Perfect Strangers (7 page)

The girl opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. Her gaze shifted briefly to Gilby, but she found no help there. This time when she spoke, her lower lip trembled, and her voice was weak and edged with hesitancy. "A-aye, ye did, but..."

"Tell me something, Alice. Do ye now obey a Carelton's orders over my own?"

Alice's eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. "Nay! Ne'er!"

"Then why was
my
order not carried out, whilst
hers
was?"

"I-I—"

Alice was saved having to answer the question by the sound of more footsteps stomping on the stairs outside the hall. They grew louder instead of softer, indicating an approach instead of a retreat.

The relief in the girl's eyes was tangible. When Connor gestured tightly for her to leave the room, she did so without a trace of reluctance.

"A messenger, m'lord," a gruff male voice announced from the arched doorway. "From King James."

Connor lifted his mug, his fingers tight around the handle. He drained two thirds of the tepid contents in a single gulp, all the while wondering how many more messengers were to come, and how much worse the day was destined to get.

* * *

"Will ye not be a good lass and open yer mouth a'fore the broth spills all o'er the covers? As ye nae doubt can see, me hand isn't so steady as it once was, and I've nae desire to be changing the bed simply because ye're to stubborn to open yer mouth."

Gabrielle sat back against the pillows cushioning her back from the hard wooden headboard. "I keep telling you, madam, that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself. Give me the spoon and I'll happily prove it to you."

The old woman laughed; to Gabrielle's sensitive ears, it sounded more like a harsh cackle, harder and colder than the stone walls off which it bounced. "Och! 'twas a good try, lass, but not good enough to slip past the likes of me. Now, open yer mouth."

Gabrielle clenched her teeth together and shook her head. The gesture made her head pound, even as she eyed the old woman speculatively.

Mairghread was the old woman's name. At least that was what the woman had claimed, loud enough to make Gabrielle wince, the instant she had regained consciousness, before she could even open her eyes. The woman had been sent by her nephew, Connor Douglas, to nurse Gabrielle back to health. Judging by the tone of that stern voice,
nothing
would stop her from doing exactly that.

Gabrielle had pried open heavy, gritty eyelids and found herself staring up into a stern face that resembled nothing so much as a juicy apple that had been set to dry under a hot summer sun and left out for days too long. Beneath a cloud of unruly, wispy white hair, the woman's features were wrinkled and crooked, sloping to the left. From the bridge down, her nose leaned toward her ruddy left cheek. That side of her mouth drooped, while her left eye was nothing more than a slit. With the exception of an unnaturally bulging blue eye, the right side of the old woman's face looked normal.

Mairghread was glaring at her.

Gabrielle held the woman's attention for a second, then her own dipped with silent defiance to the spoon. Mairghread was right, her gnarled old hand was shaking badly, threatening to tilt the spoon's contents onto the blanket at any moment.

Gabrielle sniffed the air tentatively. There was a whiff of faded lavender scent clinging to the old woman, the mossy scent of rushes strewn over the floor, and above all that...

Her stomach muscles clenched around a hungry grumble. Her mouth watered. Compared to the dry, overcooked rabbit meat and thick, tasteless porridge the Douglas men had been feeding her, this savory-smelling bowl of soup seemed a veritable feast!

Gabrielle almost opened her mouth to accept the offering. Almost. The only thing that stopped her was the streak of Carelton pride that pumped hot and sure through her blood. While she still had an ounce of strength left in her body, she would not lie here and be fed like a helpless babe. By God, she would
not.

"Och! lass, stop being so stubborn," Mairghread chastised in that ancient, crinkly voice of hers. "Pride is all well and good... in its proper place. Howe'er, it will not fill an empty belly, put strength back in yer muscles, or add color to yer cheeks. Oh, aye, starving yerself may strip ye of a few maun needed pounds, but 'twill do naught to get rid of the fever raging through ye. Only eating and keeping up yer strength can do that."

"Then give me the spoon," Gabrielle said tightly, "and I'll take your most wise advice."

