"The time for taming has come and gone. Och! but if that was the only problem with this union, I'd be of the same mind as ye."
"Then you think—?"
"Nay, I dinny ken what I be thinking right now, Gabby. I only ken that these Borders have always separated two warring factions. Aye, those factions are now one. In name. The Border and the wild Border ways remain the same and will not die easily. So long as there is English and Scot, there will be differences. So long as there is a Border between the two, Sassenach and Scot will fight. Sometimes I think 'twas what we were born for. With Elizabeth's death and Jamie's ascent to the throne, the Borders are going to be pried loose from their mooring. Dinny misunderstand me, I'm no fortune teller. Where and how it all will end 'twould take a better mon than meself to predict. Right now, howe'er, me mind is on another matter, one closer to home."
Gabrielle had leaned forward and was reaching out, about to reclaim the tankard. His words made her freeze. No longer paying attention to what she was doing, her fingers grazed his. A bolt of awareness shot up her arm, wrapped warm fingers around her heart. Her gaze shifted from Connor's hand, skated up his muscular forearm, over his broad shoulder, the sunkissed side of his neck where his pulse hammered, along the hard, stubbled line of his jaw... higher.
Piercing gray meshed with inquisitive green.
Her fingertips trembled against the back of his knuckles as she arched one dark brow. "And what matter would that be, m'lord?"
"That of our wedding, lass. What else?" His attention darkened and dipped.
Earlier, Gabrielle had changed into one of the gowns from her paltry wardrobe, this one, a loose, high-waisted garment of rich rose brocade. Without the customary farthingale beneath, the skirt felt comfortably loose around her hips and thighs, much less restrictive than the trews that had preceded it. She'd used a scrap of ivory lace to tie back her thick, wild black curls. The dress's neckline—etched with a thin, matching strip of lace—was scooped; it revealed the ripe curve of her breasts.
Her skin felt hot and tingly under the touch of Connor's gaze. More so when she saw the way his expression grew dark and hungry. The gentle play of firelight sculpted and defined his features, made his gray eyes gleam as his gaze raked her from the waist up.
Gabrielle shivered. Her fingers curled around the tankard, and she dragged it toward her gratefully. It felt heavy as she lifted it, tipped the rim against her mouth, drank deeply. On her empty stomach the brew hit her hard, making her head feel light and dizzy.
Or mayhap 'twas The Black Douglas's intense gaze, not the sting of ale, that made her senses spin?
Gabrielle cleared her throat. Keeping her voice level took intense concentration. Was she the only one to notice that her grip on the tankard had grown so tight that her knuckles were white with the strain of it?
"Our wedding?" She forced a chuckle as she also forced her grip to relax, forced herself to put the tankard down carefully upon the table. "Connor, please, rest assured that your obligations have been met, albeit not in the way anyone intended. Now that Elizabeth is dead, the Maxwell and Douglas are united under the reign of your young King James. What need is there of a union between us?"
Perhaps it was a trick of firelight and shadows, but for a fleeting second, she could have sworn Connor looked uncomfortable. His gaze shifted thoughtfully, then just as abruptly returned to hers; the gray depths were as masked and unreadable as his harshly sculpted features.
Gabrielle watched closely as he lifted the tankard. Again he turned it so that his lips covered the spot where hers had been. This time there was no fooling herself, no pretending the gesture was anything but what it was: intentional. Arching one dark brow high, he tipped the tankard, swallowing down the rest of the ale.
A shiver skated down Gabrielle's spine. A burning tingle of awareness sparked in her blood; the fire crackling in the hearth felt chilly by comparison. It took a mighty surge of concentration to muster the flagging remains of her courage, to return his stare with one she hoped boldly met the unspoken challenge that sparkled like molten-gray fire in his eyes.
"There is a need," Connor said finally, firmly.
The husky timbre of his voice made Gabrielle wonder exactly what sort of need he referred to? Did she dare hope it was more than a physical yearning? Dare she wonder, even for a second, if The Black Douglas could come to care for her? And if she did allow herself to believe it, what kind of pain would she endure if she were eventually to discover he truly didn't care for her at all... the way Elizabeth had always predicted would be the case? It would tear her apart from the inside out to learn such a thing. She knew it, could feel it deep down inside her, in that dark, lonely place where she kept her emotions carefully hidden.
Lacing her fingers in her lap, Gabrielle averted her gaze to the flames snapping in the hearth and asked as dispassionately as possible, "What need is that, m'lord?"
"My need for a son."
Her gaze jerked back to him, her eyes widening in surprise. "I beg your pardon?!"
"Ye heard me right, lass. I've need for a son. Ye be young and strong, of... er, more hardy stock than I'd dared hoped ye would be. Mairghread says yer wi
de hips were made for birthing and—"
The sound of her open palm colliding with his whisker-shadowed cheek was loud.
Gabrielle's palm stung from the force of the blow. She didn't acknowledge the pain as, already leaning forward, she stood abruptly. Wood scraped against stone as the back of her knees slammed bruisingly against the bench, in turn forcing the bench to slide backward.
The urge to slap him again was strong, countered only by the gleam in his eyes that dared her to repeat the gesture, and that promised retaliation if she tried.
Instead, Gabrielle bunched her hand into a tight fist, held rigidly at her side as she glared down at him. The imprint of her hand lingered an angry shade of red on his cheek. "You miserable bastard," she hissed, the glint in her green eyes murderous. Her cheeks flamed with furious color. "How dare you suggest that the only thing I'm good for is bearing children?"
"Och! calm yerself down, lass, I dinny mean—"
"Of course you did! What else could you have meant?" A part of Gabrielle was aware of, and embarrassed by, her high, shrewish tone; a larger part of her was too furious to care, let alone make an attempt to correct it. "I know full well that I'm not beautiful, but you do me a grave disservice to suggest by your words that I am stupid as well as plain."
"I meant only—"