Perfect Strangers (9 page)

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning 'tis well kenned that a Maxwell's blood runs thick and strong, our loyalty to each other unmatched. Nae matter our differences, we always defend our own."

Gordie frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Aye, so ye've taught all yer sons since we were bairns. I dinny ken how any of this has to do with Gabrielle Carelton, or getting revenge on Connor Douglas."

"Think a wee bit harder." When Gordie showed no indication that he knew what his father was talking about, Johnny pillowed his elbows on top of the desk and leaned toward the young man, his gaze locking with Gordie's. "Did ye not just tell me The Black Douglas is in possession of a misbegotten guest in his keep? A guest who, unless I be wrong, and I dinny think I am, would rather be anywhere but Bracklenaer?"

"I did," Gordie acknowledged.

Johnny nodded. "Mind ye, ordinarily I'd not care. Howe'er, as luck would have it, the guest in question happens to have a drop of Maxwell blood trickling through her veins."

"Only
a drop," Gordie reminded his father firmly. "Have ye not said often enough that 'tis an ancient indiscretion we dinny admit to? Something that happened in the past and was meant to be forgotten?"

"Aye, that I have. And so 'tis. Yet, like it or nay, the fact remains that Gabrielle Carelton is a Maxwell. Och! lad, the maun I think on it, the maun I like it. This could work in our favor quite nicely! Do ye see where this all be leading?"

Gordie's frown deepened, then just as suddenly disappeared. "A Maxwell takes care of his own," he repeated softly, seemingly to himself. Louder, as realization dawned on him, he said, "What sort of kin would we be if we dinny lift a finger to get the poor, sweet wee lass away from her arch enemy, the Douglas?"

"Poor kin, indeed!" Johnny agreed, then laughed. His fist slammed down hard on the desk as he used his other hand to wave his son closer. "Come, sit. Methinks there's a need to alter our original plan a wee bit. We need to craft the plan for a retaliatory raid that will overshadow e'en The Black Douglas's swiftly growing reputation. A plan that will... er, how should I put it? Oh, aye, a plan that will finally reunite us with our dear, long lost Carelton kin...."

* * *

A bolt of lightning cut a jagged streak through the sky, flashing a brilliant, blinding shade of silver. The immediate bowling roar of thunder was so violent it shook Bracklenaer's centuries-old stone walls.

Gabrielle winced, her ears ringing. Did she hear the bedchamber's door rattle in its hinges, or was the phantom sound a product of her fevered imagination? There was no way to be sure. Between the alarming rattle in her chest, the deafening claps of thunder, and the rain that lashed harshly at the bolted shutters, it was difficult to hear much of anything.

The pillow beneath her head was damp from her perspiration, and her inky hair clung to her sweat-beaded brow and neck. Sweet Jesus, she was hot! Her bones ached from the inside out as she restlessly kicked the sheepskin and Douglas-gray kilt off her. The chilly night air had no more washed over her body than she commenced shivering. Violently. With a groan, she yanked the coverings back up and huddled beneath them.

Mairghread had come at dinnertime and spooned more broth, this one with a thick lamb base, into her. All hopes of regaining her strength and escaping this place had fled by that time. She might be a Carelton, and therefore stubbornly determined, but right now she felt as weak as a day-old kitten. She would be going nowhere for a while, and well she knew it. It was bad enough that her stomach refused to hold much of the rich broth the old woman insisted she eat. After a few spoonfuls, Gabrielle had shaken her head and turned her head away. In seconds, she'd fallen asleep.

When she finally awoke, it was to a dark, empty bedchamber. The smoldering embers in the hearth gave off precious little light. No one, it seemed, had seen fit to rekindle them.

A quick scan of the room told her that Mairghread was gone. The only sign that the old woman had been there at all was the goblet of what Gabrielle presumed was wine sitting on the table beside the bed.

Clutching the covers close, she struggled to sit up, then took the metal goblet and lifted it to her lips. Her eyes were watery, her temples throbbed, and her mouth felt drier than the Cheviot Hills in summer. A sip of cool wine would sit well right now and do much to improve her flagging spirits.

