Perfect Strangers (A Historical Romance)

Perfect Strangers

by

Rebecca Sinclair

Published by: ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-073-0

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This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, etc. is entirely coincidental.

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© 1996, 2011 by Rebecca Sinclair

Cover by Kim Killion

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Perfect Strangers

Lass, this toddie has double the normal portion of whisky in it. Did ye not notice that when ye drained half of it?

Now that you mention it, I did think it a bit potent.

Connor's grin broadened. She hadn't lied and said she wasn't the one who'd drank it. For some reason, that pleased him. He leaned to the side and started to set the goblet back down on the table but changed his mind. "Here, now be a good lass and drink up the rest. There's nae better cure for the fever that's making yer cheeks ruddy and yer eyes o'er bright. Go on now. Slainte a mhar!"

Gabrielle sneezed, sniffled, then accepted the goblet with shaky fingers. And what, she wondered, would The Black Douglas say if he found out the color in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes had precious little to do with her fever... and everything to do with him?

Dedication

To...

Dorothy, Darlene and Shelly—my sisters,

for teaching me what family really means.

You are diamonds, each unique & special… I love you!

~

And to hubby…

for teaching me all the things I never learned in school—

you wicked boy, you… I like!

From the desk of

Rebecca Sinclair

Dear Reader,

When Perfect Strangers was released back in 1996, I was still a very new writer. I'd already published several books, however, looking back, I think I hadn't really found my writer's feet yet. In the years since, including my well known 10 year sabbatical from writing and publishing, I've learned a lot! I’m no longer so green in the gills, but instead am a much more experienced and seasoned writer now.

So what, exactly, is it I changed about Perfect Strangers? I smoothed over a sentence here and there, nothing terribly noticeable. Mostly the hard work went to tweaking Connor's (and his relative's) thick Scots burrs. You see, aside from the truckload of positive fan mail I received for Perfect Strangers, I also received enough letters saying that, while the reader genuinely enjoyed Connor and Gabby's story, there were times when the Scots burr was so thick as to get in the way of the reader's pleasure. It is, after all, difficult to enjoy a story where you can't read half the dialogue! Or, worse, you have to struggle and plod through it.

Of course, there was nothing I could do at the time; Perfect Strangers had already been released, and calling all the copies back to the warehouses to make such minor changes… well, it just doesn't happen for a paperback original in the publishing industry. That's why I was so excited to be able to include Perfect Strangers as one of the titles I'm making available for Nook, Kindle, Sony, etc. Finally, I get to correct a mistake that has been bugging me for years!

Enjoy the Read…

Reb

"The good ol' law, the simple plan.

That they should take who ha' the power,

And they should keep who can."

~ A popular Scots Border Ballad

~

"…the brave Connor Douglas,

Who is both fierce and fell,

He will not give one inch o' ground,

For all the devils in hell."

~ A more popular Scots Border Ballad

… Connor Douglas disagrees.

Chapter 1

London, England

February 1603

Sitting on the edge of a hand-embroidered settee in Queen Elizabeth's starkly furnished sitting room, Gabrielle Carelton awaited the meeting Her Majesty had called last night. It was to begin a mere five minutes from now.

Gabrielle tapped her toe impatiently on the carpeted floor. Her full rose silk skirt rustled as she shifted uncomfortably on the settee. The movement encouraged a spirally black curl to fall forward over her right shoulder. The settee looked fragile, and she always worried the delicate, spindley legs might someday collapse beneath the burden of her weight. Thus far had proved to be a solid, trustworthy piece of furniture.

Commanding an impromptu, private audience with one of her ladies was not Elizabeth's custom, especially a meeting so early in the day. Everyone at court knew Her Majesty was a late riser. So why had Elizabeth done it?  Gabrielle wondered.

Why today?

And, more importantly, why with her?

A noise in the corridor outside snagged Gabrielle's attention. Her green eyes jerked upward, fixing on the oak door. A distinct metal-on-metal grinding sound announced the door was being unlatched from without.

Gabrielle's pulse accelerated. Why, she wondered again, had Elizabeth called this unexpected audience? A troubled feeling settled in her stomach like a ball of lead; she was about to find out.

The dark hair at her nape prickled with nervous anticipation. Her stomach fluttered, her breathing shallowed. Somewhere deep down inside, Gabrielle Carelton knew she was not going to like this audience with Elizabeth.

