Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Colin had stolen the precious dirk the night their father died... and in so doing launched a blood feud that almost rivaled in violence the one between Maxwell and Douglas. Almost.

Connor ran the calloused tip of his thumb over the flat surface of the emerald. After all these years, the stone was still smooth and fine. The weight of the dirk felt comfortably heavy in Connor's hand. Finally, it was back where it belonged. Now, if he could only set to right the rest of his world so easily.

His gaze shifted to the door, and his grin broadened as a plan began to form in his mind...

Chapter 11

"Yer kin doesn't treat ye ver well, lass. I hope for yer sake the ones ye have back in England treat ye better."

"I've no relatives in England," Gabrielle answered the man who looked like Connor, but who most certainly was not Connor. "If I did, I'd not have been at Elizabeth's court..." She paused, frowned. "I probably would not have been there," she corrected hastily. "And had I not been at Elizabeth's court, I'd not have been ordered to marry Conn—Coli—er, you, and therefore would not be in this despicable situation now."

Gabrielle's gaze shifted, scanning the room. Not an easy feat since the night was closing in and no candle had been left for them.

Three hours—and what had felt like several dozen staircases—ago, they'd been led here by a gloating Gordie Maxwell.

The room was small and dank, the only furnishings a bed and a chair; neither had weathered the years kindly. It was on the former which Gabrielle sat, and the latter upon which Colin Douglas sprawled. Outside, a harsh wind whipped over the Borders, howling over craggy hills and valleys. Even in the vague light of dusk, Gabrielle's discerning eye couldn't detect a single tapestry lining the walls to block out the cold, seeping draft.

The mattress was straw-stuffed, and felt as lumpy and as stiff as a gnarled slab of oak beneath her. It gave a token crunch when Gabrielle shifted, so she sat further up on the bed. Since the relic possessed no headboard, she leaned her shoulders back against the bare wall. The cold, damp feel of the stone soaked quickly through her tunic, into her skin, making her shiver. A sneeze tickled the back of her nose. Her eyes watered as she sniffled it back.

"Och, dinny fash yerself, lass. Dry yer tears. We'll be rescued. Eventually."

His voice, she thought as she stared dejectedly at a point where age-darkened mortar converged the corners of four stones on the opposite, shadow-strewn wall, did not sound very much like Connor's. While Connor had a deep, husky voice that washed over her like sun-warmed honey and made her feel tingly and vibrantly alive, his twin's voice was rougher, cloudy, and left her feeling nothing at all.

Gabrielle's attention moved to her reluctant companion, and she frowned when a sharp, tingly bolt of awareness shot through her. It was as unexpected as it was intense. The dim lighting combined with the way the man's large body lounged in the chair and dominated, while at the same time ate up, what little space the small room provided, made her think of Connor. A stab of longing pricked at her heartstrings.

She quickly suppressed the emotion. This man might look like Connor but he was not Connor.

"Your men will be here soon?" she asked, and noticed that her own voice was only slightly higher than normal, only slightly breathless. "You're confident of that?"

"My men? My men?" His chuckle was harsh and short, not at all comforting. "Nay, lass, I dinny think so. I've naught men to be here. Soon or otherwise."

Colin's eyes were now firmly shut. His dark head was pillowed against the chair back's meager padding. The fabric—so frayed that the stuffing beneath exploded from countless moth-eaten holes—might once have been a fine gold brocade. Might. There was no way to tell for certain. Age had faded the color, while a score or two of hard use had worn the threads and tattered them until the material was unrecognizable as anything but unforgivingly old, coarse of texture, and vaguely dark yellow in some spots, dirty brown in others.

"If you've no men, then how can you say so confidently that we'll be rescued?"

"'Tis a matter of reasoning." His left shoulder rose and fell in a shrug. "Gilby."

Gabrielle shook her head, trying and failing to follow his logic. "Gilby?"

"Aye. The mon will not allow his laird to stay in the Maxwell's keep a second longer than is necessary. Either a ransom will be demanded, and paid promptly, or an escape attempt launched. Mind ye, me guess would be the latter. Have ye not heard any of the ballads they sing aboot The Black Douglas, lass? Me brother and his men have been in and out of Caerlaverock so many times they maun ken the layout of the keep better than Johnny Maxwell himself."

Gabrielle's hopes plunged with all the speed and surety of a stone being tossed into a deep lake. Shaking her head, she said sharply, "Your confidence is misplaced."

"Mayhap ye'd think so—and truly I can see why ye would—but I ken better. Yer a Sassenach, therefore yer ignorance can be forgiven; ye simply cannot be expected to grasp the way of things here. I, on the other hand, am a Border reiver born and raised. Trust me when I say we'll be rescued, and rescued soon." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Connor's men are loyal to a fault. And maun reliable. Especially his clan captain. I've nae doubt Gilby will be along shortly to fetch his laird... and us along with him."

"I have doubts. Quite a few of them."

"Aye?" Colin grumbled and shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. "Och! well, 'tis yer right, I suppose. Just keep them to yerself. There's a good lass. I've need for a wee bit of sleep, ye see. I was up all last eve raiding. 'Tis exhausting work."

Gabrielle stared at the man, and for the first time in a long time found herself speechless.

How could he talk about last night's raid so casually? She was sure she'd fight nightmares for months to come, remembering how two men had tried their best to kill each other right before her eyes. In those long, dark hours of the night, she'd seen more blood spilled than she had in her entire lifetime. Good Lord, she'd even watched helplessly as Gilby clung to a tendril of life as Mairghread and Ella diligently nursed him.

Yet here was Colin Douglas, sprawled haphazardly in a chair, referring to the incident as though a bloody midnight raid was so common an occurrence as to be insignificant. A minor inconvenience, an annoying interruption to his sleep.

She remembered the way Mairghread's eyes had glittered; the woman's ancient face had actually been lively and animated as she'd led Gabrielle through Bracklenaer's twisting hallways. She remembered also the way Ella had watched the violent swordplay taking place just outside the mouth of the tunnel with no more concern than she'd show one of the fox hunts Queen Elizabeth was so fond of. Gabrielle herself had literally become ill at the thought of participating in fox hunts!

Perhaps here on the Borders such activity was common?