"Isn't it obvious?" Gabrielle countered, surprised. "Ella, the old woman must be rescued. Immediately."
A spark of mischief lit her blue eyes, but her voice remained calm and neutral. "If there's any rescuing to be done, 'tis up to me cousin to do it. We be women, and as such 'tis not our concern."
"I beg to differ. It most certainly is our concern. At least 'tis mine. If I'd not run out of that tunnel when I did, none of this would have happened. Mairghread would be here, sound and safe."
"That be true enough, there's nae arguing it."
A frown pinched Ella's brow as she glanced at Gabrielle slyly. "What I fail to understand is why ye should be caring aboot what happens to Margie...?"
Gabrielle shrugged tightly. "I suppose you could say I feel somewhat responsible for her current circumstances. Also... Ella, the woman was most kind to me earlier. I'd like to repay her kindness if I can."
"And exactly how would ye go aboot doing that?"
"By rescuing her myself if there's no other way."
"Well, guddle me," Ella muttered, then shook her head. Her laughter was soft and musical. "Lass, ye dinny e'en know where Gaelside is!"
"True," Gabrielle acknowledged thoughtfully. Her gaze had dipped to the fists clenched tightly atop her lap. It now lifted and boldly met Ella's. A sly, challenging grin tugged at her lips when she added, "But you do."
Chapter 7
There was but one thing that could make the women who worked in Bracklenaer's kitchen cleave to their quarters, no matter how great the temptation to stray and snatch juicy bits of gossip. Only one thing that could make the hounds chained to the hearth cower and whimper. Only one thing that could make the men of clan Douglas—hard, strong men who'd fought in many battles and ridden hard on many a midnight raid, men reputed to be the most stalwart on either side of the Border—cast wary, restless glances among themselves.
That thing was The Black Douglas when angered.
Connor wouldn't have said he was angry. Och! nay, he'd bypassed that tame emotion when, upon leaving Gilby's chamber, one of his men tersely informed him that Ella was missing. He'd sailed smoothly into raw fury when an immediate search unearthed no sign of Gabrielle Carelton. A sentry, whose breath smelled ripe with the pungent fumes of whisky, had been quizzed and admitted to seeing what he'd thought at the time were "a damned gonnie-looking pair o' kelpies" spiriting themselves away from the castle.
There had been no kelpies, of course. What the man had actually seen was Ella and Gabrielle riding away from Bracklenaer as though the devil himself was nipping at their heels.
From what the sentry could discern, their direction could be none other than Gaelside.
The white-hot, sizzling sensation that pumped hot and fast through Connor's blood made "angry" seem as docile as a sunswept knoll of grassland.
In five minutes he'd shrugged into his jack and strapped a saddle onto a rugged stallion whose shaggy coat was as black as his owner's mood. Five more minutes saw him galloping hard across the ragged countryside, his ire mounting with each jostling gait.
That Gabrielle Carelton would do something so irresponsible, rash and, put quite simply, asinine, he could almost forgive. Almost. The lass was Sassenach, after all, fresh from the pompous ways of Elizabeth's court, sheltered and protected from the harsh realities that were part of Connor's everyday life. He didn't expect her to know about, or to defend herself against, the wild ways of the Border and its people. A woman such as her couldn't begin to guess at the grave danger she'd put herself into.
Ella, on the other hand...
Och! it would take Connor far longer to forgive his cousin for her impetuousness. If he ever forgave her at all, and he had his doubts about that.
What could Ella have been thinking?! She knew the land and it customs as well as he did. Only a fool, an Englishman, or a Maxwell wouldn't understand how risky it was for two women to be out riding at such a wee hour. The black velvet sky sported only a sliver of a moon; it was a fine night for riding, and Connor had no doubt many neighboring families had taken full advantage of it.
His fingers gripped the reins so tightly his knuckles smarted and throbbed. His knees must have unwittingly dug into the stallion's sides, for his horse whickered and sidestepped in alarm.
Connor's breath caught and a shiver of pure ice trickled down his spine when he imagined Gabrielle and Ella encountering a group of reivers on their way to or from a successful night's ride. Gritting his teeth until his jaw ached and his temples pounded fiercely, he forced his thoughts away from that course before it could be brought to its natural, and highly unpleasant, conclusion.
With a flick of his wrist Connor guided his mount around the dark silhouette of a leaf-bare birch tree. The lighting was dim, but that suited him. The Black Douglas had no need for illumination; he could traverse this land with his eyes closed. The rough, craggy landscape was as familiar to him as every weather-parched crease in his aunt's forehead.
There was a stream a quarter mile to the north. Connor turned the stallion in that direction, hoping his usually good intuition held true and that the women had indeed stopped there to rest before traveling on to Gaelside.
It was a risk, he knew, to waste time, veering off the set path to find out if such was the case, but a risk he deemed worth taking. Ella might be as acquainted with the countryside as himself—she was a Douglas, she could ride for ho
urs without tiring—but Gabrielle Carelton was different. The Sassenach might not be as slender and delicate as he'd thought she would be, but that didn't mean she was used to traversing such a harsh, unforgiving landscape. She wasn't. Her bottom and thighs were pleasingly soft and supple... not the unsightly, hard-muscled limbs of a woman used to riding for extended periods.
Aye, a Sassenach like Gabrielle would surely require regular breaks from riding. And what better place to rest than where the horses could graze at their leisure and sip upon crisp, mountain-fed water?
He heard the gentle gurgle of the stream before his horse cleared the dense patch of trees. Squinting, he made out the twisting, snakelike form. The water babbled at a docile pace, its surface suffused by the few streaks of silvery moonlight that managed to sneak past the latticework ceiling of branches and leaves.