Nay, she was not going to like it at all.

* * *

Bracklenaer Castle, Scots Border

February 1603

What do ye mean I'll not like it? Och! mon, dinny be sitting there deep in yer ale, grunting vague, one-word answers, and staring into the fire as though it holds the key to some great mystery. What that hearth holds is hot coals, ashes, and flames, but naught else. Ella Douglas gave a toss of her head, sending her unbound hair swaying like a thick bolt of dark-red velvet to her tiny waist. Despite the heat emanating from the dwindling fire, the great hall was dark and cold and damp at this hour of the night. Shivering, she pulled the woolen plaid closely about her shoulders and scowled down at her cousin. "As always, ye're being a fine muckle evasive, Connor. Will ye please just have out with it? Tell me exactly what it is I'll not like hearing, then I'll be telling ye if I like it or nay."

Connor Douglas ignored the girl. Instead, he stared broodingly at the fire in question, his gray eyes narrow; it was hard to tell which was hotter, his glare or the flames it was fixed upon.

The Black Douglas.

Connor shook his head and lifted his heavy pewter mug. He took a long, deep swallow of the tepid tasting ale. The nickname The Black Douglas had been given to him as a bairn by his father as a parody of the real Black Douglas, Connor's ancestor, James Douglas, notorious friend of Robert the Bruce in the 1300s. As Connor grew older, however, the tag came to stand for more than just his long black hair and craggy good looks. It was also a clear warning that Connor Douglas was also in possession of a fierce Scots temperament, and a stubborn streak that would have made his ancestor smile with pride.

Connor's reputation was long, tawdry, and only partially earned. Some said he surpassed in bravery and daring even the infamous Alasdair The Devil Graham. Connor disagreed. Oh, aye, he'd launched his share of successful raids and trods against Scots and English Marches alike in his twenty-eight years, but no more frequently or more cleverly than any other Border reiver he knew. Besides, The Devil had finally wed and settled down in his tumultuous ways.  Mayhaps that explained why everyone was suddenly so interested in him, Connor Douglas.

There was no denying Connor had grown up in this country; he knew the landscape and its inhabitants well. The people who lived in this wild, uncertain wilderness known as the Border between England and Scotland needed a figure around which they could spin their yarns and write their ballads. Connor had been picked for that dubious honor seemingly by default.

A sudden sharp pain in his right shin diverted Connor's wandering attention.  His gaze sharpened on his cousin. Ella's dainty size was deceiving; Douglas blood pumped hot and strong through her veins, as was evident now in the scowl that pinched her coppery brow and the way her gray-blue eyes sparkled with impatience.

With his free hand, Connor reached down and rubbed his bare shin. It smarted mightily where she'd just kicked him.

Are ye planning to answer me within me lifetime, Ella asked stiffly, or should I go catch a wink of sleep whilst I still can? Connor, do ye ken what time it is? All ye've said in the last hour since ye so rudely woke me up is that ye've something to tell me that I'll not like hearing. Truly, Cousin, I'm tired of watching ye gulp down ale while I poke and prod the words outta ye. I've done all but reach down yer throat and yank the words out with me fists—and dinny be thinking I've not thought aboot doing exactly that. I have!

Connor grunted. Aye, he'd a feeling she was right. He didn't realize how much ale he'd drunk until now, when he tried to shape his mouth around the words that ran blurrily through his mind. His lips felt oddly numb, his tongue oversized and fleecy. Even his vision was muted. The great hall—and Ella—looked fuzzy around the edges.

His voice, when it came, was slurred. It took great effort for him to ask, So what's stopping ye, lass?

The obvious. Her shrug was brisk.

That being...?

We both ken ye'll ne'er tell me yer news, or whate'er it is yer wanting to say, until ye're bloody good and ready. There's naught I can say or do to change that.

Yer a smart wench, Cousin.

Nay, I be only a Douglas, Ella stated, her chin inching up proudly even as she gritted her teeth and swallowed back a yawn. Dear Lord, the hour was late. Why wouldn't Connor just tell her what he'd dragged her down here to say and be done with it? The suspense was eating at her already frayed nerves. "Connor, please...!"

"Och! I'm thinking, lass! Ye see, 'tis not that I dinny want to tell ye. Would I have awoken ye if such was the case? Nay. 'Tis only that... I'm unsure how to say it."

Bluntly would be a ver good start, methinks.

