"Nay, not yet." Roy shook his shaggy red head. "Colin, now he has escaped. Me, on the other hand, I thought 'twould be only fitting to delay me own escape until I found something here worthy enough to take back to Caerlaverock with me. Ye ken, I'm looking to procure compensation for all the time and trouble Connor Douglas has caused me. Something... Och! aye, something the mon shall maun sorely miss."
Gabrielle's eyes widened. Gulping, she retreated another step. A grimace furrowed her brow when her back came up hard against the craggy stone corner of the doorway.
Surely Roy Maxwell did not mean...?
She shook her head determinedly. If he was of a mind to take her with him, he'd best think again.
Bloody hell, she would not allow it!
In her short time on this cursed Border she had already been kidnapped thrice. That was three times too many. Nay, nay, nay. Gabrielle vowed that she would not allow herself to be so mistreated again, no matter what grisly atrocities Roy Maxwell used to threaten her into compliance.
Her tongue darted out to lick parched lips. Her thoughts raced, tripping over the
mselves. Roy Maxwell was almost twice her size, his body solid and well muscled. How on earth could she stop him from kidnapping her, if kidnapping her was indeed what he had in mind?
Like a dog chasing after its own tail, the question circled dizzyingly in her mind, the answer tantalizingly close yet always a teasing fraction out of reach. The solution was a good deal murkier than Gabrielle's resolution that, somehow, stop him she most certainly would.
"Surely you aren't so foolish as to think The Black Douglas would let a prized possession slip from his grasp so easily, sir," she said finally, her words more an effort to stall than anything else.
"Och! lass, who's to say I'd be giving the mon a choice?" His green eyes dancing with mirth, Roy tipped his red head back and laughed. The sound was hearty, deep... and woefully short-lived.
"I do."
The answer came from a voice located so closely behind Gabrielle that she felt the hot, misty rasp of the speaker's breath filter through her hair and graze her scalp. Her scalp, in turn, tingled in warm response. The voice did not belong to Roy Maxwell; it was too resonant, too rich, and far too tight with fury. Her attention jerked over her shoulder to confirm the intruder's identity, even though deep in her soul she knew there was no need. The voice could belong to none other than The Black Douglas himself.
Connor's gaze raked Gabrielle. A sigh of relief hissed past his lips when he saw she was unharmed. Och! if he'd been a few minutes later, if Roy Maxwell dared to hurt her...!
His fingers clenching to white-knuckled tightness around the hilt of the broadsword sheathed at his hip, Connor abruptly swerved his thoughts from that dangerous course. He turned the full force of his attention on his rival.
Roy Maxwell had the good sense to squirm. While the echo of his mirth still ricocheted off the cold, confining stone around them, he was no longer laughing. The man's expression sobered instantly. A glint of nervousness flashed in his shrewd green eyes as his gaze shifted past Gabrielle to meet and hold Connor's.
"The lass has been shifted from hand to hand long enough," Connor said. "'Tis in my hands she is now, and in my hands she stays."
Roy's face reddened with an impotent fury that was reflected in his terse tone. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. "Situations change, Douglas, especially on these Borders. Ye should ken that well enough. Whether I take her back with me tonight, or take her back a fortnight—two fortnights, more—in the future, rest assured that the Maxwell will take her back. Eventually."
"Ye and yers can try," Connor snapped as he stepped out from behind Gabrielle and into the flickering ring of sconcelight. In one confident stride, he moved to protective position in front of her. Roy appeared to be unarmed, yet Connor refused to rely on appearance and chance. He couldn't. Not where Gabrielle Carelton's life was concerned. "Howe'er, ye'll have to go through me to get to her, and I'll warn ye now, I'll not give ye an easy time of it. I'll defend the lass with my life's last breath if need be."
"Och! mon, she's hardly worth that maun trouble."
"I disagree," Connor growled, the words punctuated by the steely rasp of his sword being drawn from its hilt. He felt Gabrielle stir behind him, but resisted the urge to glance back over his shoulder at her.
"Ye joke!"
Connor's glare was hot enough to melt stone. "I've ne'er been more serious. While her looks may not rival that of the Blessed Virgin's, I'll grant ye that and no more, the lass is sweet-tempered—Och! well, normally, when she's not riled—gentle and maun loving than any woman I've e'er kenned." The tip of the blade lifted, coming to rest on the place in Roy Maxwell's neck where his blue-veined pulse throbbed and the lump in his throat bobbed with a dry, nervous swallow. "Och! aye, she's worth that. And more. Maun, maun more. There are few men on either side of the Border who would ride in the dead of night to rescue an old woman from the enemy's clutches; Mairghread, a woman she'd barely met. Yet she did. At least, the wench tried. The action speaks for itself, would ye not agree?"
"Well, I'll be guddled! Siobhan tried to rescue yer aunt?" Roy asked, his eyes widening as he pursed his lips and scratched at the furry underside of his jaw. "'Tis maun unlike the lass. The last raid on Caerlaverock—ye remember that, do ye not?—she was the first out the tunnel. Mayhap the ver same tunnel yer twin escorted ye from. Nary a soul was surprised by it. 'Tis well kenned that Siobhan be a fine muckle fond of staying close to her kettles and herbs... and as far from danger as she can get." He scowled and shook his shaggy red head. "Yet she tried to rescue yer aunt, ye say? Och! I'm surprised."
Roy Maxwell wasn't the only one.
Realization hit Connor like a fist colliding solidly with his belly. An icy wave of shock washed over him, punching the air from his lungs and... aye, there was no mistaking and less denying it, he did feel the heat of a blush—the first in his life—flood his cheeks and seep slowly, slowly down his neck. If his air-hungry lungs had the breath to spare for it, he would have groaned.
Good Lord, the man was talking about Siobhan, the Maxwell's cook, not Gabrielle!
Connor's mind raced and his spine went rigid. Was there a chance, even a wee one, that Gabby had somehow missed hearing his incriminating words? He closed his eyes, sighed. Nay, no chance at all. It would take a good deal of luck for such to be the case, and as the ballads were fond of saying—and he was equally as fond of arguing—what need did the notorious Black Douglas have for luck when he possessed the cunning and skill of ten seasoned reivers combined?
Were the situation not so infernally dire, he might have laughed at the irony.
Pity take it, it would require the shrewdness of three times that amount of men to maneuver his way out of the mire he'd just unwittingly created for himself.