"Hmph! Ye dinny look like any Maxwell I've e'er seen."
A hint of a smile curved Gabrielle's lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Take it any way ye like, ye still dinny look like a Maxwell." The girl's attention turned to the man at Gabrielle's side, and she demanded of him, "Gilby, ye great lug, are ye ver sure this is the right wench? Are ye absolutely certain? Mayhap there was a mistake? 'Twas nae doubt night and hard to see. Methinks ye may have picked up another—?"
"Nay, Ella," the man called Gilby replied gruffly, "there's been nae mistake. This is the one."
Ella pursed her lips. Her frown deepened to a scowl. If the way she kicked at the ground meant anything, she wasn't pleased by Gilby's reply. "Well, there's naught for it, then. She'll have to do." She glanced behind her, and her expression lightened. Lifting her voice, she called out, "'Tis aboot time ye got out here, Cousin. The first person to greet yer future bride should have be ye, not me!"
"And so it shall be, lass. Though somehow I'm doubting 'twas a proper greeting ye came out here to give the wench."
The girl had the decency to blush, even as Gabrielle shifted her attention from Ella to the possessor of that deep, rumbling voice.
Gabrielle's breath caught in her throat.
He had shaggy black hair—the color at least three shades darker than her own—and sharply chiseled features; she wouldn't call him handsome exactly, but his craggy features were intriguing. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his chest wide; the latter was partially exposed by the untied laces of a cream-colored tunic. Gabrielle tried not to notice the dark, springy curls that peeked up from the separation of fabric. Tried not to, but did nonetheless. Her attention dipped. His stomach was flat and tight, banded by the folds of a black-and-gray plaid kilt.
Her gaze strayed lower still, and she swallowed hard. The man's legs were bare, the bands of muscles playing beneath the tanned flesh tight and powerful, rippling as he walked. His stride was long and confident.
The man was fast approaching. As she felt his gaze sharpen, volleying keenly between her and the girl, Gabrielle buried her face in her cloak and let the coarse material muffle another sneeze. Huddled in the voluminous folds, she instinctively leaned back in the saddle, as though to put as much distance between them as possible.
It was a silly, childish reaction, she knew, but one she couldn't check. For no reason besides his appearance, the man frightened her senseless. An unwelcome thought flashed through her mind, and she swallowed back a groan. If this dark, ominous figure was Colin Douglas, supposedly the more amicable of the legendary Douglas twins, she hoped never to have
the misfortune of meeting his brother, The Black Douglas!
The man stopped beside Ella. The two glared at each other for a second before simultaneously shifting their attention upward...
To Gabrielle.
Gabrielle had felt herself an unattractive eyesore many times at Queen Bess's court, but never had she felt it to the extent she did at that moment. For the first time all day she found herself grateful for the cloak; adjusting it slightly, she was able to make the dark fabric hide the blush that stained her cheeks as she met and held her future husband's gaze.
His eyes were a piercing shade of gray, his gaze as intense as his expression.
"Since I dinny think me cousin has given ye the proper greeting she claims, I shall be the first to do so." He bowed at the waist—a brisk, jerky motion—and as he straightened said, "Welcome to Bracklenaer, Lady Gabrielle Carelton."
While it rang a bit stilted, his greeting nevertheless seemed sincere enough. Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then tentatively lowered the cloak until the dark cloth sagged limply beneath her chin. "Thank you, m'lord, I..." The words clogged in her throat. Her voice went flat as an ice-cold sense of dread washed over her. "Did you say Bracklenaer?"
"Aye, mistress, I did."
"But that is not possible. Bracklenaer belongs to—"
"Connor Douglas," Ella supplied, then giggled behind her hand.
Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, Gabrielle barely heard the girl, or Gilby's burst of much harsher laughter.
While she would have liked to think it was the cold that made her head feel heavy and foggy—perhaps bringing on a most unpalpable hallucination?—Gabrielle knew better. This was no hallucination. The man had not been joking when he'd greeted her to Bracklenaer, nor had Ella when she'd proclaimed the keep's owner.
Connor Douglas?
The Black Douglas?
Dear Lord!
Her blood ran cold. Surely the dark-haired man who stood so proudly and confidently next to her horse could not be...? Could he?
Fisting the cloak beneath her chin in a white-knuckled grip, Gabrielle swayed unsteadily in the saddle as she tried to absorb this news. Her head spun and her thoughts spiraled downward. If there was a breath to be had, her too-tightly-laced corset refused to allow her to find it.
His gray eyes narrowed, his gaze assessing her keenly, waiting for her reaction.