Draining the mug of ale, he set the container aside on the floor near his chair leg, then linked his fingers over his hard, flat stomach and returned her stare with a level one of his own. The woolen kilt scratched his wrists.  The subject he was about to broach—bluntly—had the power to sober him up a wee bit. His voice wasn't as slurred when he said Afore a fortnight is out, I shall wed.

Ella stared at him for a full minute. "I dinny understand. It took ye the better part of an hour to tell me that?" Her frown deepened as she shook her head. "Nay, there maun be more to it. I know it, can feel it. Do tell me what yer not telling me, Cousin."

There be twa things, actually. Connor scratched his darkly stubble-dusted chin, his gaze never leaving Ella's. First, my bride-to-be is promised to another.

Who?

Colin.

She pursed her lips. I dinny like the sound of this already.

Ye need not like it, Ella. The decision's been made, the plan already set into motion.

So ye're going to steal yer brother's intended, is that the way of it? she asked flatly, and he nodded. She muttered a hearty Gaelic swear beneath her breath. Heavens above, Connor, when are ye going to let the past go? What's done is done. It cannot be changed.

"Mayhap. But it can be avenged." Connor gritted his teeth and the muscles in his cheeks and jaw bunched tight beneath his swarthy skin.

Ye were right aboot one thing, Cousin. I dinny like hearing this. Ella began pacing in front of the smoldering hearth. Ye said there were twa things, she added cautiously. Much as I'm sure I dinny want to hear it, I maun ask: what be the other?

The lass is English.

Ella's eyes widened and her cheeks drained of color. A S-Sassenach? she stammered. "Ye're wedding a Sassenach?!  Och! Connor Douglas, are ye out of yer e'er loving mind?!"

* * *

A Scotsman? Gabrielle gasped. While she'd have liked to blame too-tight corset lacings for her sudden light-headedness, she knew better. It was the Queen's disclosure that had knocked the breath from her lungs and made her head spin. At the mere thought of wedding a heathen Scot, she shuddered visibly, her horrified gaze on the monarch. "You want me to marry a... a Scotsman?!"

I do. Elizabeth nodded firmly. She was standing in front of Gabrielle, who was still seated atop the delicate settee and at the unfair disadvantage of having to crane her neck and look upward to meet the Queen's gaze. Knowing the woman, Gabrielle could have sworn Elizabeth had planned their positions this way. You've no objection to carrying out an order from your Queen—one of Elizabeth's pale eyebrows arched in silent challenge—do you?

I— Gabrielle swallowed hard, her mind racing. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but her thoughts were too jumbled and chaotic.

Surely Elizabeth was jesting. Aye, that had to be the explanation. Anything else was untenable!

With a quick glance, Gabrielle assessed her sovereign. In the last six years of service, rare was the time she'd seen the sorely aging Queen look more serious. The blood pumping through Gabrielle's veins felt as cold as mountain water. An order?

Again, Elizabeth gave that clipped little nod.

Gabrielle gulped and rubbed her palms together nervously. Had she ever felt so trapped? Aye, once. When she was six years old, two of her cousins had cornered her against one of the rose trellises in her mother's garden. The boys had chanted nonsensical rhymes about her plain looks and teased her unmercifully about her even-then burgeoning weight. Gabrielle had tried desperately to get away from them, but they wouldn't let her pass. It wasn't until she was in tears and screaming for her father that the boys, either bored or fearing reprimand, finally gave up and wandered away... no doubt to find some other poor soul to torment. Though the incident had occurred fifteen years ago, it was still fresh in her mind.

She bit her lower lip, the sting of pain yanking her back into the present. It was a fact that if her Queen ordered her to marry a Scot, then marry a Scot she must do. Her family had always been loyal supporters of the English Crown.

Still, was there not some way of dissuading Elizabeth? If so, Gabrielle could not think of it; her mind was still too numb with shock for her to be able to concentrate long on any one thing, let alone a plan to escape Elizabeth's dictate.

Marry a Scot?

Lord in heaven, what had she ever done to deserve such a horrendous fate?

Gabrielle glanced down at the fingers—short and thick, the skin ruddy from a recent washing, the fingernails bluntly cut and well manicured—she now twisted nervously atop her silk-clad lap. The answer, when it came, hit her like a slap across the face.

Robert Devereaux, the second Earl of Essex.

