Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

His expression unreadable, Connor shifted, again facing forward in his saddle.

Gabrielle sighed and turned her attention back to Ella, only to find that the girl was no longer paying her any mind. Instead, she was staring at a different male back, and staring at it hard. The back was that of Roy Maxwell. Her expression was guarded, her forehead furrowed in contemplation.

Gabrielle shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, wondering how much longer it would take for them to reach Bracklenaer. How far away were they? They'd been riding most of the morning, surely the keep could not be too far away now?

And once they arrived? What then? she wondered. Would Connor keep his vow to see them wed posthaste? Would he—she gulped—insist the makeshift ceremony be held today? He'd admitted the banns had been read. There was no reason for delay.

Another question surfaced, this one stronger, more insistent, teasing at her unmercifully if only because there was no ready answer.

Had Connor heard what she'd said to him last night when they'd made love?

There was no way to be certain.

The only thing Gabrielle could be sure of was that she had confessed her feelings for him. Unintentionally, aye, but confessed them nonetheless. That the proclamation had slipped out, uttered in a moment of unbridled passion and weakness, mattered not at all. If given the opportunity to take the words back, she would not seize it; the circumstances surrounding them could not make the statement any less true.

Heaven help her, she did love Connor.

When had the emotion surfaced? How had it flourished? She didn't know, but surface and flourish it had, without her knowledge or consent. When she glanced at him, or he at her, her senses tingled, her thoughts spun, the world tunneled down around her until no one but the two of them existed. When he touched her, kissed her, or merely hinted at doing either, she was lost.

Those symptoms could be attributed to lust pure and raw, except for one important fact. Aye, lately when her musings had turned to the future, she thought as automatically as breathing of Connor, of Bracklenaer, of a castle full of babes with inky black hair and piercing gray eyes. Like their father.

Had a child been conceived by their lovemaking last night or the night before that? Was Connor's babe even now taking root in her womb?

The idea was thrilling beyond reason, and at the same time inordinately dispiriting.

He'd not made a similar confession, nor had he given even a curious acknowledgment of hers.

That he'd not said he loved her back cut Gabrielle to the quick.

"Och! are ye crying, lass?" Ella asked as, sitting forward, she inspected Gabrielle's face.

Gritting her teeth, Gabrielle quickly averted her attention, dipping her head so the thick, dark curtain of her hair shielded her profile from the girl's eagle-sharp gaze. With the back of a tightly balled fist, she whisked a drop of moisture from where it clung to the dark curl of her lashes before it could splash warmly onto her cheek.

"Nay," Gabrielle answered a bit too quickly for her words to carry the tone of sincerity she strived for. "'Tis simply exhaustion coupled with this rough spring breeze. It makes my eyes water, is all."

"Is that the way of it?" Ella asked, her tone as doubtful as her expression.

"Aye, 'tis." Gabrielle shrugged vaguely. Of course the reason she'd given Ella was the true cause behind her burning, watering eyes. What other reason could there be? Surely it wasn't the way Queen Elizabeth's words, spoken long ago yet never quite forgotten, chose that untimely moment to ring a haunting chord in her mind. Words that harshly predicted Gabrielle's bloodlines would someday win her a husband, there was never a doubt of it, but her plain face and stout form would never win his singular devotion and love...

* * *

Bracklenaer's courtyard was alive with activity. Groups of servants clustered in stone-wall-shaded corners, talking animatedly amongts themselves. Some of the Douglas men had led their horses from the stalls and were now busily preparing their mounts to ride.

Connor's eyes narrowed as he guided his horse to a stop. His gaze swept his surroundings. The hair at his nape tingled with awareness, for the excitement permeating the cool, late-morning air was almost tangible enough to touch and taste.

What was happening? What could have taken place during his brief absence that accounted for such an unusual commotion? Had the Kerrs finally carried through on their threatened raid, or had something unexpected and dire happened?

An uneasy feeling trickled like a drop of ice water down Connor's spine. Aye, something was definitely amiss. He could feel it. He wished Gilby was up and about, for that was one man who would have greeted Connor with the necessary news and explained the situation in precise measure.

Gilby, however, was not about, which meant Connor would have to seek out the source of the disturbance himself.

With a quick gesture Connor indicated that Ella and Gabrielle should remain mounted and in place guarding their two prisoners. Dismounting, he crossed quickly to the nearest group of men, who were tossing saddles over the backs of their stocky, shaggy mounts and hastily securing the leather strips that held them in place.

Gabrielle watched Connor closely as he angled his head and drew into conversation the two men who continued to ready their horses as they spoke to their laird.

Frowning at Ella, she leaned closer to the girl and whispered, "What is going on here?"

Ella shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. "I dinny ken. Something's happened. Something is not right, I can feel it. And look o'er there." She nodded in the direction where Connor stood. "See that horse? The one the towheaded lad is leading into the stable? It does not belong to a Douglas. I've ne'er seen it afore."