Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Chapter 1

London, England

February 1603

Sitting on the edge of a hand-embroidered settee in Queen Elizabeth's starkly furnished sitting room, Gabrielle Carelton awaited the meeting Her Majesty had called last night. It was to begin a mere five minutes from now.

Gabrielle tapped her toe impatiently on the carpeted floor. Her full rose silk skirt rustled as she shifted uncomfortably on the settee. The movement encouraged a spirally black curl to fall forward over her right shoulder. The settee looked fragile, and she always worried the delicate, spindley legs might someday collapse beneath the burden of her weight. Thus far had proved to be a solid, trustworthy piece of furniture.

Commanding an impromptu, private audience with one of her ladies was not Elizabeth's custom, especially a meeting so early in the day. Everyone at court knew Her Majesty was a late riser. So why had Elizabeth done it? Gabrielle wondered.

Why today?

And, more importantly, why with her?

A noise in the corridor outside snagged Gabrielle's attention. Her green eyes jerked upward, fixing on the oak door. A distinct metal-on-metal grinding sound announced the door was being unlatched from without.

Gabrielle's pulse accelerated. Why, she wondered again, had Elizabeth called this unexpected audience? A troubled feeling settled in her stomach like a ball of lead; she was about to find out.

The dark hair at her nape prickled with nervous anticipation. Her stomach fluttered, her breathing shallowed. Somewhere deep down inside, Gabrielle Carelton knew she was not going to like this audience with Elizabeth.

Nay, she was not going to like it at all.

* * *

Bracklenaer Castle, Scots Border

February 1603

"What do ye mean I'll not like it? Och! mon, dinny be sitting there deep in yer ale, grunting vague, one-word answers, and staring into the fire as though it holds the key to some great mystery. What that hearth holds is hot coals, ashes, and flames, but naught else." Ella Douglas gave a toss of her head, sending her unbound hair swaying like a thick bolt of dark-red velvet to her tiny waist. Despite the heat emanating from the dwindling fire, the great hall was dark and cold and damp at this hour of the night. Shivering, she pulled the woolen plaid closely about her shoulders and scowled down at her cousin. "As always, ye're being a fine muckle evasive, Connor. Will ye please just have out with it? Tell me exactly what it is I'll not like hearing, then I'll be telling ye if I like it or nay."

Connor Douglas ignored the girl. Instead, he stared broodingly at the fire in question, his gray eyes narrow; it was hard to tell which was hotter, his glare or the flames it was fixed upon.

The Black Douglas.

Connor shook his head and lifted his heavy pewter mug. He took a long, deep swallow of the tepid tasting ale. The nickname "The Black Douglas" had been given to him as a bairn by his father as a parody of the real Black Douglas, Connor's ancestor, James Douglas, notorious friend of Robert the Bruce in the 1300s. As Connor grew older, however, the tag came to stand for more than just his long black hair and craggy good looks. It was also a clear warning that Connor Douglas was also in possession of a fierce Scots temperament, and a stubborn streak that wou

ld have made his ancestor smile with pride.

Connor's reputation was long, tawdry, and only partially earned. Some said he surpassed in bravery and daring even the infamous Alasdair "The Devil" Graham. Connor disagreed. Oh, aye, he'd launched his share of successful raids and trods against Scots and English Marches alike in his twenty-eight years, but no more frequently or more cleverly than any other Border reiver he knew. Besides, The Devil had finally wed and settled down in his tumultuous ways. Mayhaps that explained why everyone was suddenly so interested in him, Connor Douglas.

There was no denying Connor had grown up in this country; he knew the landscape and its inhabitants well. The people who lived in this wild, uncertain wilderness known as the Border between England and Scotland needed a figure around which they could spin their yarns and write their ballads. Connor had been picked for that dubious honor seemingly by default.

A sudden sharp pain in his right shin diverted Connor's wandering attention. His gaze sharpened on his cousin. Ella's dainty size was deceiving; Douglas blood pumped hot and strong through her veins, as was evident now in the scowl that pinched her coppery brow and the way her gray-blue eyes sparkled with impatience.

With his free hand, Connor reached down and rubbed his bare shin. It smarted mightily where she'd just kicked him.