A friend only, Gabrielle and Robert had spent much time in each other's company since he'd come to court. Oh, she was careful to make sure they were never alone, but apparently that didn't matter. In a court prone to rumor, much like any court in any kingdom, the latest gossip to be bandied about was that Gabrielle Carelton and Robert Devereaux were carrying on a sordid, lusty affair... right behind Elizabeth's narrow back.

When the rumor had reached Gabrielle, her reaction had been to tip back her head and give a hearty laugh. As if a man like Robert Devereaux would ever be interested in a heavyset, plain-looking woman like herself. Not bloody likely!

Through the shield of her lashes, Gabrielle snuck a look at Elizabeth. The Queen didn't look amused. It would seem the rumor had finally reached Elizabeth's ears. Gabrielle was surprised it had taken so long.

How had Elizabeth received the tidbit of misinformed news?

Gabrielle could well imagine!

Elizabeth had always been a self-centered woman who demanded she be the center of attention—both inside and outside palace walls. As she'd aged, and what little harsh beauty she had started to fade, Elizabeth's desire for attention—especially male attention—had blossomed into an obsession.

What Gabrielle hadn't considered—until now, until it was too bloody late!—was how much it would sting Elizabeth's pride to have it publicly displayed that her latest suitor—whom Elizabeth seemed more interested in than those many gentlemen who had come and gone before him—was distracted by a woman as unattractive as Gabrielle Carelton.

Gabrielle's attention had dipped again to the fingers she twisted atop her lap. Her gaze now rose slowly, meeting Elizabeth's. If there was a trace of sympathy in the Queen's face, she couldn't find it.

Gabrielle's hopes plummeted. Would Mariella Rose not be better suited for such an—she hesitated a beat—"honor, Your Majesty?"

I considered her, but in the end it was obvious you would best suit my needs.

But why? Gabrielle couldn't help but prod for information.

Unlike Mariella, you've a trace of Scots blood in your veins, lady. That suits my objective perfectly.

"'Tis but a very small trace.  Miniscule."

Aye, but a trace all the same. 'Tis Maxwell blood you have in you, is it not?

Gabrielle nodded reluctantly. The relationship was one any Carelton worth his name admitted to only under extreme duress. I don't understand. What has the shadier part of my lineage to do with—?

Everything, dear lady. Absolutely everything.

Sweeping aside her nightdress and robe—the occasional times Elizabeth rose early she did not dress until shortly before noon—she took a seat next to Gabrielle on the settee. Silently, Gabrielle sent up a prayer the delicate piece of furniture held the added weight. Reaching over, she took Gabrielle's hand in her own.  Elizabeth's expression was cold.

Behind her back, some in court referred to their sovereign as The Ice Maiden. Never having had occasion to touch Elizabeth before, Gabrielle had always disregarded the term. Now, however, she thought the nickname well suited to the Queen. Elizabeth's fingers were very long, delicately shaped, enviably slender... while her skin was more arctic than a pane of glass during a roaring winter blizzard.

Elizabeth gave Gabrielle's fingers a squeeze that Gabrielle assumed was meant to reassure and encourage. In truth, it did neither.

You've not been with me long, Elizabeth said, surely not as long as some, but you've been one of my ladies long enough to know the troubles I currently face. The Borders between Scotland and England are in a severe state of turmoil... She rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed tiredly. Again. As your protector, provider, and friend, I ask for your help in settling those savages down.

And as my Queen...?

I demand it,

'Tis a heavy task you ask of me. I'm not entirely sure how I, simply by marrying a barbaric Northerner, can accomplish it.

Rest assured I do not expect so much of you. To tame the entire Border single-handedly simply would not be possible, especially for you.  The old woman snorted as though she’d made a joke. However, your marriage will be a start by uniting two of the most powerful families on either side of the Border. 'Tis my hope an alliance of this nature will settle one of the fiercest feuds the Borders has ever seen. A feud, I might add, which has recently been reborn with a vengeance, and which grows worse by the day.

Your Majesty, surely you are not suggesting—? Gabrielle's words clogged in her throat and her heart skipped a heavy beat. While she'd thought herself shocked before, now that the heat of realization was starting to seep in, Gabrielle realized that was nothing compared to her present feelings. I've misunderstood, she said, her voice a hoarse, cracked whisper. "Aye, that must be it. Surely you don't intend to marry me to... a Douglas!"

