Authors: Rebecca Sinclair
"Aye," Roy answered. "What else? Unless..." He paused then, after a thoughtful second, his grin broadened. "Och! lass, surely ye dinny think—?!" He shook his head. "Dinny mistake me, lass, I mean no offense when I say I've naught against ye—except mayhap that large dollop of Carelton blood flowing through yer veins. Howe'er, 'tis not
ye
I'm wanting to take back to Caerlaverock with me. Good Lord, no! I dinny want ye there in the first place. Kidnapping ye was me da and Gordie's idea. A not so brilliant one, I might add. I was against it from the start. And with good reason, so 'twould seem, Truth to tell, ye're a fine muckle more trouble than ye're worth—e'en if stealing ye did irritate the clan Douglas better than anything the Maxwells have done to them in the recent past. Nay, nay, I'm through with such foolishness. The only wench I'm wanting to bring home with me this night is Siobhan. Da would ne'er forgive me were I to seize the plainest lass in all Scotland instead of the best cook this side of the Esk, don't ye ken?"
The threads around Connor's heart tightened and tugged when he heard Gabrielle's swift intake of breath. Turning her head, she cushioned her cheek against the back of his shoulder. A steamy patch of moisture there suggested she was quietly crying. Her grip on his arm tightened, her nails biting into the tender skin beneath his sleeve; oddly enough, he did not complain or entertain the notion of pulling away.
The emotions churning inside him were as foreign as they were intense. It came as no small surprise to discover that he felt Gabrielle's pain as though it was his own, slicing deep and raw. But why? A month previous, Roy Maxwell's callous remarks would not have bothered him a bit. Surely there were worse atrocities to be withstood in these parts than to have one's looks glibly criticized and to be slighted in favor of a cook. Now, however, Connor heard the words as though they'd been filtered through Gabrielle's ears; coldly spoken, callously disrespectful, and delivered with utter disregard for how they'd be interpreted.
Unfortunately, he knew there was a time not so long ago when he might have said those same unfeeling things himself and not thought twice about it. If he'd wondered before, he wondered no longer. It was obvious how Gabrielle had come by her impression that Borderers were a crude, unfeeling lot. Instead of basing her opinion on hearsay and ill-concocted ballads, as he'd at first presumed she'd done, he now realized she'd come by it all-too honestly.
With a flick of his wrist Connor exerted pressure on the point of his sword. Not a lot, but enough to make a few drops of blood bead against Roy's throat. "If yer ancestor's tongue was as honeyed as yer own," he growled, "there can be no doubt as to why me great-great aunt chose a Maxwell o'er a Douglas."
"Aye," Roy agreed, and his grin was back with annoying force. "For all that she was a Carelton, the wench had maun distinguished taste."
The insult had the desired effect; it rubbed raw a centuries-old wound.
Connor didn't think so much as react with all his well-honed instincts. His sword arm drew back, his muscles pulling taut, his gray eyes narrowing and glinting with deadly intent.
Too late, Roy sensed the grave mistake he'd made. Only a fool issued such openly challenging words when he'd no weapon to back them up with... and only an insane man did so to a reiver like The Black Douglas. That Connor was going to run him through, there was no doubt; Roy would do the same were the situation reversed. With that thought in mind, he started to duck, his arms lifting, crossed at the forearms, forming an ineffective, makeshift shield as he prepared to rush Connor and, with luck, tackle him in the stomach. Gritting his teeth, he mentally readied himself to feel the sting of The Black Douglas's blade sinking into his flesh.
The feeling never came.
Gabrielle assessed the situation in a blink. Connor's anger was palpable, crackling in the air like the tingling spark of static before a storm. The way his arm pulled back—his elbow jabbing into her rib cage hard enough to make her gasp—told her all she needed to know.
"Nay!" she cried as she shoved the sconce at Roy. Grabbing Connor's arm with both hands, she planted her feet apart for balance and yanked. Hard. Rather, she
tried
to yank him backward, hoping that in so doing she would foil his aim before the deadly point of his sword could find its mark... and give this asinine feud reason to continue for still more senseless decades.
