Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Still holding Gabrielle's hand, Mairghread stepped past her and to her niece's side. "Move o'er, I'm wanting to see this."

"Who is Willie Oh Nillis Tom?" Gabrielle asked, confused. "And what the devil sort of name is that?"

Ella stepped back, next to Gabrielle, giving her aunt enough room to look out the opening. She leaned close to Gabrielle's ear and whispered, "Willie O' Nill's Tom," she said, pronouncing the name slowly, precisely, "is Tom, Willie O' Nill's son."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to call him Tom?" Gabrielle asked. The logic made perfect sense to her, but not to Ella, if the way the girl shook her head was anything to judge by.

"Methinks ye're wrong, Margie, she'll not be an easy one to teach. Like all Sassenach, she thinks ver illogically." Ella sighed and turned her attention back to Gabrielle. Her voice edged with forced patience, she asked, "Have ye any idea how many Toms there be in these parts?"

"Er... several?"

"Aye. Several dozen. 'Tis a ver common name."

"Oh. I see," Gabrielle said, and stifled a sneeze with her shoulder. She was lying, she didn't see a thing, but she wasn't going to admit it after Ella's last comment; her pride still smarted.

"If yer to live here, lass, the least ye can do is ken our names. 'Tis so easy e'en a bairn could master it."

"In that case, it should give me no trouble."

Ella grunted. In the dim, silver glow of moonlight, the girl's deceptively delicate features tightened into an expression that said she doubted a hated Sassenach—one with Maxwell blood running through her veins to boot!—would be able to understand anything Scots, even something so simple.

"Willie O' Nill's Tom is bleeding maun fierce," Mairghread hissed from the tunnel's opening. "Methinks Gilby is merely playing with the lad before finishing him off."

Gabrielle's mouth went dry, her eyes wide. She could be wrong, but what she'd first thought was tension electrifying the damp night air now felt like something else entirely. It felt like excitement. Aye, that was it. That was the emotion she felt emanating from the two Scotswomen.

Many were the blood-filled, hair-raising tales she'd heard while tucked safely away in Elizabeth's Court of the atrocities that transpired on the Borders. She'd listened with mild interest to all the stories, even had a daring dream or two about a few, yet Gabrielle had not put stock in a single one. Surely only in fable could such folk as the rough, bloodthirsty heathens known as Borderers exist.

Or so she'd thought.

Then.

While warm and safe in London.

Now that she was here, now that she was caught amid a bloody battle and felt the two Scotswomen's morbid excitement at witnessing the destruction, she was forced to reassess her opinion. God in heaven, even the women here took pleasure from seeing an enemy's blood let! It was a staggering realization.

Gabrielle's back came up hard against the wall. The stone chaffed into her skin beneath the tunic, but she barely noticed the bite of pain.

Every word of every story had been true.

Her horrified gaze volleyed between Mairghread and Ella. If they'd felt fear before, it was apparent neither felt it now. Both had dropped Gabrielle's hands and were now jostling each other, squirming to get a better view from the tunnel's narrow opening. Their enthusiasm was palpable, as real as the surge of disgust that made the muscles in Gabrielle's stomach

clench and her knees go shaky and weak.

Gabrielle gritted her teeth, stifling a half groan, half cough in the back of her stinging throat. What had Elizabeth done, sending her here? Didn't the woman know what kind of land, what kind of people, she was sending her faithful lady to live among? What kind of heathens? Oh, of course Elizabeth knew. Twice while Gabrielle was in her service she remembered the Queen traveling to the Borders in unsuccessful attempts to tame them.

The clang of metal hitting metal startled Gabrielle out of her disturbing thoughts. She tried to gasp, but couldn't. Perhaps it was the tightness of the trews, the raid, the fever, the realization of exactly how much her life had changed... Whatever the cause, she suddenly found she could not pull even the smallest of breaths into her lungs.

Her empty hands closed into white-knuckled fists at her sides, her nails creasing painfully into tender palms.

If she couldn't make herself force in a breath soon, she was going to faint. The last time she'd fainted, she landed smack in The Black Douglas's arms.

Gabrielle closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. Thinking of Connor now was the last thing she needed to quell her panic... she realized too late. His harshly carved features, inky black hair, and piercing gray eyes stabbed through her memory. The world around her seemed to recede and tilt in the background. The earth beneath her was solid, she knew, yet it felt like the planks of a ship, pitching and swaying sickeningly beneath her feet.

"Och! I dinny ken a lad's lanky body could hold so much blood!"

"Aye," Ella whispered in agreement, "yet still he fights. Methinks Gilby will end him by skewering him through the belly. What thinks ye?"

"The throat," Mairghread said with grisly enthusiasm. "Gilby will give the lad a second grin and send him to hell. It be maun quicker, albeit a good deal messier."