Gabrielle tried to sniff the contents, but her nose was too stuffy. Thirsty, she took a deep sip. A fit of coughing tore through her body as she choked the stuff down. The fiery brew coated her tongue like molten lava, scorching a path down her already gritty and sore throat. Stinging tears dripped hotly down her cheeks, splashing unnoticed on her forearm as she coughed and gasped and wheezed for precious breath.

That was not wine. Oh, nay, nothing so bland. That was a large-size helping of strong Scots whisky. The liquor had been mildly diluted with water and lemon, yet neither could take away its sting. Had her sense of smell not abandoned her, Gabrielle would have recognized the pungent fumes immediately.

Gradually the sting on her tongue started to fade, as did the burn in her throat. A warm, not entirely unpleasant glow swirled in her nearly empty stomach. The heat seeped outward, radiating throughout the rest of her body like the ripples of a stone tossed in a calm lake.

Another clap of thunder rattled the shutters. Last night's storm had returned with force; slashing rain and wind settled around Bracklenaer like a dark, heavy blanket.

Gabrielle sneezed and gave a half-hearted sniffle. Truth to tell, it was a blessing the weather hadn't been this bad last night. If she was sick now and all she'd been exposed to was a bit of rain, who knows how ill she would have been after spending a night tossing atop the hard, wet ground amid a storm of this magnitude!

This time it didn't cut through her as harshly as before. Oh, nay, just the opposite. Now that her tastebuds had been shocked into accustoming themselves to the potent brew, she was surprised to discover that the wicked concoction was actually quite tasty. More delicious still was the sweet, hot feeling of relaxation that seeped through her veins, warming the chill from her bones even as it eased the stiff aches and pains in her muscles.

Gabrielle grinned. What would Elizabeth say if she saw her charge now? She pictured the old woman's tightly compressed lips puckering as Elizabeth glared disdainfully down the thin, rigid line of her nose. It was a glare that had brought high-powered men from all over the world to their knees.

The Queen, however, was not here to chastise or to glare, thank heaven. That was just as well, because the whisky worked wonders, and with amazing swiftness. While her aches and pains weren't completely gone, they weren't nearly as pronounced or troublesome as they'd been a few moments ago. Her cough had subsided, her sinuses had cleared a bit, and the pounding in her head had diminished. Except for the vaguely bitter aftertaste, the whisky was a miracle potion! Why wasn't this brew being hawked as a fever remedy on every street corner in London?

She lifted the goblet and took another drink of whisky, even though her thirst had passed. As any good Carelton could tell you, if one of anything worked well, two would work better... and three better still.

Gabrielle set the goblet aside and lay back against the pillow. She stifled a yawn with her fist and arched her spine, stretching tentatively at first, then, when her muscles didn't cramp in protest, more expansively. Aaah, but that felt divine.

Another clap of thunder boomed.

Gabrielle gasped, startled, remembering suddenly that summer had come and gone, and that the day—rather, it was night now—was anything but clear.

Rain and wind flailed at the castle's thick stone walls. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky like the sparkling blade of a newly polished dagger. The silvery flash came and went in a blink.

The mattress rustled as Gabrielle pushed herself to a sitting position. Mayhaps another sip of whisky wouldn't be out of order? Heaven knew the unexpected jolts of thunder had made sure the effects of the first three wore off with alarming speed. While she'd been aware from the instant she awoke exactly where she was—Bracklenaer, home of that thieving Scots heathen known as The Black Douglas—only now did that knowledge really begin to penetrate her fever-and liquor-dulled mind.

She swallowed hard, and in that same instant became aware of something else. Keenly aware of it.

She was no longer alone.

The fire had petered out; smoldering embers did naught to brighten the room beyond a dim glow that hovered only a foot away from the hearth. But did she really need light to know there was someone clinging to the shadows, watching her? Nay. Gabrielle felt the heat of an unseen gaze move over her.

"Mairghread?" she called out uncertainly. It was not the old woman, Gabrielle would bet the Queen's crown jewels on that.