The muscles in his upper arm were hard with the tension that twisted through him; it felt as though the bands of sinew had been molded from unyielding steel. There was no give in either Connor's arm or his stance. However, Gabrielle knew her unexpected action must have startled him, for he paused abruptly, just shy of completing the thrust.
"Don't do it, Connor," she pleaded breathlessly. "Please, I beg of you."
"Unhand me, wench, 'tis none of yer affair. The mon insulted you. He insulted me family. No Douglas worthy of the name listens to such slurs without exacting flesh in retribution. Well Roy kenned that when he uttered the insults."
"'Twas
nsults, but
nothing more.
They are words,
only
words."
"Words that deliver grave insult to me ancestor and me clan."
"But words all the same. Surely words alone are not a good enough reason to commit murder!"
"There's many a mon on this Border who'd disagree, many a mon who's killed for less."
"Must
you
be one of those men, Connor?" Gabrielle's grip on his arm tightened. Her green eyes were wide and pleading as she looked up into eyes that were as gray as they were guarded. "Elizabeth sent me here in an attempt to end this feud once and for all, something James seemed equally as eager to see happen. I confess, at the time I'd severe misgivings that any family dispute could be as critical as she indicated. Now I know she was right. Connor, don't you see? The feud between Maxwell and Douglas has gone on long enough. Decades too long! It
must
end, and that ending
must
start somewhere."
A muscle in the left side of Connor's jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth. "Then let a Maxwell make the first offering of peace between our families."
"Och!" Roy piped in. "'Twill be a cold day in hell a'fore a Maxwell—"
Gabrielle glared the man into silence, then quickly shifted her attention back to Connor. She was getting through to him on some level, she could sense it, yet why couldn't she make him see reason on the most crucial aspect of what she was trying to convey, that the Maxwell/Douglas feud had to end? Surely there must be some way to convince him that the important issue wasn't
who
made the first gesture in that direction, but the end result of it: a cessation of bloodshed and peace—nay, at this point she'd settle for reluctant tolerance!—between the rival clans?
Surely there must be a way to make even a man as single-minded and stubborn as The Black Douglas understand the importance of her reasoning. But how?
An idea occurred to her. It wasn't a brilliant one, but it was the only one she had. Tilting her chin up, Gabrielle glanced at Connor from down the length of her nose and said, "Only two hours ago you accused me of running away. Now who is doing the running, m'lord? Which of us is truly the coward?"
The barb had its desired effect. Connor's eyes narrowed and an angry red hue suffused his brow and cheeks. The muscle in his jaw ticked harder. "'Tis ne'er cowardly to fight."
"Mayhap. However, 'tis
most
cowardly to refuse to perform a simple conciliatory gesture when the occasion arises. Especially when your sole reason is that you're much too childish to be the one to take the first step toward peace."
"Beware, lass," he hissed. "Yer sharp tongue has ye treading on ver thin ground."
"Is that so? And if I refuse to shush? What do you propose to do about it, sir? Turn your blade on me and extract silence by spilling
my
blood? That does seem to be your natural way of settling disputes, does it not?" Gabrielle gulped; for a flickering instant Connor looked as though he intended to do exactly that. Thankfully the moment passed. She sucked in a relieved gulp of musty-smelling night air.
"This conciliatory gesture," Connor said, and the flaring of his nostrils suggested the words were uttered with great reluctance. "What would it be?"
Her gaze shifted between Roy and Connor, settling finally on the former, who was watching her with grim amusement. "Release Roy Maxwell. Let him ride back to Caerlaverock unharmed and let him bring Siobhan back with him."
"Nay!" Connor's dark, thick brows drew together and his expression grew stormy.
"Aye!" she countered just as hotly. "What better way to show the Maxwells that the feud is over, that you'll shed no more blood over it, than to provide him with such an outstanding peace offering?" Her attention turned to Roy before Connor had time to answer. "Would such a gesture not sway your father, even a little bit, to consider ending this senseless fighting?"
