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?"
"Do not be telling me ye ken not the reason for that one."
"Fine. I'll not tell you then." Gabrielle glanced at the girl skeptically, a feather of curiosity tickling her. "But I don't know," she added despite her resolve not to. "How would I?"
"The feud started over a woman." Ella clucked her tongue and shook her head. "'Tis surprised I am ye dinny already ken it, especially since the woman in question was yer ancestor. And me own."
Gabrielle blinked hard. "I beg your pardon?"
"Aye, lass, she was a Carelton."
"Ailean Carelton, to be precise."
These last words did not come from Ella.
Gabrielle's attention jerked past the girl. Her gaze pulled into focus the night-and shadow-hazed but unmistakable form of Connor Douglas. Her heart skipped a traitorous beat. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? She shook her head, clearing her abruptly tumultuous thoughts. While she tried to concentrate on the topic of conversation, it was not easy. Not when the wonderfully virile sight of The Black Douglas filled her vision and her senses.
"A-Ailean Carelton?" Gabrielle stammered finally. "I've never heard of her."
"Never?" Connor asked as he crossed the clearing. Twigs snapped beneath his boot heels, moss crunched. He stopped in front of them.
The soft night breeze sent a waft of his sharp, spicy scent over Gabrielle. Her breath caught and she shivered in response. "Nay, never."
"I have," Roy Maxwell said, and his words captured their attention. "She was me great-great aunt," he explained as his eyes shifted to Gabrielle. His expression softened a bit. "And yers, lady. Did not anyone e'er tell ye of her?"
Gabrielle shook her head.
Roy chuckled derisively. "I'm not surprised. When she married Lachlan Maxwell near on twa centuries ago, her kin considered her dead. Mind ye, the Maxwells were not too pleased with the matter either, but there was naught to be done aboot it. The deed was done. Besides, as any Maxwell worth his salt can tell ye, 'twas not the woman, but her horse which caused the conflict."
"Hush up, mon," Ella hissed. "I'll not be letting ye fill her head with yer nonsense. If 'tis the story she wants, 'tis the story she'll get. But not from ye."
"The devil you say!" Roy looked offended. "I speak the truth, and well ye ken it."
"So far as a Maxwell is able," Ella countered as she shoved herself to her feet. With tense, jerky motions she brushed the leaves and dirt from the backside of her trews. "'Tis common knowledge that a Maxwell and the truth are soon parted when the purpose suits."
"And what purpose would it suit me to lie aboot such a thing?"
"I fear 'twould take a better mind than me to discover why a Maxwell does aught."
"Why, ye little...!"
Gabrielle shut out the bickering and turned her attention to Connor. He was staring at her, and staring hard. A spark of awareness fired in her blood. It took all of her concentration to return his gaze with an unflinching one of her own.
Before she realized what she was doing, Gabrielle had pushed to her feet and took a step toward him. He stood an arm's length away. Oh, but how she yearned to move closer. A minute ago her muscles had been stinging from exertion, yet now she barely noticed the deep, throbbing ache. It had been replaced by a deeper, more insistent ache... an ache she refused to recognize let alone acknowledge.
Keeping her voice low, so only Connor could hear, Gabrielle asked, "Will you tell me the truth of this story, m'lord?"
"Aye, if ye ask it of me, I will."
"I do." She nodded faintly. "And I am."
"So be it. But not here, lass." Connor's gaze left her to trace over the others. Ella and Roy were still arguing, but Gabrielle didn't pay at
tention to a word of it. When his gaze returned to her, his eyes were narrow; the gray depths burned through the shadows of the night. He lifted his hand, palm up. "Come."
Gabrielle hesitated. She tried to swallow, but her throat was suddenly too tight and dry for it. Had she thought her heart pounding fiercely only a moment ago? How foolish, for 'twas nothing compared to the way it hammered beneath her breasts now. Her fingers trembled when she placed her hand in his and allowed Connor to lead her out of the clearing.
