"If I'd had me way, ye'd not have met her at all."
Gordie shrugged. "She's a... er, fair buxom lass," he observed. Did Gordie's voice reflect appreciation or distaste? Connor wondered. He could not tell; the man's stoic expression and keen gaze gave nothing away. "She doesn't look like a Maxwell."
"Aye, if ye ask me," grumbled one of Gordie's men, "she looks maun like a Johnstone."
"Who asked ye?" Connor growled. Wet moss and leaves crunched under bootheels as the man took a quick step back under the heat of The Black Douglas's glare. Again, Gabrielle shifted against Connor in her sleep, this time murmuring something unintelligible beneath her breath.
Gordie seemed unfazed by the exchange between Connor and his man. As though he was talking to himself as much as to Connor, he finally observed aloud, "She's for sure a deep sleeper."
"Aye," Connor grudgingly acknowledged, "so 'twould seem."
"Ye mean ye dinny ken it a'fore now?"
"And how would I be doing that, Maxwell? The lass has ne'er been sleeping when she's with me a'fore this."
Gordie's gaze narrowed, his green eyes darkening as his fingers wrapped more tightly around the hilt of his sword. The tip of the blade dug a wee bit more firmly into the tender skin of Connor's neck; he could feel another hot drop of blood trickle down the side of his neck.
"'Tis sorry I am to be hearing that, Douglas," Gordie said, yet in truth he sounded anything but "A telling admission, dinny ye think? I wonder how 'twill sit with me da."
One of the men chuckled. When Gordie made no gesture to silence him, a few others joined in.
As the men's mirth died down, Gordie again directed the crux of his attention on Connor. Or, more accurately, on Gabrielle. The expression on the man's face was one of unabashed interest.
The muscles in Connor's jaw knotted. Not for the first time did he fervently wish he could reach his sword before his enemy slit his throat.
"The lass needs to be woken. I'd do the chore meself, but I'm of a mind that ye'd not like me methods," said Gordie, his voice far too calm for Connor's liking. "We ride in five minutes. We'll not reach Caerlaverock a'fore sunrise, but if we ride hard, 'twill be less. Wake the lass and get her clothed, Douglas. Be quick aboot it lest I think ye need help."
Gordie bent and retrieved Connor's sword, which he'd kicked teasingly out of reach before waking Connor, then straightened and turned his attention on his men. He murmured something and the band stepped back a few feet, respectfully facing the opposite direction.
The men, Connor was quick to notice, remained within hearing distance, with Gordie Maxwell closest of all. One wrong move and the ragged-looking pack would be upon him in a moment—with the huge, deadly blade of more than one Jedburgh axe finding its mark in his body.
Connor raked the fingers of his free hand through his tousled black hair. Over the peaks of the trees, he saw the sky was beginning to brighten from forbidding black to a bleak, dull shade of gray.
Moss and leaves rustled when he shook his head in disgust. He was naked, unarmed. What kind of defense could he provide the lady sleeping with such sweet innocence against his side? A pathetically poor one, that's what kind. Wouldn't the Borderers who wrote those dreaded ballads not love to see The Black Douglas thus?
The way Gabrielle continued to sleep was a silent yet bitter condemnation. Even so deep in slumber, she curled against him like a child, instinctively trusting him to guard and protect her.
That he couldn't do either was grating to Connor's already chaffed nerves.
God's teeth, there was no help for it. With the Maxwell and his men waiting impatiently, he'd no choice but to do as Gordie bid and wake the lass up.
"Gabby?" He nudged her shoulder, all the while trying not to notice how soft and warm her skin felt beneath his palm. Her inky lashes flickered against her cheeks, but her eyes remained closed, her expression bairnishly peaceful.
"Gabby!" He nudged her a wee bit harder. "Och, sweeting, please, 'tis time to wake up."
"Who—? Wha—?" The confused furrow between her eyebrows smoothed and she smiled warmly. "Oh, 'tis only you, Connor." With the back of her fist, she muffled a yawn. Connor swallowed hard when her wonderfully full curves pressed provocatively against him as she arched her spine and stretched. "For a moment I thought... well, I suppose it doesn't matter what I thought, does it? Is it morning already?"
"Aye, lass, almost."
"And what a wonderful morning 'tis. I feel so... so relaxed." Her grin was wicked. "Truth to tell, m'lord, I think I could doze here in your arms for the better part of the day. What say you to that? Do you think 'tis possible? Never before have I felt so cherished and safe as I do right now—"
Her words stabbed through Connor like the finely honed blade of the dagger one of the Maxwell men had seen fit to appropriate from the cuff of Connor's worn leather boot while the latter had been sleeping.
"Now listen to me, Gabby," Connor said, his voice stern as he cut her ruminations short, "and listen well. 'Tis imperative ye follow me instructions without question. Now, I dinny want ye to fash yeself aboot it, but the fact is, we've... er, a wee bit of a problem. Ye need to get up and get dressed. Quickly. Whilst they still be giving ye the chance to do it in relative privacy. Methinks the Maxwell will not ext
end his generosity long; we maun accept it whilst we can."
Gabrielle gulped, her green eyes widening in alarm. "Did you say Maxwell?.'"