"Nay, lass," the old woman replied equally as firmly. "Connor told me to nurse ye, and nurse ye I shall"—her right eye narrowed until it was almost as small as the left one; both glinted with sharp blue fire—"e'en if it kills the twa of us. Mark me words, lass, I'll not have ye worsen and die whilst I'm caring for ye. They'd like that to much. Och! I can hear them talking now, God rot 'em. 'Daft auld Mairghread's gone and done it again.' Aye, 'tis what they'll be saying aboot me. If I let them by not taking proper care of ye."

Gabrielle shifted restlessly against the pillows. A pair of sneezes shook her, leaving her sniffling and watery-eyed. Instinctively, she took the cloth the old woman pressed into her hand. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.

"A-again?" Gabrielle asked tentatively. Despite her sore, dry throat, she gulped.

"Is not Ella always telling me that I prattle on to much? One of these fine days mayhap I'll listen," the woman muttered to herself. She gave a shrug of her humped shoulders. The broth cupped in the still-poised spoon came dangerously close to spilling over; miraculously, only a drop splashed atop the cover spread over Gabrielle's chest. Louder, she said, "Dinny pay attention to an old woman's ramblings. Just open ye mouth and eat this fine tattie bree a'fore it gets colder than the Hebrides in winter. Ye need something warm inside ye to fight the chill a fever leaves inside the bones, don't ye ken?"

Gabrielle's gaze lifted, meeting and holding the old woman's.

There was something in those mismatched blue eyes, something Gabrielle couldn't quite put her finger on. Guilt? Supplication for a second chance? Fear of being ridiculed yet again? All were emotions Gabrielle was uncomfortably familiar with. Seeing them mirrored in the old woman's eyes caused warm fingers of sympathy to wrap around her heart, reluctantly softening what had been a very hard first impression of Mairghread.

Holding the old woman's gaze, Gabrielle slowly, deliberately parted her lips and allowed the old woman to deposit the spoonful of soup in her mouth. The rich potato and broth concoction, laced faintly with dill and a spice she couldn't identify, melted like butter on her tongue. It coated and soothed her sore throat as it slid down to be welcomed heartily by her empty stomach. She must have been more ravenous than she'd thought, for that stomach immediately growled, demanding more.

"'Tis delicious," Gabrielle remarked, surprised. Had she not been told Scots food was inedible?

After a heartbeat's suspicious hesitation, the old woman's eyes sparkled with yet another duet of emotions. In those ancient blue eyes, Gabrielle thought she spotted a flash of admiration and appreciation.

The old woman gave a brisk nod. "Of course it is. A fine muckle may disagree, but I be telling ye, ye'll not find a better tattie bree this side of the Trossachs than that which Siobhan Maxwell brews."

Gabrielle quickly swallowed another mouthful of soup. "A Maxwell?" she asked, shocked. "Bracklenaer's cook is a
Maxwell?"

"Aye." The old woman's thick white eyebrows pinched together in a thoughtful scowl. A fresh ripple of wrinkles ridged the leathery skin of her forehead. "Well," she corrected, "a Maxwell begot on the wrong side of the hay, if ye catch me meaning, but she's a Maxwell all the same. Mind ye, me memory's not what it was when I was eighty, so I could be wrong, howe'er I seem to recall Connor saying Siobhan was the first prisoner he stole when last he raided the..." She muttered a Gaelic term uncomplimentary by tone,
"Maxwell,
and that the beasties he chanced to gather up and bring home were but a bonus compared to the lass's fine cooking. If ye think her tattie bree delicious, ye've a real treat in store. Siobhan makes a haggis that'll melt on yer tongue and make ye swoon. Or," she added with a crooked grin, "do ye only swoon for the likes of The Black Douglas?"

Gabrielle felt her cheeks color, and purposely ignored the latter question. "Haggis?" she asked as she used a dry corner of the cloth to wipe daintily at her mouth. "What's that?"

The one that answered was not Mairghread's old, crackly voice. Oh, nay, just the opposite. This voice was young and deep and husky. Thoroughly masculine, thoroughly familiar.

"Methinks 'tis an answer best saved for
after
the dish has been tasted."

As though the mention of him had conjured the man up, it was the voice of The Black Douglas.

Gabrielle's breath caught in midsniffle. Her watery eyes widened, her gaze jerked to the doorway.

