Ella glared at him from over her slender shoulder. Were she closer, she would have kicked him, he was certain of that. Hard. Connor made a mental note to tame her of that unladylike habit before finding her a husband.
"Now I be kenning why they call ye The Black Douglas, Connor," she said tightly. "Have ye no heart? No soul? No compassion whate'er? How can ye speak so indiffere
ntly of burying yer own wife?"
"She's not me wife yet," he reminded her coolly. "Right now we're talking aboot naught more than putting to her final rest a lass who is a complete stranger." Connor lifted his chin and scratched the underside of his jaw as he regarded her thoughtfully. "Tell me something, Ella. Exactly when did ye start troubling yerself o'er the welfare of a Maxwell?"
"Hmph!" Ella quickly shifted her attention back to the window. Her lips parted, her intent to voice a hot retort, but the words evaporated off her tongue as quickly as they came.
A sudden commotion outside jerked her attention past the cold pane of glass. "Ye'd best brace yerself, Cousin," she said. The rest she called out over her shoulder as she raced excitedly toward the door that led out of the great hall. "Methinks the complete stranger in question will not be such a stranger come nightfall. Yer wife has arrived!"
* * *
So this is how the Scots build a castle, Gabrielle thought... only because it was all she would allow herself to think at the moment.
She sneezed, wiped her nose, and tried not to notice how the gesture smarted; Lord knows what damage she'd done to her poor nose with a day of blotting on coarse wool; she only hoped the tip of her nose wasn't as red as the soreness there implied.
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.