His fingers loosened, slipped upward, curled around her wrists. His grip was a firm, warm, thoroughly distracting pressure as he led her deeper into the woods. She told herself that his reason for not relinquishing his hold on her was the same as the reason he'd stopped for the night; he feared she'd stumble in the darkness and harm herself. It was a logical, albeit shallow, reason. So why couldn't she make herself believe it? Oh, aye, the night was, by her own estimation, too dark to be traveling, but it was not so dark as to make the simple feat of walking dangerous.
They passed towering, shadowy oak and birch trees, and others she didn't recognize. The bristly needles of a fir tree scratched at her sleeve as they skirted by it. The back of her hand grazed a clump of tall plants bearing clusters of tiny green flowers.
Gabrielle stopped short. A gasp whispered through her lips when something brittle pricked the knuckles of her free hand. "Ouch!"
"What?" Connor stopped, turned back toward her. Was it her imagination, or was his voice tight with concern? In this light, there was no reading his expression, but she thought that he also looked unnaturally taut.
"I don't know. I think something stung me." She shook her hand vigorously, as though the gesture would help the bite of pain there. It didn't. It made it worse. "Blast it, but that hurts!"
"Let me see."
"Nay, m'lord, I'm fine. Truly I am."
"Saints alive, dinny argue with me, wench. Let me see yer hand." His tone left no room for argument. Nor did his swift reaction.
Before Gabrielle could stop him, Connor closed the step that separated them. He stood unnervingly close as he reached for her hand, cradling it in his much larger ones. His skin felt rough and warm, such a striking contrast to her own softer, cooler flesh.
Connor lifted her hand in a way that mockingly reminded her of the time the Earl of Essex had affectionately kissed the back of it before moving his mouth up to hers that long-ago night in Queen Elizabeth's garden. That incident felt like a lifetime ago to her now.
Gabrielle steeled herself against the expected—longed for?—feel of The Black Douglas's lips brushing hotly over her stinging flesh. The contact did not come. Why oh why did she feel such a bitter stab of disappointment?
Holding the back of her stinging hand close to his face, Connor scowled at it in the darkness. "'Tis naught but a nettle."
"A... what?"
"A nettle." He nodded to the clump of prickly-leafed plants beside her.
Connor released Gabrielle's hand and leaned to the side, plucking the leaf off another, smaller plant. How did he know which was which? In this light, all the plants and trees looked much the same to her. He held the leaf out to her, and on closer inspection Gabrielle saw that, unlike the nettle's prickly leaves, the leaf he'd picked was softer in texture and wavy.
"Use it lass," he said when she didn't take the leaf. "'Twill help take away the sting."
Gabrielle glanced skeptically between the offered leaf and Connor. "How?"
Connor grumbled something under his breath. Since the words were in Gaelic, she'd no idea what he said. His tone, however, suggested he was questioning her competency.
Gabrielle bristled. She opened her mouth to debate the unspoken issue, but Connor stunned her silent by lifting the leaf and spitting on it.
"What are you doing?" she demanded warily.
"Helping ye, ye stubborn wench," he growled as he again lifted her injured hand.
"That's very kind of you," she murmured sarcastically, "however, I'll have you know I can take care of myself. It may come as a surprise to you, but I've absolutely no need of your—Ouch! Curse you, Connor Douglas, stop that! It hurts!"
He was rubbing the leaf with what Gabrielle considered undue vigor over her stinging knuckle. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench her arm free... then just as quickly wondered why she'd bothered. Connor's grip was uncompromisingly firm; the fingers of his free hand were coiled around her wrist like a sturdy iron shackle. The only sign he gave of noticing her struggle was a slight flexing of his fingers against her tender skin.
Did he realize he was hurting her? Did he care?
Gabrielle's mind flashed her an image of how effective Ella was at getting The Black Douglas's attention. Unorthodox though the method might be, surely if it worked for Ella...?
Before she could think the urge through—let alone consider the consequences of carrying it out—she lifted her right foot and swung it with all her might. The toe of her boot collided with Connor's shin in a teeth-jarring kick. Gabrielle winced. The impact was jarring; it rippled up her travel-sore leg, reverberating all the way to her hip.
Unprepared for the attack, he stumbled backward a stunned step. Instead of his fingers releasing her wrist, as Gabrielle had expected him to do, they tightened. She opened her mouth to again demand that he release her, only to have momentum drag her body in his wake before she could get out a word.
