Perfect Strangers (11 page)

"I'm ready." Dressed, Gabrielle stood and faced the women, her concerned gaze touching briefly on the scabbard hanging at Ella's side, and the leather-wrapped hilt peeking out of it. Mairghread had come around to the other side of the bed while she was dressing, and now stood beside her niece.

Remembering Ella's argument about lighting the candle, Gabrielle licked her forefinger and thumb and doused the wavering teardrop of flame. Perhaps it was a trick of light and shadow, but she could have sworn she saw a glint of respect in Ella's eyes an instant before the dim glow was abruptly extinguished.

To her aunt, Ella said, "Margie, ye take one of her hands, I'll take the other." More harshly to Gabrielle, "'Tis maun important ye dinny let go, no matter what ye see or hear. Do ye understand?"

Gabrielle nodded, forgetting for an instant that neither woman could see the gesture in the dark. "Aye," she whispered. "I understand."

Mairghread grasped her left hand, Ella her right. Even in the dark, the feel of each was unmistakable. On one side, her fingers wrapped around leathery skin and brittle bones, on the other enviably slender fingers and skin that felt softer than the inner petals of a rose.

The softer hand gave an unexpected, and not at all gentle, yank.

Gabrielle stumbled into step behind Ella. She winced, her shoulder smarting as she strained at an awkward position to make sure the same impact wasn't put on the older, more fragile bones in Mairghread's hands.

"Where are we going?" Gabrielle whispered as they inched their way in the dark toward the door.

"Outside, where 'tis safe." It was Mairghread who answered.

"Excuse my ignorance, but it doesn't sound like outside is a safe place to be right now." Gabrielle tried to swallow back her alarm. The men's voices had grown louder, the sound of rushing footsteps and scraping steel closer. Were these two women insane that they would purposely seek to go out into that uproar?!

"Because ye're Sassenach, we excuse maun," Mairghread replied. "Keep in mind, ye dinny yet ken the ways of the Border, lass. Trust us, 'tis a fine muckle safer to be
outside
Bracklenaer's walls than trapped
inside
should Johnny Maxwell—God rot 'im!—have his way and capture the castle."

They reached the door. Ella made a sharp, hissing sound through her teeth, indicating they should stop whispering between themselves. Only once the girl was positive the other two would obey did she slowly lift the latch and ease the wooden panel open a crack.

A sliver of sconcelight cut a swath through the opening, slicing over the floor even as Ella pressed her face to the crack and scanned the hallway. Something else intruded in the room as well: the thick, cloying aroma of burning wood.

Gabrielle's breath snagged in her throat; she had to concentrate hard not to give in to a bout of coughing. Good heavens, they were burning the castle! Nothing in all her years of training in Elizabeth's court had prepared her for anything like
this!
A surge of panic swelled inside her, almost overwhelming her. Almost. As though reading her mind, Mairghread's bony fingers tightened, clasping Gabrielle's hand in a painful grip. The bite of the old woman's fingers was painful but oddly comforting and enough to still her panic. For the moment.

"'Tis clear," Ella informed them from over a delicately molded shoulder. "Come, we maun hurry. If I ken Johnny Maxwell, 'twill not stay so for long."

Ella slipped through the door, with Gabrielle close on her heels. While Gabrielle had worried about Mairghread keeping up with the two younger women, she found out quickly that her concern was misplaced The old woman might be stooped and crooked from age, but there was nothing wrong with her legs; she hustled along the hallways as fast, if not
faster,
than both of them, more times than not bumping into Gabrielle's back as though urging them to a quicker pace.

The smell of charred wood was growing stronger. Since her nose was still stuffed, Gabrielle wondered exactly how potent the odor really was. Just as quickly she decided it was a question she'd no desire to have answered. She was frightened enough, thank you very much! A sneeze tickled her nose; she turned her head and trapped the brunt of it with her shoulder, grimacing when her mouth and nose came into contact with the smelly, grimy cloth of the tunic.