Roy shrugged uncertainly, his expression bewildered as he scratched at the underside of his bearded chin. It would seem the idea of ending the feud was not something he'd seriously contemplated... until now. His lips pursed, and the glint in his green eyes evinced that the suggestion was not unappealing. "I cannot say," he admitted after a thoughtful pause. "Howe'er, considering how me da feels about Siobhan—Och! but his feelings for the lass and her cooking be a fine muckle strong!—methinks returning her would be a grand start. Johnny Maxwell wouldn't argue with the gesture, for certain."
The smile that had been tugging at the corner of Gabrielle's lips now blossomed as she returned her gaze to Connor. "Well?" she prompted. "Do you not think 'tis at least worth a try?"
"Mayhap," Connor replied with a vague shrug.
"If you'll not do it for your clan, then do it for me. You once said you'd do anything if I but asked..."
Connor groaned. "Dinny say it, lass. Please."
"Don't you see, Connor? I
have
to." Gabrielle hesitated, licked her lips nervously, wondered if perhaps she'd pushed the matter too far, then just as quickly decided it was too late to drop the matter now. The subject of ending the feud had been broached, a suggestion as to how to end it had been offered... nay, fear of The Black Douglas's reputed temper aside, the matter was simply too important to her not to pursue. Her fingers loosened, trembled slightly as her open palm stroked the hard muscles of his upper arm. "I'm begging you, let Roy go. Take the first step in ending this feud by sending Siobhan back with him."
"Do ye ken what yer asking of me, Gabby?"
"Aye, I do." She nodded firmly. "I'm asking far less of you than Elizabeth asked of me."
"A feud generations strong does not just end so easily, not merely by returning a ... a cook."
"I'm not so foolish as to think it will. What I
am
is smart enough to realize that the feud will not end at all if one family does not stop the fighting. M'lord, you vowed a few moments ago that you would defend me with your life's last breath if need be, did you not?"
"I did," Connor admitted grudgingly.
"I'm not asking that of you, I'm not asking of you anything so exalted. All I ask is that you take this one small step in trying to bring peace to the Maxwell and Douglas. That's all, I'm simply asking you to
try."
Connor's indecision was as tangible as the dark wisps of smoke curled up from the sconce Roy Maxwell held and twisted toward the low stone ceiling. She trapped her breath in her throat as she watched a variety of emotions play in Connor's narrow gray eyes. Suspicion. Reluctance. Caution. Then, in the end, resignation.
"Ver well, lass," Connor said tightly. He lowered his sword, hesitated, unwillingly resheathed it. Roy's sigh of relief was audible. "'Twill come to naught, I vow, but a Douglas is a mon of his word." He shifted his attention to Roy, and his expression hardened. "Go. Take Siobhan with ye. And whate'er ye do, mon, take pains once you're back at Caerlaverock to tell Johnny Maxwell exactly why the wench is being returned and what is expected of him. Make sure yer da understands the magnitude of what accepting such a gift means. Och! what are ye waiting for? Get ye gone!"
Roy didn't need to be told twice. After hesitating only long enough to send Gabrielle a thankful glance, and Connor one that questioned his sanity, Roy bobbed his head and dodged past them. In mere seconds he'd disappeared up the steep, narrow stairway, the only indication of his nearness the receding click of his booth heels atop bare stone.
Connor waited until he heard the doorway at the top of the stairs slam shut before turning his attention back to Gabrielle. He'd no idea what he planned to say to her, and the second their gazes met, he no longer cared.
The lass was smiling up at him and... Och! but he'd never felt his heart speed up and somersault against the cage of his ribs quite this way in his life!
Had he once thought her smile beautiful? Aye, he had. Now, Connor was forced to reassess. It was not beautiful, for beautiful was too mild a description. The way her green eyes crinkled at the corners, appealing dimples bracketed the sides of her mouth, and her full cheeks flooded with happy pink color... Och! aye, 'twas most devastating, is what the sight was!
So captivated was he that Connor didn't at first realize he was returning the gesture. Until he saw her smile widen, and realized it was in response to his own grin.
The strings around his heart twisted into yet another mind-numbing, soul-binding knot.