Perfect Strangers (The Scots)

"I have," Gabrielle said softly, and her heart skipped a beat. Could it be... ? The question had no sooner crossed her mind than the answer to it stepped out of Bracklenaer's door and i

nto the bright golden sunlight.

It had been almost two years since the last and only time Gabrielle had seen Robert Carey, warden of England's East March. So little did the man she saw now resemble the man she remembered visiting Queen Elizabeth's court that it took a second for her to recognize him.

Mud smeared his clothes, plastering them to his body. Dried blood clotted and caked around a nasty gash on his forehead, the wound caused by a recent fall. Apparently he'd been in too much of a hurry to properly attend the injury. Dirt and sweat marred his cheeks and chin and brow. Dark circles bruised the thin skin below his eyes. In the unforgiving sunlight, his cheekbones looked unnaturally high, the hollows beneath unnaturally pronounced. Exhaustion pulled his features taut and shadowed his dark eyes with a weary glaze.

His steps seemed to drag, as though his boots had been chiseled out of lead, when, catching sight of Connor, Robert waved a weary greeting and made his way over to the trio. He spotted Gabrielle, and although he inclined his head politely in her direction, when he made no attempt to approach her, her curiosity grew.

"What is he doing here?" Ella asked coldly, unintentionally voicing the question that was at the same time playing in Gabrielle's own mind. The girl's gaze sharpened on Robert as the man joined in the conversation with Connor and the other two men.

"I've no idea." It was Gabrielle's turn to shake her head. An excellent question, that. Exactly what was Robert Carey doing here, at Bracklenaer? The keep, after all, wasn't even located in the same jurisdiction as the March which Robert oversaw. And didn't that make his unexpected presence all the more mysterious? "Unless..."

Icy fingers of dread curled around Gabrielle's heart, tightened, squeezed with painful tightness. Apprehension settled in her stomach like a chunk of ice. She shuddered, unwilling to give credence to her suspicion, yet at the same time unable to think of a more plausible reason for Robert Carey to be at Bracklenaer.

The explanation she'd come up with made her blood run cold.

Despite Connor's unspoken instruction that she remain where she was, Gabrielle swung her leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. She hurried over to where the men stood, and her consternation doubled when, upon seeing her, the two abruptly stopped talking.

Connor glanced at her, and while he looked a bit irritated that she'd not obeyed him, he looked more upset about something else. That he wasn't chastising her lack of obedience was telling in itself.

Gabrielle mustered her courage and turned her attention to Robert Carey. Her smile faltered. "Greetings, m'lord. You look, er..."

"Like bloody hell, no doubt." Robert tried to smile and failed. "Most men who'd also left London the morn before last would, I've no doubt."

Left London the morn before last? For what purpose? Gabrielle was afraid to ask for fear he would tell her the answer, and that the answer would be something she did not want to know. "Still, it's good to see you again."

"And good to see you, m'lady," he responded stiffly but politely as, with a grimace, he cut a weary bow. "I wish only that our second meeting could take place under more pleasant circumstances."

Gabrielle's hand fluttered to her throat; she felt the pulse there accelerate to an anxious pace. Her palms were clammy, her muscles tense. Was it the sun beating down upon her head that set her temples to pounding, or the way she gritted her teeth in nervous anticipation? Robert's words had not eased her fears, they'd increased them twofold.

"What is it you mean?" she inquired finally. While it was true she might not be entirely prepared to hear the answer, dreaded hearing in fact, her curiosity was nonetheless great; it gnawed at her, growing more persistent with each heavily expectant second that ticked past with torturous slowness. Her ignorance of the reason for Robert Carey's presence frayed her already tattered nerves. The need to learn once and for all why he'd come to Bracklenaer so she could set her fears to rest was greater than her reluctance to hear any bad news she suspected he carried.

"Gabrielle, Carey is here only long enough to fetch a quick meal and fresh mount before—" Connor's mouth snapped shut when his words were cut short by Robert himself.

"Queen Elizabeth is dead," Robert blurted, too tired and in too great a hurry to waste time imparting the information gently. "I ride to Edinburgh with the news that James has been named her successor. Gabrielle, the day no one thought would ever come is finally here. Scotland and England are united under one crown!"

Gabrielle gasped and staggered back a shaky step, as though she'd been delivered a powerful blow. Connor, prepared for her reaction, quickly stepped to her side. His strong arm coiled about her waist and he drew her close to his side, lending her support and strength.

Gabrielle's cheeks drained of color. Her lips moved, yet no words came out; her voice refused to budge past the lump of emotion suddenly wedged in her throat.

Elizabeth is dead?! She shook her head, dazed. "Nay, 'tis not possible! Why, just last month, I—"

Robert softened tiredly. He reached out and placed a hand on Gabrielle's shoulder, his fingers squeezing gently. "'Tis not only possible, 'tis true. I was with her just before she died, and saw her body afterward. Elizabeth is dead, dear lady."

Gabrielle stifled a sob behind one tightly clenched fist. Her knees felt treacherously shaky; she leaned gratefully against Connor. His support helped immeasurably, both physically and emotionally. Surrendering to it, she turned her head and buried her face against the hard strength of his shoulder. A tear spilled over her lashes, splashed warmly on her cheek, rolled down her neck, then disappeared beneath the limp, soiled collar of her tunic.

The tear was followed by another.

And another.

Connor cushioned his cheek atop Gabrielle's sun-warmed head and drew her fully into his arms. Had he ever felt so helpless in his life? Nay, not that he could recall. He'd no liking for Elizabeth, nor could he honestly say he would mourn her death, yet he could feel Gabrielle's pain as though it was his own. Her grief sliced through him like a sharply honed dagger, tearing at the strings anchoring his heart and tugging at it in a way he'd never suspected was possible.

Gabrielle Carelton wasn't a delicate woman, yet he felt a surge of protectiveness swell up inside him. He wanted to shelter and protect her, to absorb her with his body, to sip away her tears with his mouth... he wanted to make her pain go away. He would take on her anguish himself if he could, if it meant she would be spared feeling it.

He had close to forgotten Robert's presence, and Connor turned in his direction. The man's expression was grave, befitting the occasion, yet there was a sparkle of enlightenment in his eyes, as though Robert saw what others did not—the reluctant, unspoken emotions Connor harbored for the woman who stood crying in his arms—and was pleased by them.

Connor's arm tightened around Gabrielle. The fingers of his free hand opened, tunneling through her silky hair as he cradled her head against his chest. The damp heat of her tears soaked through his tunic.