Were Connor the Douglas she was being forced to wed...
Nay, she could not, would not think about it.
Besides, The Black Douglas was the least of her concerns right now. Her intended was Colin Douglas, not Connor. Elizabeth had been most adamant about that, and Gabrielle most thankful. There was no time to waste worrying about something that would never be. She had enough to worry about, thank you very much. Her departure. Her imminent marriage. Her acceptance into a clan of foreigners who no doubt would hate her on sight.
Gabrielle chased that last thought out of her mind. She'd deal with the certain hostility when it came, and not a second before.
Slowly, she cast a last, wistful glance about her bedchamber. Had she forgotten anything? A nightgown? A corset? Nay, she saw none of those. Even her precious silver hairbrush and mirror were tucked securely away. With her belongings packed, the starkly furnished room looked depressingly empty.
Gabrielle's sigh was one of resignation as she slammed the lid of the trunk closed. Her fingers trembled as she belted the leather ties that would, hopefully, hold the trunk shut throughout the rigorous journey ahead.
Two clipped knocks sounded at the door just as she was securing the last buckle.
"Enter!" Gabrielle called out, distracted.
The door was pushed open by a tall, thin, dark-haired young boy.
"Rumor has it you're off to Scotland and a husband," the boy greeted her with annoying joviality. Only his dark eyes shimmered briefly with a glint of sympathy for her predicament.
Gabrielle nodded tightly. Here, once again, was proof that at court, gossip traveled faster than a runaway carriage. No doubt there were more than a few confidants of the Queen who'd learned of Gabrielle's upcoming nuptials long before she herself had been told!
"Are you ready, m'lady?" the boy asked.
"W-what?" Gabrielle asked, jarred from her thoughts.
He bowed, his hand sweeping toward the open door. "I asked if you were ready to go."
Gabrielle swallowed hard. There was a tightening in her throat, chest, and stomach. Her voice cracked as she replied, "Aye, as ready as I'll ever be."
Chapter 2
They traveled for two weeks before entering the far north country that was known as the Borders. The craggy, wild landscape was unlike anything Gabrielle had ever seen before.
Her aching body—especially her tender and bruised backside—was all too aware of every jostling mile she spent atop this shaggy-looking nag the Scots called a horse.
While with the Queen's men, they'd stopped at inns that Gabrielle had thought shoddy. A week ago she'd been transferred to the care of her future husband's men. Apparently the Scots didn't believe in inns—or beds for that matter. At the end of each impossibly long day of travel, they simply stopped, usually in a small clearing, and dismounted for the night. They cooked in the open and slept on cold, hard ground sheltered by nothing more than a big woolen strip of cloth. Or, in Gabrielle's case, her cloak. Long into the nights she'd lain awake, her sore body feeling every jutting lump of sod beneath her, her mind toying with images of the inns' lumpy beds that she'd sneered at but now longed for mightily.
Last night it had rained.
She'd hoped that Colin's men would be sensible enough to seek shelter. They hadn't. Like the seemingly endless string of nights before it, they'd slept under the cloud-strewn sky.
A more miserable evening Gabrielle could not remember ever spending. By morning, she was drenched. The men had allowed her to change clothes from the trunk of her meager possessions they'd secured atop a rickety wagon.
A warm, blessedly dry dress had helped. However, the only cloak she owned was the one she'd used for cover from the rain during the night, and the thick woolen garment had soaked up the rain like a sponge. She had wrung out as much of the moisture as she could, but it was a poor effort; the cloak remained saturated. Unfortunately, she'd no choice but to wear it. The air was too nippy and the wind was too strong for her to dare ride on without even its damp protection.
At midday her eyes started watering and she began sneezing. Her legs and arms and spine felt sore. Her head was fuzzy and her temples ached with a dull throb. She'd caught a cold. As if the weeks of travel hadn't been bad enough, now she would have to endure more of them while sick!
If she wasn't so loyal to her Queen, Gabrielle might have surrendered to the temptation to curse Elizabeth's soul.
As a distraction, she scanned the men about her. A shudder rippled down her spine. A scruffier, rougher looking bunch she'd never seen. Six years of court life had accustomed her to well-dressed and equally well-scented men.
As day compared to night, this motley crew sported scraggly beards, and thick, hairy legs exposed beneath sleep-wrinkled kilts. Deadly broadswords hung ever ready at their hips, slapping against their muscled thighs as they rode. The plain steel hilt of daggers peeked out from the tops of their boots.
She felt as if everyone was staring at her. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, she conceded. Still, the majority of men riding horseback both in front and behind her certainly were casting surreptitious, assessive glances her way.
Gabrielle's chin inched upward. Her spine stiffened resolutely as she moved in bone-weary time with the horse beneath her. Let them stare if they so desired. What did she care?
If spending half a dozen years in Elizabeth's demanding service had done nothing else, it had hardened Gabrielle to curious stares. After all, it was well known Elizabeth liked to surround herself with handsome men and women; among them Gabrielle had stood out like a lump of coal amid a bevy of exquisitely cut diamonds.