Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Had Connor Douglas caught her? she wondered, even as the blackness came up, threatening to swallow her completely.

"Umph!"

The sound came as though from a distance, echoing in her ears as she felt him take on her full weight.

The last thing Gabrielle heard before unconsciousness overtook her was Ella's soft, melodic laughter. "Pampered and delicate of constitution, did ye say she'd be? Dainty and frail? Methinks ye've misjudged yer future wife, Connor... in a fine muckle maun ways than one!"

Chapter 3

News on the Borders moved faster than Kinmont Willie slipping out of Carlisle Castle.

The first messenger arrived at noon.

Connor and Gilby were in the great hall, sitting at one of the tables lining the wall, drinking ale and debating which would happen first: the Kerrs pilfering Bracklenaer, or the Douglas pilfering the Kerrs. Deep in conversation, neither noticed the hesitant-looking man who was led into the room by a serving wench, the latter's arms were piled with fresh rushes and sprigs of summer-dried heather.

The girl cleared her throat. "M'lord," she said, her knobby chin jerking briskly in the stranger's direction, "he's come to see ye. Says he bears a message."

Stopping in midsentence, Connor's gaze left Gilby and shifted to the stranger. The man was wearing the gray of the Douglas, but the plaid was embellished with thin strips of blue; the sight left no doubt in Connor's mind as to from whom the message came. "Dinny stand there staring, mon. Come o'er here, give me yer message, and be done with it."

The man approached the table. His eyes were narrow as his attention volleyed warily between Connor and Gilby.

Connor considered offering the man a drink, then decided against it. There was no need. The stranger hadn't traveled far to get to Bracklenaer, nor would he have far to travel home. Instead, he took a sip from his mug and regarded the man sharply from over the rim.

The stranger shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously eager to deliver his message and quit the keep, the sooner the better. "M'lord, I've a message fer ye from—"

"Me brother," Connor supplied for him. "Aye, I ken that well enough." His gaze dipped, lingered for a poignant second on the man's wear-faded kilt, lifted. From the corner of his eye, Connor noticed that the wench was taking her sweet time spreading the rushes over the floor. Eavesdropping, no doubt. "Ver well, mon, say what ye've come to say and be quick aboot it. I've business to attend."

The man cleared his throat and sucked in a deep breath before starting. "M'lord, Sir Colin Douglas of Gaelside, Duke of—"

"Och! mon, I ken who me brother be," Connor interrupted impatiently. "Can ye not skip that part and

get directly to the message?"

The man hesitated. Now that the words he'd been carefully rehearsing during the hours it took to travel between castles were not to be spoken, he seemed unsure of how to proceed.

"Mayhap if ye simply sum up Colin's threats?" Connor prompted the man helpfully.

The stranger nodded, yet he continued to hesitate.

Connor ignored the way Gilby gulped back a laugh along with a deep swallow of ale, and prodded, "'Tis doubtful Colin would send ye here without the obligatory threat of murder and mayhem in retaliation for stealing his future bride. Aye?"

"Aye!" The man's rigid posture relaxed a wee bit, and this time his nod was enthusiastic.

"Did he threaten to steal the lass back?"

"Aye!"

"That sounds typical of Colin. Did he also say I'd live to regret the hour our mither gave us birth?"

The man frowned slightly. "Well, nay, not in so many words exactly..."

"But the implication was there?"

"Maun than there, m'lord."

"Were there naught other more specific threats he sent ye here to relay?"

"Just one more, m'lord."