Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

She watched, waited.

Colin would make his move and make it soon. She knew it, could sense it.

And when he did? What then?

Gabrielle wondered if she would have the courage and strength needed to commit a violent act. Oh, but how it went against her upbringing. In the end, she could only hope and pray that, if and when the time came, she would find the inner strength needed to do what was necessary.

The time came more quickly than she'd anticipated.

No sooner had the thought entered Gabrielle's mind than Colin Douglas grinned and lunged for her.

She reacted swiftly and on instinct. In a quick, jerky motion, she lashed out with the dagger. The blade sliced through Colin's tunic, carving a bloody arc into his shoulder as she ducked out of his reach and scooted to the side.

Toward Connor.

Toward safety.

In the second it took to reach Connor, she was shaking and breathless. Ella was staring at her with an expression akin to awe. Behind her, Colin Douglas howled in pain and clutched at his wound; ribbons of blood streamed past his fingers, the drops splashing on the cold stone floor.

The footsteps in the hallway quickened, drawing closer; their beat was out of time with the wild thumping of her heart in her ears. A voice called out in alarm as the first man reached the door and thrust it open.

"Douglas!" The intruder was Roy Maxwell, and his furious roar demanded attention. As Gabrielle watched, Roy's green eyes narrowed and his gaze swept accusingly from an ashen, wounded Colin to an ashen, defiant Connor. "Dinny be a fool, mon. The castle is full of men. There'll be nae escape for ye this night."

"Aye," Connor agreed tersely, "men who are no doubt celebrating their victory down in the hall. How many of them are sober enough to come to yer aid?"

From the corner of her eye, Gabrielle saw Ella inch slowly toward Roy. The man, intent on Connor, seemed not to notice. Gabrielle held her breath expectantly.

A grin curved over Roy's lips, while a glint of confidence sparkled in his eyes. "It takes but one Maxwell to do the job, Douglas. Have ye nnot learned that? 'Twas the same amount that took ye prisoner."

"Wrong. There was not one abductor, there were o'er half a dozen. And they were armed," Connor reminded his adversary coldly.

Roy's grin disappeared as quickly as it had formed. His right hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but his reaction time was leadened, as though the men below weren't the only ones deep into their cups.

His fingers grappled with air. The sword was not there.

"Looking for this, fule?" Ella asked. It was her turn to grin as she pricked the nape of Roy Maxwell's neck with the tip of his own sword; the hilt was warm in her palm, for it was a mere second ago she'd cannily slipped the weapon, unnoticed, from where it nestled in the sheath at his side.

Roy stiffened perceptibly. He started to angle his head to look behind him, but the blade nipping at his skin must have made him think better of it because he stopped abruptly.

"Call me a fool if ye'd like, lass," Roy spat through gritted teeth, "but 'tis ye who be a fool if yer thinking to get out of Caerlaverock alive. Me clan will not allow it."

"Yer clan will not have a choice," Connor intervened, his alert gaze volleying between Roy and his wounded twin. The latter had stumbled backward and was now leaning against the far wall, inspecting his wounded shoulder. Connor tried without success not to notice the way Gabrielle clung to his arm, the way her ripe body shuddered violently against him, the way his body—good Lord, even now—responded to her closeness, her touch.

"There are always choices, Douglas."

"Are there?" Connor countered. "E'en when a Maxwell's life is on the line?"

"Do you dare threaten me? In my own home?" Ray's nostrils flared indignantly. "Make no mistake, Douglas. Killing me will gain ye naught."

"Mayhap." It was Ella who answered, and her voice was equally as cold and hard as her cousin's. "Whether honored to commit the deed or only watch it, either would give me great pleasure. Or do ye forget so soon the way ye dragged me to me horse this morn? Me shoulders still ache from yer roughness, and I'm of a mind that these scratches and burns from the rope ye bound too tightly around me wrists might ne'er go away. Och! aye, seeing ye suffer is something I will not deny I've a strong yearning for."

The man winced when, to emphasize her point, Ella flicked her wrist and lightly jabbed the sensitive nape of his neck with the tip of the sword.

A few drops of blood trickled under the collar of Roy's shirt; they felt discomfortingly warm and sticky. His jaw hardened as he gritted his teeth, waiting for the blade to sink deeper or lift to strike the killing blow. As the girl had so arrogantly stated, he'd tested her mettle earlier and not found it lacking. Oh, nay! Just the opposite.

Her sweet face and meager size was woefully deceptive; Ella Douglas easily possessed both the strength and stamina for committing such a deed. Then, of course, there was the matter of The Black Douglas. If his cousin did not do the job of ending Roy's life, surely that man would.

Two dozen heartbeats slipped past with torturous slowness. The blade did not move.