Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

"That I admire Connor's daring, naught else." A slow, sly grin tugged at the corners of Johnny Maxwell's lips as he linked his fingers together and rested them atop the generous hill of his stomach. "I dinny say a word aboot not seeking me revenge. Och! lad, we be Maxwells! Revenge is in our blood. We couldn't stop seeking it—especially against those God rotten Douglases—any maun than we could stop breathing."

Gordie returned his father's grin. "Now, that I'm liking the sound of. Tell me, what do ye plan to do?"

"Weeell..." Johnny's smile broadened. "Naturally I've filed a bill with the March Wardens against The Black Douglas. It shall be heard on the next Day O' Truce. I admit I'm sorely grieved to loose Siobhan—och! that wench was a mighty fine cook!—but I'm not so foolish as to think we'll be getting her back any time soon, if e'er. Yer mither and sisters are already busy weaving us new blankets to replace the ones taken by The Black Douglas. There's naught else that can be done aboot the raid, not legally, except the obligatory counterattack, which we've already planned." Johnny shrugged and lifted his right hand palm upward in a gesture indicating he was helpless to do anything more, which indeed he was. About that matter. He swiftly turned the conversation to a matter he could do something about "Now that I think on it, mayhap The Black Douglas's latest escapade be not so bad for us after all."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning 'tis well kenned that a Maxwell's blood runs thick and strong, our loyalty to each other unmatched. Nae matter our differences, we always defend our own."

Gordie frowned and cocked his head to the side. "Aye, so ye've taught all yer sons since we were bairns. I dinny ken how any of this has to do with Gabrielle Carelton, or getting revenge on Connor Douglas."

"Think a wee bit harder." When Gordie showed no indication that he knew what his father was talking about, Johnny pillowed his elbows on top of the desk and leaned toward the young man, his gaze locking with Gordie's. "Did ye not just tell me The Black Douglas is in possession of a misbegotten guest in his keep? A guest who, unless I be wrong, and I dinny think I am, would rather be anywhere but Bracklenaer?"

"I did," Gordie acknowledged.

Johnny nodded. "Mind ye, ordinarily I'd not care. Howe'er, as luck would have it, the guest in question happens to have a drop of Maxwell blood trickling through her veins."

"Only a drop," Gordie reminded his father firmly. "Have ye not said often enough that 'tis an ancient indiscretion we dinny admit to? Something that happened in the past and was meant to be forgotten?"

"Aye, that I have. And so 'tis. Yet, like it or nay, the fact remains that Gabrielle Carelton is a Maxwell. Och! lad, the maun I think on it, the maun I like it. This could work in our favor quite nicely! Do ye see where this all be leading?"

Gordie's frown deepened, then just as suddenly disappeared. "A Maxwell takes care of his own," he repeated softly, seemingly to himself. Louder, as realization dawned on him, he said, "What sort of kin would we be if we dinny lift a finger to get the poor, sweet wee lass away from her arch enemy, the Douglas?"

"Poor kin, indeed!" Johnny agreed, then laughed. His fist slammed down hard on the desk as he used his other hand to wave his son closer. "Come, sit. Methinks there's a need to alter our original plan a wee bit. We need to craft the plan for a retaliatory raid that will overshadow e'en The Black Douglas's swiftly growing reputation. A plan that will... er, how should I put it? Oh, aye, a plan that will finally reunite us with our dear, long lost Carelton kin...."

* * *

A bolt of lightning cut a jagged streak through the sky, flashing a brilliant, blinding shade of silver. The immediate bowling roar of thunder was so violent it shook Bracklenae

r's centuries-old stone walls.

Gabrielle winced, her ears ringing. Did she hear the bedchamber's door rattle in its hinges, or was the phantom sound a product of her fevered imagination? There was no way to be sure. Between the alarming rattle in her chest, the deafening claps of thunder, and the rain that lashed harshly at the bolted shutters, it was difficult to hear much of anything.

