Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

Roy relaxed

... not a lot, but a wee bit. His gaze shifted, locking on to the room's only occupant who, he hoped, might be sympathetic to his cause. His attention focused on Gabrielle Carelton. She was standing beside Connor, her full, round cheeks as pale as a bolt of undyed linen. In the shadows that cloaked her, her green eyes looked wide and alert.

That a Maxwell was being forced to look to a Carelton for aid was not something to take pride in, nor something Roy dared allow himself to contemplate too closely. "Mistress, please, ye've a drop of Maxwell blood in yer veins, therefore ye maun be able to see reason where a Douglas is blind. Can ye not somehow convince these devils what I say be true? That there is no way out of this keep alive?"

Gabrielle hesitated thoughtfully, then shook her head. "How can I convince them of something I'm not convinced of myself?"

"But—"

Colin grunted and lurched away from the wall, drawing attention to himself and abruptly cutting Roy Maxwell's words short. "There be many ways in and out of a keep, it doesn't matter on which side of the Border the keep rests. If one kens the way."

Connor's attention sharpened on his twin. "Especially when one is a traitor to his clan and has spent many a night, as ye no doubt have, within the keep in question's walls. Is that not so?"

"It is," Colin agreed unabashedly. If he was offended by Connor's accusation, it didn't show in either his expression or his tone. Both remained level, although the former did tighten a wee bit when he lifted his wounded shoulder and rolled it gingerly back and forth in its socket, testing its flexibility.

"And...?" Connor prompted when the other did not immediately continue.

"And..." Colin echoed as a slow grin tugged at his mouth, the gesture deeply creasing the corners of his shrewd gray eyes, "when it comes to Caerlaverock, I happen to ken several. I'll be maun happy to share them with ye, cuilean. For a price."

Chapter 12

Gabrielle's body ached for every laboring hour she'd spent on horseback, and there had been quite a few. The last time she'd ridden so hard had been on her trip to Scotland.

The ground beneath her bottom felt unyielding and cold as she shifted; the rough bark of the tree trunk she rested against scratched her skin through the thin covering of her tunic.

How far away was Bracklenaer? Gabrielle had no idea. She'd need to know where she was in order to gauge the distance to their destination, and she was lost.

An hour earlier, as they'd eaten a makeshift dinner of berries and nuts in the dark—Connor had not allowed them to light a fire for fear it would draw the Maxwell and his men—Connor had admitted that they ordinarily would have reached Bracklenaer a handful of hours after leaving Caerlaverock. Unfortunately, almost as soon as Colin had led them through and out of an escape tunnel that uncannily resembled the one Ella and Mairghread had hustled her through under Bracklenaer, Connor began detecting telltale signs of ambushes. Either Roy had not known of his father's lack of confidence in Caerlaverock's ability to house such illustrious prisoners, or Johnny Maxwell had not trusted it himself. Either way, he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to take precautions that would, should his prisoners find a way to escape the keep, assure him they did not have their freedom for long. If one ambush did not recapture them, surely another would.

Had he been dealing with any other man, Johnny Maxwell's flawless theory and traps would have served him well.

He was dealing with The Black Douglas.

There lay the crucial difference.

What Johnny Maxwell could not guess was Connor's ability to detect the subtle signs of a trap leagues before he fell into it. Several times, the tired, ragged-looking band of five had been forced to detour from a direct course to Bracklenaer and circle far around the men who lay in wait for them. Then, too, there was time consumed with erasing their tracks as best they could, or in laying out a false set that evaporated in a blink and led nowhere.

Because of the necessary delays, reaching Bracklenaer in the normal amount of time became impossible.

They'd stopped only when night had fallen and the darkness had become so inky and thick as to make the going treacherous. Even then, Gabrielle harbored an uneasy suspicion that the reason behind the much-needed respite was herself. Ella seemed capable, no make that adamant, in her desire to continue; Gabrielle hadn't missed the glares the girl had shot her while balking to Connor about the delay. The men, seasoned Border reivers all, were each capable of picking their way over the rough terrain, no matter how dark the night.

It was only she, the Englishwoman, the unwanted "Sassenach", who risked stumbling her horse and maiming it by not being able to see where she was going.

Gabrielle glanced at the girl who sat beside her. The back of Ella's bright red head rested against the tree trunk, her gaze fixed on some unknown point in the darkness, a thoughtful frown furrowing her brow. The girl's enviously slender legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankles; the top foot tapped the cool night air with an impatient beat. If she was tired, it didn't show. Ella looked annoyingly alert and anxious.

What had they been discussing before Ella glanced away and the conversation lapsed? Gabrielle trapped a yawn in her throat and strove to recall. Ah, yes, now she remembered. It was her turn to frown as she addressed Ella. "'Tis a foolish reason for brothers to fight. Surely you must be mistaken."

"Nay, 'twas was a maun serious offense. Clans have feuded for centuries over less."

"Less than a dagger? I'll not believe it."

"Think ye I care?" Her sharp tone attracted the attention of Roy Maxwell, who was tied to a thick birch trunk on the opposite side of the small clearing. Colin was secured to the opposite side, but he'd fallen asleep shortly after they'd eaten. Ella scowled at Roy until the man grimaced and looked away, then lowered her voice. "Believe what ye like, lass, it matters naught to me."

"Two brothers fighting for years over a mere dagger...?" Gabrielle shook her head in weary disbelief. "I'm sorry, but it sounds ridiculous."

"To a court-raised Sassenach, mayhap 'twould seem so."

"I suppose next you'll have me believing that the Maxwell-Douglas feud started over something even more trivial?"