That reaction was not what it would have been on a day when her body didn't ache from tiredness and burn with fever. Her vision was watery, blurry, and there was a distinct blackness around the edges that alarmed her. She'd never fainted in her life, yet she'd an uneasy feeling she was about to do exactly that.
Blinking hard, she shook her head. Instead of making the blackness clouding her vision abate, the gesture served only to enhance it. This would never do! She bit down hard enough on the inside of her cheek to taste the sharp, salty tang of her own blood. That helped clear her head, but only a bit.
Gabrielle didn't know what she was going to do; she knew only what she wouldn't do. She wouldn't, couldn't, faint now or she would be lost. She needed to stay conscious, if only for a little while, while there might be a chance—a slim one, aye, but a chance all the same—to set this most inconceivable situation to rights.
Struggling to keep her senses sharp, Gabrielle tightened her fingers around the reins until the strips of leather bit into her skin. She'd ridden this horse for too many weeks to count and knew it well. A nudge of her knees set the nag off and running.
What should have been a brave, daring escape was cut humiliatingly short.
Two steps. That was all the ground the horse was allowed to cover before Connor Douglas casually reached out and snatched the reins from Gabrielle's hand. With a flick of his wrist, the horse came to a halt.
The quick stop came perilously close to tumbling Gabrielle out of the saddle. The blackness was back, edging her vision, but she was too embarrassed and angry to pay heed to it.
Her attention jerked to the side and down. The glare she leveled on Connor Douglas was hot enough to ignite a bonfire. "Let go of my horse."
"'Tis not yer horse, 'tis mine."
"I'll not argue over wording with you, sir! I demand you let go of those reins and let go of them now!"
"Why? Ye dinny ken which way to go."
"I've a very good sense of direction. I'll figure it out."
"In yer condition? Ha! Nay, lass, aboot all ye'll do is get yerself lost in the forest and die of the fever." His frown was dark and stormy as he scratched at the stubbled underside of his jaw. "Or mayhaps ye're going to deny ye're sick? I suppose ye could try, but dinny fool yerself into thinking I'd believe it. Yer nose is swollen and red, and yer bloodshot, watery eyes speak for themselves."
Ella nudged her cousin's side and whispered loudly enough for Gabrielle to hear, "Poor Connor. Mayhap not e'en until winter?"
His reply to the cryptic remark was a noncommittal grunt.
Gabrielle swayed and again bit the tender inside of her cheek. This time, the sting of pain didn't help. The blackness was edging in, growing strong, tunneling her vision until all she could see was Connor Douglas.
It was the one thing on earth she did not want to see.
"Obviously there has been a mistake," Gabrielle said, mirroring the words someone had spoken earlier. Her thickly clouded mind wouldn't allow her to remember who or when. Was it her imagination, or did her voice sound slurred, oddly distant? Nay, it was not her imagination, that was how her ears perceived it.
Her limbs felt weak and shaky. She had to grip the edge of the saddle hard, until it cut ridges in her fingertips, and even then her seat remained wobbly. Still, it was either that or tumble in an ungraceful heap at Connor Douglas's feet.
"There's been nae mistake," he said evenly. "Ye're exactly where ye're supposed to be."
"Nay, I am not even close," she replied stubbornly, and realized it was getting more and more difficult to force her tongue to shape words. The blackness was racing in quickly now. Even the easiest thought flowed through her fevered mind like water, refusing to freeze and solidify. "My destination is Gaelside, castle of Colin Douglas. Not Bracklenaer."
"Och! lass, I ken yer destination well enough. Do ye ken that ye're aboot to faint?"
"I most certain am not!" Gabrielle replied hotly.
She then proceeded to do exactly that.
The blackness swept over Gabrielle, the strength drained out of her body. Her limbs felt heavy yet at the same time light and limp. Her eyes flickered shut of their own accord. Her head dipped, and her chin collided with her cloak-covered collarbone.
The saddle beneath her shifted. Nay, that was wrong. It was not the saddle that shifted, it was herself... shifting out of it.
Dear God, she was falling!
With what little consciousness she'd conserved, Gabrielle commanded her body to do something, anything, to stop herself from falling. While her body would have loved to obey, tried to even, in the end, it simply couldn't. Her arms, neck, and legs felt as if they'd been weighted down by chunks of lead; no amount of mental coaxing could shake off the heaviness and make them move.
Gabrielle groaned, or at least tried to. To the best of her knowledge, no sound left her tight, dry throat. Reluctantly, she realized that her only hope now was to be totally unconscious before she hit the ground, and therefore saved the embarrassment of falling at this arrogant Scot's—The Black Douglas's!—feet.
Just as she was about to pitch out of the saddle, she felt an arm slipped behind her waist. Another slid quickly beneath her knees. Both were as thick and hard as a tree limb.