Cloth rustled. The sound of a bootheel clicking atop stone that echoed between harsh bursts of thunder sounded ominously loud. Near the door, where the shadows clung and twisted like thick London fog, there was movement as the intruder stepped forward.

Gabrielle sneezed, then sniffled loudly and squinted at the form. Her heartbeat quickened.

The intruder was tall, broad, as undeniably virile as it was male.

He took another step forward, which brought him a mere stone's throw away from the bed. Any doubt Gabrielle had harbored fled like leaves scattering before a brisk autumn wind.

The intruder was The Black Douglas.

Gabrielle wasn't surprised. Nor was she pleased. Her spine stiffened and her chin inched upward. She faced him squarely. The flutter of alarm tickling the pit of her stomach was forcefully suppressed. "Skulking around in the shadows now, are you, Douglas? Haven't you ever heard of the term 'knock'?"

"'Twill be a cold day I'll hell afore I'll knock on me own bedchamber door, lass."

The words slid through Gabrielle much the same way the first sip of whisky had only moments before. Shocking at first, then radiantly hot. This time the warm, breathless tingle of response that rippled through her did not come from a manufactured source. The Black Douglas's deep, husky voice was all too real, as was her tumultuous reaction to both it and his nearness.

The temptation to huddle protectively beneath the covers was strong. The proud Carelton blood—smeared by only a small taint of Maxwell—that pumped hot and fast through her veins was stronger still.

Her shoulders squared instead of slumped as her green eyes narrowed. Her gaze pierced the darkness, meeting and warring with his. "Your bedchamber is otherwise occupied."

"Aye," he said, and took that final step, his attention never leaving her, "and well I ken it. Mairghread's found her bed and I be on the way to finding another for meself. I wanted to check on ye first, though, to see how ye fared."

"I fare—" She sniffled and, for lack of anything else available, tried as inconspicuously as possible to wipe her nose on the sleeve of the white linen nightgown she only now realized she wore. Who had changed her into the garment? She was afraid to ask for fear he might tell her. "I fare well, thank you. As you can see, I'm getting better... getting better—"
achoo
—"getting better by the... by the
"
—
sniffle, sniffle, achoo!
"—minute."

Lightning and thunder splintered the night.

It was a minor disturbance compared to the tension crackling throughout the bedchamber.

"'Tis cold and damp in here. not good for a sick woman." He turned, his long strides carrying him to the hearth. Fresh kindling and logs had been stacked beside it. He used the former to rekindle the fire, the latter to stoke it until it blazed.

That done, Connor straightened and went back to the bed. The mattress crunched and sagged beneath his weight when he sat down on the edge of it. A frown creased his dark brow as his gaze drifted over the chair that, earlier, his aunt had pulled close to the bed. Why had he not sat there? His frown deepened to a scowl when he realized that, for one of the few times in his life, he didn't have a ready answer.

Sitting on the bed had not been a good idea... Connor realized a split second too late. The curve of Gabrielle's hip was a mere fraction away from brushing his outer thigh. Even through the thick wool of his kilt, he could feel her fevered heat seeping into his skin, into his blood.

Connor angled his head, looking down at her. The color in her cheeks was high. From the storm? From her fever? Or from the same awareness that was suddenly coursing through him, hotter and faster than the lightning that streaked through the sky outside?

As he watched, her attention shadowed his. Her gaze shifted to the chair, then back to him. One black eyebrow arched in a silent question.

It was a question he'd asked himself, and one that Connor registered with only a portion of his mind. The crux of his attention, much like his bedchamber, was otherwise occupied. While the lass was heavy of build and plain of features, she had the most captivating eyes he'd ever seen. Crisper and clearer than a meadow in early summer. Would her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiled? Would the green depths sparkle like shards of sunlight glinting off a tumultuous sea?

It was not something Connor would be discovering any time soon. The lass was
not
smiling now. Exactly the opposite. It was a glare she'd fixed on him, and fixed on him hard. As for sparkling... well, the only shimmer of emotion he could detect glistening in those pretty green eyes of hers was one of sheer fury.