They didn't head toward the central staircase, as she'd somehow expected, but instead turned down the hallway and headed away from it. Gabrielle didn't question Ella. Not only didn't she dare risk talking right now—the sounds of fighting were too uncomfortably close—but no matter what the girl thought of her, Gabrielle was certain that Ella would not put herself and her aunt in jeopardy of being taken prisoner by going toward the enemy instead of away from them. Obviously the girl had a plan. Gabrielle had no idea what that plan could be... except to get out of the keep and away from the clutches of Johnny Maxwell.

Johnny Maxwell.

Gabrielle grunted softly, derisively. The man was a distant relative. A dirty, murdering scoundrel, if her family's stories could be believed. She'd been taught from the cradle that the link between families was as fragile as it was unfortunate, a humiliating indiscretion to be ignored and admitted to only when cornered. It simply wasn't in their nature for a Carelton to acknowledge any Maxwell as his kin.

Still, the truth remained that they
were
blood relations.

The irony of finding herself being dragged out of Bracklenaer by a Douglas, who was trying valiantly to get her
away
from the "enemy" Maxwell, was not lost on Gabrielle.

The mystery of where they were heading was soon solved. Like any good Border castle, Bracklenaer had more than one exit. The one Ella led them to was through an overtly masculine bedchamber. Rather, more precisely, into a dank, musty-smelling tunnel concealed behind one of the wide oak bookcases flanking the chamber's inner wall.

The sound of voices and footsteps receded as Ella eased the passage door shut behind them. The noise was replaced by the rhythmic plink, plink, plink of water dripping in some hidden puddle. The end of Ella's scabbard occasionally grazed the wall. Small, unseen claws scratching against the cold stone floor.

Rats? Gabrielle wondered, and grimaced. She swallowed back a cough, ignoring the way her fingers shook as they tightened around Mairghread's. Her other hand did not so much as flinch; so careful was she not to alter her grip on Ella's hand, not wanting the younger girl to sense her weakness.

Silently, the trio inched their way through the tunnel. The cool, damp air felt clammy against Gabrielle's fever-heated skin. By the time they reached the opposite end, and the faint trace of silvery moonlight that slanted in through the narrow opening, her breathing was swift and shallow, her nerves frayed.

At some undefinable point, the voices had started again. They were even louder now. So was the distinct clashing of swords.

"Where are we?" Gabrielle asked when Ella came to a stop. She'd spoken in a whisper, yet the cavernous depths of the tunnel snatched her words, tossed them repeatedly off hard stone, making her voice echo and sound louder than it actually was.

"Do ye remember when ye rode to Bracklenaer?" Ella asked.

Not a pleasant memory, that, and recalling it now scratched at a sore spot within Gabrielle. At the time she'd thought to be arriving at Gaelside, the men accompanying her that of her future husband, Colin Douglas. Being reminded of The Black Douglas's duplicity rubbed her raw. Her voice, slightly nasal from her cold, went hard as stone. "'Tis not something I'll soon forget."

"That's as it should be," Ella replied, her voice edged with pride. "Bracklenaer is a breathtaking sight at first glance. E'en at second and third and... Ooch! ye've gotten me sidetracked. Where was I? Ah, aye, in front of the main gate, across the road, there be a thick patch of trees and bramble and rocks leading into the woods. Do ye remember seeing that as well?"

Gabrielle thought for a second, then nodded. "I think so."

"'Tis where this tunnel empties out, where we be now."

"Where do we go from here?"

It was Mairghread, behind her, who answered. "As soon as the way be clear, deep into the woods where the Maxwell cannot follow."

"You run away and hide?" Gabrielle didn't mean to sound demeaning, she was merely surprised. What she meant, however, turned out not to matter. From the way Ella's slender back stiffened and Mairghread's bony hand tightened painfully around hers it was obvious that was exactly the way they'd taken her words. If she could have bitten the statement back, she would have, but it was too late now. God's blood, she'd just insulted the two women who were trying to keep her safe! She wouldn't blame them if they fled into the woods and left her here to fend for herself. That would teach her to talk before thinking in the future.

"Since ye be Sassenach," Ella said oh so calmly and coldly, "and dinny ken the way of things, I'll forgive yer ignorance.
This
time. Be thankful ye dinny say that to me cousin, lass. Connor isn't so patient or so generous."

