Perfect Strangers (21 page)

"Aye, 'tis." Gordie smiled coldly. "Ye're a slippery fox, Douglas, and well e'eryone on both sides of the Border kens it. Surely ye dinny think me so daft I'd let ye ride free! Were I in yer situation... untied, the potential for escape would be maun too great to resist. 'Tis something I dinny dare risk."

The hard square of Connor's jaw lifted at a proud angle that was reflected by the glint in his gray eyes. "What if I offered ye me word I'd not escape?"

"Do ye think I'd believe that?"

"Do ye have a reason not to? Is yer memory so short ye've already forgotten last winter?"

"I've forgotten naught," Gordie replied, his tone vaguely insulted.

Connor nodded briskly. "Then ye remember the Day O' Truce? Ye remember me taking yer word for repayment of fines owed for yer worst raid on Bracklenaer ever, when instead I could have demanded a pledge?"

"Aye," Gordie answered thoughtfully, "I remember. I maun admit, I've always wondered at yer reasoning, Douglas. 'Twas a foolhardy thing to do."

"I disagree. Ye may be a Maxwell, and therefore me bitter rival, but ye're also a Scotsman, and Scotsmen are men of their word. As a rival, ye've proved yerself maun worthy of respect. Against me own men's advice, I trusted ye word then, and ne'er once did I doubt ye would pay the shillings owed in the spring, just as ye promised ye would."

"And pay them, I did."

"Exactly."

Gordie's frown deepened as he lifted his chin and scratched at the thickly red-bearded underside. His gaze raked Connor assessively, then shifted to the two men who awaited his orders. "Put the ropes away and let him ride free. But"—he glared at the two men to drive the point of his next words home—"ride close and guard him well. Seamus, ye ride close to me newly discovered kin. If the mon even thinks about trying to escape..."

The unfinished threat hung heavily in the air, more potent for what it
didn't
say.

As though he was displeased with his own decision, Gordie spun on his heel and faced his angry brother.

"Are ye insane?!" Roy roared. "He's a
Douglas!
And not just any Douglas, but
The Black Douglas!"

"Aye, I ken it, Roy, but there are things ye be to young to understand yet. For example..." Gordie's voice faded as he draped his arm around Roy's neck and led him away.

A different man than the one who had shackled her hands came up to Gabrielle and, taking her by the arm, guided her toward her horse. She put up no resistance. Truly, she was too shocked by what had transpired since Connor had awakened her to even consider it.

Chapter 10

Dark and murky, the dungeon was located deep in the bowels of Caerlaverock. The cell in which Connor and Ella had been locked more than an hour ago was small and cramped. A narrow, slitlike window in the upper portion of the far wall—much too high to reach, even with Ella on his shoulders, Connor had been quick to discover—let in a modicum of midafternoon sunlight.

If he strained, Connor could see a patch of the sky. While the night's storm had dissipated, it hadn't entirely abated. Threatening clouds hung in the sky like thick, dark swatches of wool. The afternoon looked gray and dingy, as unpromising as his mood. The floor upon which he sat was as cold and hard as the stone wall against which he leaned his back.

The muscles around his heart clenched into a tight fist when he thought about Gabrielle. He'd not seen her since reaching the Maxwell stronghold, when he and Ella had been hauled down to the dungeon while Gabrielle had been taken...

Where?

He knew not, nor did he dare to guess at what the Maxwells had done with her. A shiver coursed icily down his spine. The possibilities were too gruesome to contemplate.

Lord, how he wished he knew what was going on elsewhere in this cursed keep!

Unfortunately, the dungeon was situated too far below the ground floor for them to hear any activity coming from above. Connor was sure there was a good deal of noise and commotion going on up there somewhere, but the thick stones and mortar deadened any noise. And all of it centered around Gabrielle.

To distract his mind from unwelcome images, he concentrated on the sound of Ella's bootheels echoing crisply off frigid stone as she paced restlessly in front of him.

"Ye ken, of course, 'tis only thanks to a Maxwell—may the devil roast the lot of 'em in hell for all eternity!—that a Douglas could find himself in a scrape such as this. I swear there's not been a moment's rest for our poor, weary clan since those detestable Maxwells stole that ugly auld nag near on twa centuries ago!"

"Och! lass, ye dinny ken what ye're talking aboot. That horse was a prime specimen. 'Twas not auld, not ugly, and certainly
not
a nag. 'Twas a maun fine example of its breed, well worth fighting o'er. Our ancestors were right to want the beastie back at all costs."

"Dinny be such a simpleton, Cousin." Ella shook her head, gave forth a sigh of exaggerated impatience at the same time she sent Connor an indignant glance from the corner of her eye. "'Tis our great-aunt Ailean I be referring to," she explained with forced patience,
"not
the fine beast lifted from Bracklenaer on the same midnight raid. The horse was recovered quickly enough. Nay, whilst the theft of the beastie may have started the feud, 'twas Ailean who kindled the grudge between Douglas and Maxwell by choosing to stay and marry into the hated clan."

"Had she a choice?" Connor shook his head and frowned. "If so, I dinny see it. Oh, aye, she could have returned to Bracklenaer, but e'en if she did, how many Douglases do ye think would have wanted to take to wife a lass so obviously soiled by a Maxwell? Nae self-respecting one, I'll tell ye that for nothing. Nae doubt the safety of the bairn that Lachlann Maxwell had already planted in her belly weighed heavily on her mind, and her decision to stay at Caerlaverock."

"Mayhap, but nae matter what the reason, I still think 'twas a foolhardy decision. One that, in its thoughtlessness, has caused her Douglas descendants—
us!-
—enormous trouble and hardship e'er since!"

