Perfect Strangers (5 page)

Her puffy, watery eyes focused on the castle and its various buildings. She had no idea what purpose the latter served. She sniffled, then bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep in check any outward reaction.

The castle was tall, square, hulking. The drizzle of rain darkened the stone to a discouraging shade of grayish black, backdropped by a sky that was cloudy and gray and equally as dismal looking.

There was no comparison between this place and the grand castle she'd left behind. Nor would she attempt to compare the two. To do so would only make her cry, and that was something Gabrielle stubbornly refused to do. Especially in front of strangers.

And speaking of strangers...

Was it her imagination, or were there more of them now than there'd been but a moment ago? Nay, it wasn't her imagination at all, there
were
more.

The group's arrival had caused a disturbance in the day's routine. Men, women, and children abandoned what they were doing and, unmindful of the cold, drizzling rain, straggled out of the thatch-roofed buildings situated protectively close to the keep. Their stares were open and curious, the brunt of them stopping on Gabrielle.

Ah, now stares she was used to. And the whispers... Gabrielle had no doubt as to the subject of these people's hushed, excited words.

She noticed that the man she'd spoken with earlier had at some point sidled up near her horse. Of them all, his stare was the most intense, the most curious. A twitch of a grin tugged at one corner of his bearded mouth, and a glint of amusement shimmered in the eyes almost hidden beneath bushy red brows. He looked to be waiting for... something.

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 muckle more than ye are now.

The man's words haunted her, gliding through Gabrielle's mind like a ghost floating over a misty glen. She shivered violently and buried herself deeper within the folds of her now only slightly damp cloak. The gesture served a dual purpose. The harsh, scratchy cloth also effectively muffled a duet of sneezes.

She was about to learn just what he had meant.

Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered to life with double speed. A heavy feeling settled like a chunk of lead in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, Gabrielle thought she could live quite happily without that knowledge. She was certain that whatever she was on the verge of learning, she was not going to like it.

"Och! Cousin, will ye please hurry up? 'Tis not polite to keep yer future bride waiting."

The voice, soft and delicate and as light as a fresh springtime breeze, drew Gabrielle's attention to the door of the keep. Running down thick stone stairs was a girl of about sixteen. At least Gabrielle
thought
it was a girl.

Trews encased the creature's thin legs. A baggy leather jacket, with a faded yellow tunic beneath, hung from her shoulders, disguising the form beneath. A sword, smaller than the type the men around Gabrielle carried, hung from the girl's waist.

Gabrielle frowned. It
was
a girl... wasn't it? Truly, it was hard to tell. Squinting, she looked again, harder, as the figure raced energetically across the carpet of wet grass separating them. Aye, it was a girl all right. The features were too delicate, the cheekbones too high and smooth, the mouth too full and pink to be those of a boy. Yet at first glance, if not for that unbound, wild shock of long red hair flying out from behind her, Gabrielle would have sworn the girl was a boy.

The girl skidded to a stop next to Gabrielle's horse so quickly she almost tripped and landed on her backside for the effort. Gabrielle eyed her warily.

The girl's eyes were bright blue, fringed by enviably long, thick coppery lashes. Her gaze was straight and direct as it met Gabrielle's.

Settling small, balled fists on her hips, the girl cocked her head to one side. A frown furrowed her brow as her gaze raked Gabrielle's face, then, one copper eyebrow quirking high, dipped to scan over her cloak-hidden figure.

"Are ye sure ye've Maxwell blood in ye?" she asked bluntly.

"None that I'd willingly admit to," Gabrielle answered with equal terseness.

"Hmph! Ye dinny look like any Maxwell I've e'er seen."

A hint of a smile curved Gabrielle's lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Take it any way ye like, ye still dinny look like a Maxwell." The girl's attention turned to the man at Gabrielle's side, and she demanded of him, "Gilby, ye great lug, are ye ver sure this is the right wench? Are ye absolutely certain? Mayhap there was a mistake? 'Twas nae doubt night and hard to see. Methinks ye may have picked up another—?"

"Nay, Ella," the man called Gilby replied gruffly, "there's been nae mistake. This is the one."

Ella pursed her lips. Her frown deepened to a scowl. If the way she kicked at the ground meant anything, she wasn't pleased by Gilby's reply. "Well, there's naught for it, then. She'll have to do." She glanced behind her, and her expression lightened. Lifting her voice, she called out, "'Tis aboot time ye got out here, Cousin. The first person to greet yer future bride should have be
ye,
not
me!"

"And so it shall be, lass. Though somehow I'm doubting 'twas a proper greeting ye came out here to give the wench."

The girl had the decency to blush, even as Gabrielle shifted her attention from Ella to the possessor of that deep, rumbling voice.

Gabrielle's breath caught in her throat.

He had shaggy black hair—the color at least three shades darker than her own—and sharply chiseled features; she wouldn't call him
handsome
exactly, but his craggy features were intriguing. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest wide; the latter was partially exposed by the untied laces of a cream-colored tunic. Gabrielle tried not to notice the dark, springy curls that peeked up from the separation of fabric. Tried not to, but did nonetheless. Her attention dipped. His stomach was flat and tight, banded by the folds of a black-and-gray plaid kilt.

Her gaze strayed lower still, and she swallowed hard. The man's legs were bare, the bands of muscles playing beneath the tanned flesh tight and powerful, rippling as he walked. His stride was long and confident.

The man was fast approaching. As she felt his gaze sharpen, volleying keenly between her and the girl, Gabrielle buried her face in her cloak and let the coarse material muffle another sneeze. Huddled in the voluminous folds, she instinctively leaned back in the saddle, as though to put as much distance between them as possible.

