, nay! Just the opposite.

Her sweet face and meager size was woefully deceptive; Ella Douglas easily possessed both the strength and stamina for committing such a deed. Then, of course, there was the matter of The Black Douglas. If his cousin did not do the job of ending Roy's life, surely that man would.

Two dozen heartbeats slipped past with torturous slowness. The blade did not move.

Roy relaxed... not a lot, but a wee bit. His gaze shifted, locking on to the room's only occupant who, he hoped, might be sympathetic to his cause. His attention focused on Gabrielle Carelton. She was standing beside Connor, her full, round cheeks as pale as a bolt of undyed linen. In the shadows that cloaked her, her green eyes looked wide and alert.

That a Maxwell was being forced to look to a Carelton for aid was not something to take pride in, nor something Roy dared allow himself to contemplate too closely. "Mistress, please, ye've a drop of Maxwell blood in yer veins, therefore ye maun be able to see reason where a Douglas is blind. Can ye not somehow convince these devils what I say be true? That there is no way out of this keep alive?"

Gabrielle hesitated thoughtfully, then shook her head. "How can I convince them of something I'm not convinced of myself?"

"But—"

Colin grunted and lurched away from the wall, drawing attention to himself and abruptly cutting Roy Maxwell's words short. "There be many ways in and out of a keep, it doesn't matter on which side of the Border the keep rests.
If
one kens the way."

Connor's attention sharpened on his twin. "Especially when one is a traitor to his clan and has spent many a night, as ye no doubt have, within the keep in question's walls. Is that not so?"

"It is," Colin agreed unabashedly. If he was offended by Connor's accusation, it didn't show in either his expression or his tone. Both remained level, although the former did tighten a wee bit when he lifted his wounded shoulder and rolled it gingerly back and forth in its socket, testing its flexibility.

"And...?" Connor prompted when the other did not immediately continue.

"And..." Colin echoed as a slow grin tugged at his mouth, the gesture deeply creasing the corners of his shrewd gray eyes, "when it comes to Caerlaverock, I happen to ken several. I'll be maun happy to share them with ye,
cuilean.
For a price."

Chapter 12

Gabrielle's body ached for every laboring hour she'd spent on horseback, and there had been quite a few. The last time she'd ridden so hard had been on her trip to Scotland.

The ground beneath her bottom felt unyielding and cold as she shifted; the rough bark of the tree trunk she rested against scratched her skin through the thin covering of her tunic.

How far away was Bracklenaer? Gabrielle had no idea. She'd need to know where she was in order to gauge the distance to their destination, and she was lost.

An hour earlier, as they'd eaten a makeshift dinner of berries and nuts in the dark—Connor had not allowed them to light a fire for fear it would draw the Maxwell and his men—Connor had admitted that they ordinarily would have reached Bracklenaer a handful of hours after leaving Caerlaverock. Unfortunately, almost as soon as Colin had led them through and out of an escape tunnel that uncannily resembled the one Ella and Mairghread had hustled her through under Bracklenaer, Connor began detecting telltale signs of ambushes. Either Roy had not known of his father's lack of confidence in Caerlaverock's ability to house such illustrious prisoners, or Johnny Maxwell had not trusted it himself. Either way, he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to take precautions that would, should his prisoners find a way to escape the keep, assure him they did not have their freedom for long. If one ambush did not recapture them, surely another would.

Had he been dealing with any other man, Johnny Maxwell's flawless theory and traps would have served him well.

He was dealing with The Black Douglas.

There lay the crucial difference.

What Johnny Maxwell could not guess was Connor's ability to detect the subtle signs of a trap leagues before he fell into it. Several times, the tired, ragged-looking band of five had been forced to detour from a direct course to Bracklenaer and circle far around the men who lay in wait for them. Then, too, there was time consumed with erasing their tracks as best they could, or in laying out a false set that evaporated in a blink and led nowhere.

Because of the necessary delays, reaching Bracklenaer in the normal amount of time became impossible.

They'd stopped only when night had fallen and the darkness had become so inky and thick as to make the going treacherous. Even then, Gabrielle harbored an uneasy suspicion that the reason behind the much-needed respite was herself. Ella seemed capable, no make that
adamant,
in her desire to continue; Gabrielle hadn't missed the glares the girl had shot her while balking to Connor about the delay. The men, seasoned Border reivers all, were each capable of picking their way over the rough terrain, no matter how dark the night.

It was only she, the Englishwoman, the unwanted "Sassenach", who risked stumbling her horse and maiming it by not being able to see where she was going.

Gabrielle glanced at the girl who sat beside her. The back of Ella's bright red head rested against the tree trunk, her gaze fixed on some unknown point in the darkness, a thoughtful frown furrowing her brow. The girl's enviously slender legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles; the top foot tapped the cool night air with an impatient beat. If she was tired, it didn't show. Ella looked annoyingly alert and anxious.

What had they been discussing before Ella glanced away and the conversation lapsed? Gabrielle trapped a yawn in her throat and strove to recall. Ah, yes, now she remembered. It was her turn to frown as she addressed Ella. "'Tis a foolish reason for brothers to fight. Surely you must be mistaken."

"Nay, 'twas was a maun serious offense. Clans have feuded for centuries over less."

"Less than a dagger? I'll not believe it."

"Think ye I care?" Her sharp tone attracted the attention of Roy Maxwell, who was tied to a thick birch trunk on the opposite side of the small clearing. Colin was secured to the opposite side, but he'd fallen asleep shortly after they'd eaten. Ella scowled at Roy until the man grimaced and looked away, then lowered her voice. "Believe what ye like, lass, it matters naught to me."

"Two brothers fighting for years over a mere dagger...?" Gabrielle shook her head in weary disbelief. "I'm sorry, but it sounds ridiculous."

"To a court-raised Sassenach, mayhap 'twould seem so."

"I suppose next you'll have me believing that the Maxwell-Douglas feud started over something even more trivial?"