Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Notorious, Connor thought, and gritted his teeth. How had one godforsaken exploit credited him with such a following? Not for the first time did he wish The Devil, Alasdair Gray, had remained unmarried; now there was a man whose reputation was earned by many deeds!

Connor, who'd let his gaze wander to a shadowy corner of the cell, the one where noises that sounded unpleasantly like small claws—rats?—scratching upon hard stone emanated, now re-focused his attention on the door. Rather, he shifted his concentration to the boy standing in the murky hallway just outside of it.

A scowl etched deep creases between Connor's eyebrows. Could he turn this unexpected visit to his own advantage? 'Twas rumored a Douglas could be quite charming when he put his mind to the task. Given the proper circumstances, they could even go so far as to smoothly apply that charm in the direction of a hated Maxwell...

* * *

Gabrielle shifted upon the hard, narrow bench. Linking her fingers together, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and rested her hands atop the table in Caerlaverock's great hall. She doubted the gesture looked as casual as she intended for it to. Her insides were churning and, beneath the table where no one could see, her knees trembled against each other. Anxiety twisted in her stomach, gnawing at her from the inside out.

An untended fire smoldered lamely in the stone hearth to her left. Gabrielle felt none of its meager heat; the half dozen accusing stares, five from the men seated upon the bench opposite her, chilled her to the bone.

She recognized only Gordie Maxwell and his brother Roy. The eldest among them—she guessed his age to be at least two score older than both Maxwells—sat between the two brothers. The man's cheekbones, sharply carved above the line of his full red-gray beard, combined with his narrow forehead, weather-creased brow, and short, stocky, solidly built frame stamped him a Maxwell.

There was never a doubt in Gabrielle's mind as to the older man's identity. Johnny Maxwell. Father of Gordie and Roy. Laird of Clan Maxwell. Owner of Caerlaverock. Who else could he be?

The remaining two men seated across from her were strangers; she gave them only a brief glance before forcing her attention back to Johnny Maxwell. At least her physical attention rested on the Maxwell. Mentally, she was having a most difficult time concentrating on anyone besides the sixth man in the hall.

He stood next to the hearth, one broad shoulder resting negligently against the harshly chiseled stone. Gabrielle was very much aware of when the sixth man's hands moved from hanging limply at his sides to behind his back.

In two long strides he cleared the distance between them, moving to stand towering over the head of the table. He was close enough that, were she to move her elbow only a few inches to the side, it would graze the rock-hard side of his kilted thigh.

A chill skated down Gabrielle's spine. She need not glance up to know the sixth man was staring at her, and staring hard. She could feel his gaze, and the feel of it was as troubling as it was confusing. Stubbornly, she refused to glance away from Johnny Maxwell, even though her attention wanted badly to stray.

She'd looked directly at him only once since the two guards standing just outside the door had led her into the great hall. Even now, she thought she could still feel those odd, hot and cold shock waves rippling through her.

The man was tall and broad, with shaggy black hair that reached past the broad shelf of his shoulders and cold, piercing gray eyes. His cheekbones were sharp and well defined, his jaw hard and square. His lips were thin and sensuously carved. If one looked closely, one could detect a tiny dimple in the center of his stubble-dusted chin. Down to even that small detail, he was an exact duplicate of Connor Douglas.

A duplicate, Gabrielle reminded herself forcefully. A nerve-shatteringly accurate one, aye, but an imitation all the same.

The man, she soon realized, had to be Colin Douglas, Connor's twin. It was he who finally broke what was swiftly becoming a thick, tension-riddled silence. Not in words, but in deed.

From the sporran hanging at his waist, Colin took out a sheepskin pouch. With a flick of his wrist he tossed the pouch onto the table, where it landed with a rattle and clank directly in front of Johnny Maxwell. A few coins spilled out of the loosely tied opening.

Johnny Maxwell licked his parched lips and quickly plucked up the stray silver disks. He tucked them back into the p

ouch, then, with a sharp tug on the leather laces, tied it securely shut. "By all that's holy, I swear if there be so maun as a pence missing, mon—" His tone brooked no nonsense as he enclosed the pouch in his big fist.

"'Tis all there, as we agreed," Colin interrupted. To Gabrielle's ear, his tone sounded too low, too even to be anything but offended at the insinuation he was trying to cheat his rival by a single coin. Oh, aye, he was a Douglas all right "Count it yerself if ye dinny believe me. But be quick aboot it. I've a bride to whisk back to Gaelside a'fore this day is o'er."

He looked like Connor, but he did not sound like him. Colin's voice was a pitch higher, and a good deal rougher; the timbre of it scratched down Gabrielle's spine like fingernails scraping slowly down a slab of slate.

Her heart skipped a heavy beat, then thudded to vibrant life. The echo of it, pounding loudly in her ears, sounded like repeating claps of thunder. She would have swallowed hard, maybe even have attempted to speak a protest, but she found she suddenly hadn't enough moisture left in her mouth for either. Flexing her fingers, she tightened them around each other until her knuckles were white and ached from the strain of her grip. It was either that or let these men see how badly her hands had begun to shake.

Pursing his lips, Johnny bounced the pouch in his hand, as though he could tell the exact amount it contained merely by hefting it and hearing the muffled jingle as the coins clattered inside. The frown that had drawn his bushy red eyebrows together eased, and a glimmer of respect darkened his eyes. "Ye're many things, Colin Douglas. A scoundrel and a rogue to name but two. Howe'er, a cheat isn't one of them."

Johnny's glance shifted to Gabrielle and his green eyes narrowed. He stood, then walked around the table, stopping at her side. His hand felt big and hot as he placed it in the crook of her arm and tugged her to her feet.

Despite her resolve not to, she felt her cheeks suffuse with color when all six men's attention shifted to focus exclusively on her. If she'd ever wondered what the prized goose displayed prominently on fair day felt like, now she knew. Gritting her teeth, she willed strength to flow into knees that felt watery and weak, threatening to buckle out from under her at any second as she stepped over the bench and stood beside Johnny Maxwell.

"As ye can see," Johnny said to Colin, "a Maxwell is equally as trustworthy. For payment in full, I present to ye the Lady Gabrielle Carelton."

Gabrielle's gaze locked with Colin's. As she'd expected, his eyes were the same blue-gray shade as his twin's, fringed by a thick, dark sweep of inky lashes.

There, the similarity began and ended.

Even at his angriest, Connor's eyes glistened with an inner warmth and lust for life. Colin's gaze, on the other hand, was hard and cold, calculating and devoid of emotion as it swept her from head to toe. A humorless grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, a mouth that looked far too much like his twin's for her peace of mind. The way he looked at her sent a shiver down her spine.

She staggered forward a step when Johnny Maxwell splayed his big palm in the center of her back and nudged her forward. It took supreme effort for Gabrielle to force her knees to lock, thereby avoiding by a mere fraction the embarrassment of falling against the hard, chiseled width of Colin Douglas's chest.