The pillow beneath her head was damp from her perspiration, and her inky hair clung to her sweat-beaded brow and neck. Sweet Jesus, she was hot! Her bones ached from the inside out as she restlessly kicked the sheepskin and Douglas-gray kilt off her. The chilly night air had no more washed over her body than she commenced shivering. Violently. With a groan, she yanked the coverings back up and huddled beneath them.

Mairghread had come at dinnertime and spooned more broth, this one with a thick lamb base, into her. All hopes of regaining her strength and escaping this place had fled by that time. She might be a Carelton, and therefore stubbornly determined, but right now she felt as weak as a day-old kitten. She would be going nowhere for a while, and well she knew it. It was bad enough that her stomach refused to hold much of the rich broth the old woman insisted she eat. After a few spoonfuls, Gabrielle had shaken her head and turned her head away. In seconds, she'd fallen asleep.

When she finally awoke, it was to a dark, empty bedchamber. The smoldering embers in the hearth gave off precious little light. No one, it seemed, had seen fit to rekindle them.

A quick scan of the room told her that Mairghread was gone. The only sign that the old woman had been there at all was the goblet of what Gabrielle presumed was wine sitting on the table beside the bed.

Clutching the covers close, she struggled to sit up, then took the metal goblet and lifted it to her lips. Her eyes were watery, her temples throbbed, and her mouth felt drier than the Cheviot Hills in summer. A sip of cool wine would sit well right now and do much to improve her flagging spirits.

Gabrielle tried to sniff the contents, but her nose was too stuffy. Thirsty, she took a deep sip. A fit of coughing tore through her body as she choked the stuff down. The fiery brew coated her tongue like molten lava, scorching a path down her already gritty and sore throat. Stinging tears dripped hotly down her cheeks, splashing unnoticed on her forearm as she coughed and gasped and wheezed for precious breath.

That was not wine. Oh, nay, nothing so bland. That was a large-size helping of strong Scots whisky. The liquor had been mildly diluted with water and lemon, yet neither could take away its sting. Had her sense of smell not abandoned her, Gabrielle would have recognized the pungent fumes immediately.

Gradually the sting on her tongue started to fade, as did the burn in her throat. A warm, not entirely unpleasant glow swirled in her nearly empty stomach. The heat seeped outward, radiating throughout the rest of her body like the ripples of a stone tossed in a calm lake.

Another clap of thunder rattled the shutters. Last night's storm had returned with force; slashing rain and wind settled around Bracklenaer like a dark, heavy blanket.

Gabrielle sneezed and gave a half-hearted sniffle. Truth to tell, it was a blessing the weather hadn't been this bad last night. If she was sick now and all she'd been exposed to was a bit of rain, who knows how ill she would have been after spending a night tossing atop the hard, wet ground amid a storm of this magnitude!

This time it didn't cut through her as harshly as before. Oh, nay, just the opposite. Now that her tastebuds had been shocked into accustoming themselves to the potent brew, she was surprised to discover that the wicked concoction was actually quite tasty. More delicious still was the sweet, hot feeling of relaxation that seeped through her veins, warming the chill from her bones even as it eased the stiff aches and pains in her muscles.

Gabrielle grinned. What would Elizabeth say if she saw her charge now? She pictured the old woman's tightly compressed lips puckering as Elizabeth glared disdainfully down the thin, rigid line of her nose. It was a glare that had brought high-powered men from all over the world to their knees.

The Queen, however, was not here to chastise or to glare, thank heaven. That was just as well, because the whisky worked wonders, and with amazing swiftness. While her aches and pains weren't completely gone, they weren't nearly as pronounced or troublesome as they'd been a few moments ago. Her cough had subsided, her sinuses had cleared a bit, and the pounding in her head had diminished. Except for the vaguely bitter aftertaste, the whisky was a miracle potion! Why wasn't this brew being hawked as a fever remedy on every street corner in London?