"I know. I've heard the ballad."

"Which one?" Mairghread cackled softly.

Ella glared the old woman into silence.

The end of the girl's scabbard rasped against the craggy stone as she peeked through the opening. The nearest voices had begun to dwindle. "Och! Margie, 'Tis Wllie O' Nill's Tom out there banging swords with Gilby."

"Nay, it can't be. He's a mere bairn," Mairghread said.

"At fifteen summers, he'd not like hearing ye call him that, I'll wager. 'Tis his first time riding, methinks, and he's not a ver good fighter. Gilby is going easy on him."

"Fifteen already, is he? Och! but still so young."

"Ye forget, Margie, Connor was o'er a year younger when he went on his first night raid."

"Yer cousin be a fine muckle different, lass."

"Ye dinny need to be telling me—Och! that's got to hurt."

"What happened?" Mairghread asked, excited.

"Gilby just nipped the bairn's shoulder."

Still holding Gabrielle's hand, Mairghread stepped past her and to her niece's side. "Move o'er, I'm wanting to see this."

"Who is Willie Oh Nillis Tom?" Gabrielle asked, confused. "And what the devil sort of name is that?"

Ella stepped back, next to Gabrielle, giving her aunt enough room to look out the opening. She leaned close to Gabrielle's ear and whispered, "Willie O' Nill's Tom," she said, pronouncing the name slowly, precisely, "is Tom, Willie O' Nill's son."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to call him Tom?" Gabrielle asked. The logic made perfect sense to her, but not to Ella, if the way the girl shook her head was anything to judge by.

"Methinks ye're wrong, Margie, she'll not be an easy one to teach. Like all Sassenach, she thinks ver illogically." Ella sighed and turned her attention back to Gabrielle. Her voice edged with forced patience, she asked, "Have ye any idea how many Toms there be in these parts?"

"Er... several?"

"Aye. Several
dozen.
'Tis a ver common name."

"Oh. I see," Gabrielle said, and stifled a sneeze with her shoulder. She was lying, she didn't see a thing, but she wasn't going to admit it after Ella's last comment; her pride still smarted.

"If yer to live here, lass, the least ye can do is ken our names. 'Tis so easy e'en a bairn could master it."

"In that case, it should give me no trouble."

Ella grunted. In the dim, silver glow of moonlight, the girl's deceptively delicate features tightened into an expression that said she doubted a hated Sassenach—one with Maxwell blood running through her veins to boot!—would be able to understand anything Scots, even something so simple.

"Willie O' Nill's Tom is bleeding maun fierce," Mairghread hissed from the tunnel's opening. "Methinks Gilby is merely playing with the lad before finishing him off."

Gabrielle's mouth went dry, her eyes wide. She could be wrong, but what she'd first thought was tension electrifying the damp night air now felt like something else entirely. It felt like excitement. Aye, that was it. That was the emotion she felt emanating from the two Scotswomen.

Many were the blood-filled, hair-raising tales she'd heard while tucked safely away in Elizabeth's Court of the atrocities that transpired on the Borders. She'd listened with mild interest to all the stories, even had a daring dream or two about a few, yet Gabrielle had not put stock in a single one. Surely only in fable could such folk as the rough, bloodthirsty heathens known as Borderers exist.

Or so she'd thought.

Then.

While warm and safe in London.

Now that she was here, now that she was caught amid a bloody battle and felt the two Scotswomen's morbid excitement at witnessing the destruction, she was forced to reassess her opinion. God in heaven, even the
women
here took pleasure from seeing an enemy's blood let! It was a staggering realization.

Gabrielle's back came up hard against the wall. The stone chaffed into her skin beneath the tunic, but she barely noticed the bite of pain.

Every word of every story had been
true.

Her horrified gaze volleyed between Mairghread and Ella. If they'd felt fear before, it was apparent neither felt it now. Both had dropped Gabrielle's hands and were now jostling each other, squirming to get a better view from the tunnel's narrow opening. Their enthusiasm was palpable, as real as the surge of disgust that made the muscles in Gabrielle's stomach clench and her knees go shaky and weak.