Her breasts hit his rock-solid chest with enough force to shove the breath from her lungs. Their thighs slammed together, their hips met.
Knowing what was to come, knowing also that he didn't stand a prayer of stopping it, Connor nevertheless tried. He reached out with his free hand, fumbling blindly to grab hold of the nearest tree trunk. It was too late. His fingertips scraped against rough bark, but found no purchase.
Connor plummeted backward. He wrapped his arm around Gabrielle's waist and shifted his weight to cushion her fall.
Tangled together, they tumbled onto the moss and leaf-strewn ground.
His back landed hard against cold, unyielding ground, and his teeth clacked painfully together when the back of his head also hit the ground with a resounding whack. A fist-size rock gouged into his shoulder. A jagged corner tore through his tunic, slicing as easily through the material as it did through the sensitive flesh beneath. Connor grunted.
The sound was echoed by a kindred one from Gabrielle as her body settled with force atop his. Her legs had parted as they'd fallen; she now straddled his hips. Her elbows and knees throbbed, for the awkward position had caused her knees to be first to hit the ground and absorb the brunt of the impact. Her head snapped forward on her neck, and her brow crashed into Connor's shoulder. She gasped when a bolt of pain exploded in her temples; if she'd not known better, Gabrielle would have sworn she'd just run head first into a thick stone wall.
They lay like that for what felt like forever but what was in reality only a few short, breathless minutes. A crow circled in the midnight sky, then dipped to perch on one of the branches overhead. Its caw sounded loud and, to Gabrielle's ears, faintly mocking.
As the pain in her body gradually receded, a different yet equally as strong sensation trickled in to take its place.
Gabrielle slowly became aware of the virile male body that lay beneath her. If she concentrated on it—good Lord, even if she did not concentrate, on it!—she could feel Connor's heart pounding against her breasts. Her scalp burned with the feel of his ragged breaths washing over the top of her head. His hips, wedged intimately between her thighs, felt hot and hard and—
"C-Connor?" Gabrielle stammered finally, hoping to break the tension that stretched taut between them. She shifted, levering herself up on her bruised elbows to look at him.
"Aye?" he asked, returning her gaze. His gray eyes were narrow, shielded by the night's shadows and the curl of thick, inky lashes. His jaw was clenched hard; he pushed the single word through gritted teeth.
"I'm not exactly sure what y
ou did with that leaf, but... well, it worked. My hand feels much better." What Gabrielle didn't say, but thought, was that the rest of her felt—
She pinched off that thought before it had a chance to blossom. It would be best not to think about how the rest of her felt right now. Letting her thoughts stray in such a wayward direction could be dangerous, especially when she was oh so excruciatingly conscious of every hard, masculine inch of the body stretched out beneath her.
Connor trapped a groan in his throat. At some point his hands had slipped downward, his open palms settling on the generous curve of her hips. Quite low on her hips, in fact. He realized this fact only now, and the knowledge cut through him like a lightning bolt. His palms burned to feel the soft heat of her beneath the coarse, tight-fitting trews. It was all he could do not to flex his fingers, to test the warm pliancy of her softness beneath his hands.
Last night there'd been no barrier of cloth between them. It had been skin against skin, and it had felt so very good and right. Was it wrong to wish the impediment gone now, so he could once again feel her silky flesh gliding beneath his fingertips, once again feel—?
"'Twould seem I owe you an apology as well as my thanks, m'lord," she said, her tremulous voice snagging his attention even as she averted her gaze contritely. "I am in your debt after all."
She shifted as though preparing to push to her feet. The feel of her inner thighs grinding against him was an unparalleled delight. Vivid memories of their previous, mutually gratifying night together whirlwinded through Connor's mind. Before he'd realized what he was doing, his hands lifted, encircling her upper arms.
His lips parted, and while Connor knew full well that he was about to say something, his mind was such a jumble that he'd no idea what the words would be... until he heard them echoing in his own ears. Was it his imagination, or did his voice sound unnaturally low and husky? "She looked like ye, mistress."
"Who did?"
Perfect Strangers Page 18