It was nearly dusk. Yesterday's downpour had returned in a fine drizzle, spitting from the cloud-strewn sky. The last shards of daylight were hazy and gray. Murky shadows gathered in the doorway where he stood. A sconce had been lit somewhere down the hallway; the vague, flickering, yellowish-orange glow backlit Connor Douglas's husky frame, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and chest, highlighting the silky blackness of his hair.

Gabrielle realized her mouth must have sagged open, for without warning she found another spoonful of soup deposited on her tongue. Unlike the others, this one tasted bland. She had to force herself to chew the soft potato, and coerce her tight, sorer-than-ever throat to swallow it down. The mouthful landed in her belly like a warm chunk of tasteless granite. She lifted a hand to stop Mairghread, who was in the process of repeating the gesture, and hoped she was the only one to notice that her fingers trembled. "Nay, no more, please."

"Ye're full? So soon?" the woman asked. Gabrielle heard a note of amusement in the old woman's voice. "Odd. Ye were eating maun heartily only a wee moment ago."

"I've lost my appetite." Try though she did, Gabrielle couldn't drag her attention away from the figure that loomed like a dark silhouette in the doorway. While she couldn't see his eyes, she could feel his gaze roaming over her like warm fingers. "It must be from... aye, 'tis from all this talk of haggis, I'd wager. Truth to tell, the mere name sounds revolting."

Mairghread placed the spoon in the bowl, her attention shifting between Connor and Gabrielle. Her right eye narrowed shrewdly. "Mayhap 'tis not the soup ye've lost yer appetite for, but this tired auld woman's ramblings." She gave an exaggerated stretch of her back, her free hand kneading at a cramp that fisted in the base of her spine. For all the attention the younger two occupants of the room paid her, she might as well not have bothered. "Connor," she said, drawing her nephew's gaze as she held the bowl of soup out to him, "be a good lad and finish feeding yer lady, will ye? Judging by her size, she's used to eating a fine muckle more."

Connor nodded and took a long, confident step into the room. Three more and he was standing beside Mairghread, and towering over the side of the bed upon which Gabrielle lay.

Gabrielle swallowed hard; her throat felt raw, as if it had been rubbed with the gritty side of a stone. Instinctively, she pressed herself back against the pillows. A minute ago the bedchamber had seemed adequately roomy, yet now it felt crowded and uncomfortably small. It was The Black Douglas's presence that brought about the change. His large, prepossessing body ate up the space until even Gabrielle felt small and insignificant. It was an odd feeling, that. While her years serving Elizabeth had acquainted her with feeling insignificant, feeling physically small was something she'd absolutely no experience with.

Connor took the bowl from his aunt's gnarled, shaky hands, and waited while the old woman pushed her thin body from the chair. More than one age-brittle bone creaked loudly in protest. The woman's posture was stooped; the top of Mairghread's wispy white head came only to the middle of her nephew's chest.

Gabrielle nibbled her lower lip and wondered if her own dark head would clear the shelf of those impressively broad shoulders...?

After one last glance, split between Connor and Gabrielle, Mairghread nodded briskly, then turned and ambled out of the room, closing the door behind her. She didn't look back.

Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then wiped her eyes and nose on the cloth. Distracted, it took a second for the reality of the situation to seep in. Sweet Lord, she was alone in the chamber with none other than The Black Douglas. Her heartbeat accelerated, heating the already fevered blood in her veins. She shivered and yanked the blanket up protectively close beneath her chin.

"Cold?" Connor asked as he eased himself onto Mairghread's recently vacated seat. The wooden chair legs groaned beneath his weight.

"Aye, a bit chilly," Gabrielle lied. Her shiver had nothing to do with the damp night air and everything to do with this man's commanding presence. However, there was no reason
he
should know that.

"Then Mairghread was right for once. 'Tis maun soup ye be needing to warm ye up on the inside and chase away those fever chills." Gabrielle watched, transfixed, as he dipped the spoon into the soup, coming up with a hearty mouthful. Compared to the gnarled old hand that had so recently held it, Connor's big hand dwarfed the spoon handle until the utensil looked sized for a child. "Here ye go, lass. Eat up and get well. The preacher will not wait fore'er, don't ye ken?"