"Ella—"

"She was ne'er happy at Caerlaverock," a third voice interceded. "I dinny ken if that be any consolation to ye, but 'tis true."

Ella and Connor jerked their attention to the door, and the direction from which the voice had come. A window was embedded in the upper portion of the thick oak panel. The "window," such as it was, consisted of a small, lopsided square. The barred opening wasn't even large enough for Ella to shimmy through...

The shadows clinging to the window and the narrow hallway that lay just outside of it were complete.

"Who's there?" Connor demanded as he shoved himself to his feet. He took a step forward, positioning himself protectively between Ella and the door.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then the voice asked in an almost timid pitch, "Are ye The Black Douglas?"

Ella came up close behind Connor and whispered in his ear, "From the sounds, 'tis naught but a bairn."

He nodded, having already determined as much himself. He guessed the intruder's age to be between seven and nine years.

"Did ye hear me? I asked if ye be The Black Douglas." This time there wasn't a thread of timidity in the voice.

A layer of solid oak and handful of strong iron bars went a long way toward fostering false courage, Connor thought as he glared at both. "Aye," he growled finally, "'tis what they call me, howe'er I'm not, nor have I e'er been or claimed to be,
The
Black Douglas. I'm but a descendant poorly nicknamed. Who be asking?"

An excited giggle drifted through the window, ricocheting throughout the cell. The high, sharp pitch made Connor wince as it reverberated off the bare stone walls. "Gordie said he'd done it, ye ken, but I dinny believe him. Yet here's proof! Imagine, the notorious Black Douglas safely locked away in Caerlaverock's dungeon." The boy paused long enough to giggle again; the sound was stifled, as though he'd muffled it with his hand at the last second. "Och! but is this not a fine day for the Maxwell!"

Notorious,
Connor thought, and gritted his teeth. How had one godforsaken exploit credited him with such a following? Not for the first time did he wish The Devil, Alasdair Gray, had remained unmarried; now there was a man whose reputation was earned by
many
deeds!

Connor, who'd let his gaze wander to a shadowy corner of the cell, the one where noises that sounded unpleasantly like small claws—
rats?—
scratching upon hard stone emanated, now re-focused his attention on the door. Rather, he shifted his concentration to the boy standing in the murky hallway just outside of it.

A scowl etched deep creases between Connor's eyebrows. Could he turn this unexpected visit to his own advantage? 'Twas rumored a Douglas could be quite charming when he put his mind to the task. Given the proper circumstances, they could even go so far as to smoothly apply that charm in the direction of a hated Maxwell...

* * *

Gabrielle shifted upon the hard, narrow bench. Linking her fingers together, she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and rested her hands atop the table in Caerlaverock's great hall. She doubted the gesture looked as casual as she intended for it to. Her insides were churning and, beneath the table where no one could see, her knees trembled against each other. Anxiety twisted in her stomach, gnawing at her from the inside out.

An untended fire smoldered lamely in the stone hearth to her left. Gabrielle felt none of its meager heat; the half dozen accusing stares, five from the men seated upon the bench opposite her, chilled her to the bone.

She recognized only Gordie Maxwell and his brother Roy. The eldest among them—she guessed his age to be at least two score older than both Maxwells—sat between the two brothers. The man's cheekbones, sharply carved above the line of his full red-gray beard, combined with his narrow forehead, weather-creased brow, and short, stocky, solidly built frame stamped him a Maxwell.

There was never a doubt in Gabrielle's mind as to the older man's identity. Johnny Maxwell. Father of Gordie and Roy. Laird of Clan Maxwell. Owner of Caerlaverock. Who else
could
he be?

The remaining two men seated across from her were strangers; she gave them only a brief glance before forcing her attention back to Johnny Maxwell. At least her
physical
attention rested on the Maxwell. Mentally, she was having a most difficult time concentrating on anyone besides the sixth man in the hall.

He stood next to the hearth, one broad shoulder resting negligently against the harshly chiseled stone. Gabrielle was very much aware of when the sixth man's hands moved from hanging limply at his sides to behind his back.

In two long strides he cleared the distance between them, moving to stand towering over the head of the table. He was close enough that, were she to move her elbow only a few inches to the side, it would graze the rock-hard side of his kilted thigh.

A chill skated down Gabrielle's spine. She need not glance up to know the sixth man was staring at her, and staring hard. She could feel his gaze, and the feel of it was as troubling as it was confusing. Stubbornly, she refused to glance away from Johnny Maxwell, even though her attention wanted badly to stray.

She'd looked directly at him only once since the two guards standing just outside the door had led her into the great hall. Even now, she thought she could still feel those odd, hot and cold shock waves rippling through her.

The man was tall and broad, with shaggy black hair that reached past the broad shelf of his shoulders and cold, piercing gray eyes. His cheekbones were sharp and well defined, his jaw hard and square. His lips were thin and sensuously carved. If one looked closely, one could detect a tiny dimple in the center of his stubble-dusted chin. Down to even that small detail, he was an exact duplicate of Connor Douglas.

A duplicate,
Gabrielle reminded herself forcefully. A nerve-shatteringly accurate one, aye, but an imitation all the same.

The man, she soon realized, had to be Colin Douglas, Connor's twin. It was he who finally broke what was swiftly becoming a thick, tension-riddled silence. Not in words, but in deed.

From the sporran hanging at his waist, Colin took out a sheepskin pouch. With a flick of his wrist he tossed the pouch onto the table, where it landed with a rattle and clank directly in front of Johnny Maxwell. A few coins spilled out of the loosely tied opening.