"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.