* * *

"A Maxwell? Ye're wedding a Maxwell? I'd wondered before, Connor, but now I be certain. Ye've flipped yer kilt, and that's that."

I'm as sane as e'er, and I ken exactly what I be doing, Cousin.

"If so, ye'd not even be thinking aboot marrying into such a foul, disreputable family. Ella's eyes flashed as she lashed out again, kicking Connor's shin, this time harder. Maxwells! Och! She shuddered and huddled more deeply within her plaid. God rot 'em all! Sweet Jesus, Connor, dinny tell me ye've forgotten the Maxwell is the ver same family we've had a feud running with for near three centuries?"

Hold yer tongue. How many times maun I tell ye, 'tis unbecoming for a lass to speak in such a manner, Connor growled as he again reached down to rub his throbbing shin. Damned if the girl hadn't kicked him in exactly the same spot. Och! his cousin may be small but she was a strong one! And then there was that dagger-sharp tongue of hers. Connor doubted it even crossed Ella's mind to keep her mouth shut when there was something on her mind she thought needed saying—whether it needed hearing or not. It was no wonder she, at the past-marriageable age of sixteen, remained unwed. Only Ella seemed to question why this was so. The answer was apparent to everyone else. What man in his right mind would take to wife a wench who, in speech, thought and deed, proved more of a man than her mate?

Connor shook his head and forced his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. I've forgotten naught, and well ye ken it. Least of all have I forgotten what rabble the Maxwell be. Howe'er, I can also see what is happening around me. The times are changing, Ella. Slowly, but changing all the same. Now that young Jamie has come in to his own, he is determined to test his mettle by settling the Border. And the Ice Queen in England seems equally as determined to help him. He glanced at his cousin. Their gazes met and warred. "Use yer head, lass. Ye maun see all the changes taking place. In the last year alone hundreds of Borderers have been hanged or beheaded in Edinburgh and London. Punishment is coming faster, getting harsher, fiercer, and maun more frequent. Mark me words, the time for reiving and feuding is coming to an end. Sooner, methinks, than most expect. When that happens, the Douglas will not be losing his head over past grievances but respected for stretching out his hand in peace a'fore it is demanded—or, worse, lopped off."

Ye plan to accomplish all that simply by stealing your brother's intended, a Maxwell, and wedding her? she scoffed.

The wench is a Carelton, Ella. She's got a mere drop of good Scots blood in her. But nay, I'm not so foolish as to think a mere marriage, even to a distant relative of the Maxwell, can accomplish so much. What I do think is that such a union will be a ver good start when the Border ways come to a head.

That 'mere drop' of Maxwell blood running through her veins makes her fully a Maxwell in my eyes, Cousin, Ella said angrily. "Were I ye, I'd not be surprised if the rest of the clan Douglas feels maun the same. Och, to think a Maxwell will be living here in Bracklenaer, roaming its corridors at will.... Ne'er, ne'er did I think I'd see the day. Ye were dead right. I dinny like this idea of yers, Connor. I dinny like it even a wee little bit."

I'm not o'erly fond of it meself, but at least I ken the rewards. As for a Maxwell living in Bracklenaer... as I said, the wench is a Carelton, soon to be a Douglas. Rest yer mind on it, Ella, and think on it this way: How long do ye think she'll actually be living at Bracklenaer?

Ella frowned and shook her head. I dinny ken.

The bride was reared English to the core, he said.  "How many years has she spent lounging in the Queen's court? Four? Six? Ten? I dinny remember exactly, nor does it matter. What does matter is that all the while the lass has been pampered and protected, waited upon and coddled. I dinny ken what she looks like, nor do I care.  In me own mind I picture her as fair, delicate... and ver weak of constitution, the way English women tend to be. Now tell me, how long can such a lass survive this harsh climate of ours? One winter? Twa? No more than that, I'd wager. If I'm lucky, she'll live long enough to provide me with an heir, then..?  'Twould be long enough for me, but I shan't count on it."

Ella's gaze narrowed thoughtfully. Her expression cleared and a trace of a grin tugged at one corner of her mouth. Methinks that by the next Day O' Truce—slated for this coming spring, is it not?—yer Sassenach bride will be resting 'neath good Scots soil, and ye'll be a widower.  And proud da.

"A poor, bereft, sorely grieving widower, Connor corrected her with a matching grin. And proud da, o'course.  Oh, aye. 'Tis exactly what I am counting upon, don't ye ken?"

* * *

The