It was a silly, childish reaction, she knew, but one she couldn't check. For no reason besides his appearance, the man frightened her senseless. An unwelcome thought flashed through her mind, and she swallowed back a groan. If this dark, ominous figure was Colin Douglas, supposedly the more amicable of the legendary Douglas twins, she hoped never to have the misfortune of meeting his brother, The Black Douglas!

The man stopped beside Ella. The two glared at each other for a second before simultaneously shifting their attention upward...

To Gabrielle.

Gabrielle had felt herself an unattractive eyesore many times at Queen Bess's court, but never had she felt it to the extent she did at that moment. For the first time all day she found herself grateful for the cloak; adjusting it slightly, she was able to make the dark fabric hide the blush that stained her cheeks as she met and held her future husband's gaze.

His eyes were a piercing shade of gray, his gaze as intense as his expression.

"Since I dinny think me cousin has given ye the proper greeting she claims, I shall be the first to do so." He bowed at the waist—a brisk, jerky motion—and as he straightened said, "Welcome to Bracklenaer, Lady Gabrielle Carelton."

While it rang a bit stilted, his greeting nevertheless seemed sincere enough. Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then tentatively lowered the cloak until the dark cloth sagged limply beneath her chin. "Thank you, m'lord, I..." The words clogged in her throat. Her voice went flat as an ice-cold sense of dread washed over her. "Did you say Bracklenaer?"

"Aye, mistress, I did."

"But that is not possible. Bracklenaer belongs to—"

"Connor Douglas," Ella supplied, then giggled behind her hand.

Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, Gabrielle barely heard the girl, or Gilby's burst of much harsher laughter.

While she would have liked to think it was the cold that made her head feel heavy and foggy—
perhaps bringing on a most unpalpable hallucination?
—Gabrielle knew better. This was no hallucination. The man had not been joking when he'd greeted her to Bracklenaer, nor had Ella when she'd proclaimed the keep's owner.

Connor Douglas?

The Black Douglas?

Dear Lord!

Her blood ran cold. Surely the dark-haired man who stood so proudly and confidently next to her horse could not be...? Could he?

Fisting the cloak beneath her chin in a white-knuckled grip, Gabrielle swayed unsteadily in the saddle as she tried to absorb this news. Her head spun and her thoughts spiraled downward. If there was a breath to be had, her too-tightly-laced corset refused to allow her to find it.

His gray eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing her keenly, waiting for her reaction.

That reaction was not what it would have been on a day when her body didn't ache from tiredness and burn with fever. Her vision was watery, blurry, and there was a distinct blackness around the edges that alarmed her. She'd never fainted in her life, yet she'd an uneasy feeling she was about to do exactly that.

Blinking hard, she shook her head. Instead of making the blackness clouding her vision abate, the gesture served only to enhance it. This would never do! She bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to taste the sharp, salty tang of her own blood. That helped clear her head, but only a bit.

Gabrielle didn't know what she was going to do; she knew only what she
wouldn't
do. She wouldn't, couldn't, faint now or she would be lost. She needed to stay conscious, if only for a little while, while there might be a chance—a slim one, aye, but a chance all the same—to set this most inconceivable situation to rights.

Struggling to keep her senses sharp, Gabrielle tightened her fingers around the reins until the strips of leather bit into her skin. She'd ridden this horse for too many weeks to count and knew it well. A nudge of her knees set the nag off and running.

What should have been a brave, daring escape was cut humiliatingly short.

Two steps. That was all the ground the horse was allowed to cover before Connor Douglas casually reached out and snatched the reins from Gabrielle's hand. With a flick of his wrist, the horse came to a halt.

The quick stop came perilously close to tumbling Gabrielle out of the saddle. The blackness was back, edging her vision, but she was too embarrassed and angry to pay heed to it.

Her attention jerked to the side and down. The glare she leveled on Connor Douglas was hot enough to ignite a bonfire. "Let go of my horse."

"'Tis not yer horse, 'tis mine."

"I'll not argue over wording with you, sir! I demand you let go of those reins and let go of them
now!"

"Why? Ye dinny ken which way to go."

"I've a very good sense of direction. I'll figure it out."

"In yer condition? Ha! Nay, lass, aboot all ye'll do is get yerself lost in the forest and die of the fever." His frown was dark and stormy as he scratched at the stubbled underside of his jaw. "Or mayhaps ye're going to deny ye're sick? I suppose ye could try, but dinny fool yerself into thinking I'd believe it. Yer nose is swollen and red, and yer bloodshot, watery eyes speak for themselves."

Ella nudged her cousin's side and whispered loudly enough for Gabrielle to hear, "Poor Connor. Mayhap not e'en
until
winter?"

His reply to the cryptic remark was a noncommittal grunt.

Gabrielle swayed and again bit the tender inside of her cheek. This time, the sting of pain didn't help. The blackness was edging in, growing strong, tunneling her vision until all she could see was Connor Douglas.

It was the one thing on earth she did not want to see.

"Obviously there has been a mistake," Gabrielle said, mirroring the words someone had spoken earlier. Her thickly clouded mind wouldn't allow her to remember who or when. Was it her imagination, or did her voice sound slurred, oddly distant? Nay, it was not her imagination, that was how her ears perceived it.

Her limbs felt weak and shaky. She had to grip the edge of the saddle hard, until it cut ridges in her fingertips, and even then her seat remained wobbly. Still, it was either that or tumble in an ungraceful heap at Connor Douglas's feet.

"There's been nae mistake," he said evenly. "Ye're exactly where ye're supposed to be."

"Nay, I am not even close," she replied stubbornly, and realized it was getting more and more difficult to force her tongue to shape words. The blackness was racing in quickly now. Even the easiest thought flowed through her fevered mind like water, refusing to freeze and solidify. "My destination is Gaelside, castle of
Colin
Douglas.
Not
Bracklenaer."