The air was thick with the acidy tang of the spent storm, a fragrance that mingled with the smell of horse and man. The temperature had dipped; it was cold enough for Connor's breath to turn to vapor. A drop of rain that had gathered in the cup of a leaf slipped free, splattering icily on the top of his head.
Connor hadn't expected to be lucky enough to spot the women immediately and therefore was not disappointed when a quick scan of both sides of the stream bed told him that he was alone. He saw no indication that the pair had passed this way. Then again, he also saw no indication that they hadn't. The woods were thick, the narrow, twisting stream a few miles in length; they could have stopped at any point.
In which direction should he go?
The decision took only a second to make.
Instinct having served him well in the past, Connor gave the stallion a nudge with his knees and guided the horse along the eastern bank, still heading in Gaelside's general direction. His narrowed gaze studied the wet ground, paying particular attention to the muddy patches around puddles. He looked for hoofprints: the ground was certainly wet and soft enough to hold an impression.
The search was frustrating and slow, an irritation to his frazzled patience.
As with the stream, he heard the women before he actually saw them. At first he detected only a vaguely out-of-place rumble that blended with the gurgle of crisp water trickling over rocks. The rumble magnified as he drew closer to it. Became louder, more distinct.
Soon the sound was recognizable as the hushed murmur of voices. Female voices.
A surge of relief washed through Connor. While he was still too far away to understand their words, their tones were reassuringly calm, suggesting both women were unharmed. His relief was short-lived. It soon melted away to a hot burst of fury when he thought of how very lucky the two were to make it so far unscathed.
Guiding the stallion to a nearby birch tree, he slipped down from the saddle and with an expert flick of his wrist tethered the reins to a low-hanging branch. He crept along the stream bank, his booted feet making nary a whisper of sound as he trod carefully over wet leaves and grass...
* * *
Ella paced in front of the stream bank while she and Gabrielle took turns inventing and discarding various plans to rescue Mairghread.
Gabrielle, ruminating on Ella's latest and most extravagant scheme, found her attention abruptly drawn elsewhere. Was it her imagination or had the damp night air suddenly become unnaturally cold? Why, she wondered, did the flesh at the nape of her neck feel so incredibly hot? The dark curls there prickled with sudden awareness.
Her gaze had been on Ella; it now jerked elsewhere. She scanned the stream, the bank, the dense patch of trees that sheltered both. Squinting, her gaze pierced the murky shadows where the scant moonlight could only partially invade.
Gabrielle spotted him in a heartbeat.
He was standing beside a birch tree, one padded, leather-encased shoulder leaning casually against the thick, scratchy trunk. His booted ankles were crossed.
The stance was very casual, blatantly male; it made his hips slant at a cocky angle, drawing her attention unwittingly down to the hem of the kilt, and the place where it grazed his sinewy thighs. The waistband hugged the flat, hard plane of his stomach.
He stood close. Oh so close. Only a few short yards of wet ground separated them.
Swallowing hard, Gabrielle's gaze lifted, tracing the wide breadth of his chest and shoulders, the thick trunk of his neck, the hard-set line of his jaw. Higher.
Was it the fury emanating from The Black Douglas's eyes that made her mouth and throat feel abnormally parched? Surely it was that and not his physical closeness, or the way she thought she could already feel the heat of his body radiating through her masculine attire, caressing the soft skin beneath.
The strength in her knees seeped abruptly away. Standing became a study in concentration; she managed the feat through sheer force of willpower alone. Her heart raced, slamming an erratic beat against her rib cage. The crisp night air soughed in and out of her lungs; it was rich with the fragrance of fresh rain, pine, leather... and the enticingly unique, masculine scent that was Connor Douglas.
Connor's gaze never left Gabrielle, although his words were meant for his cousin. His voice—the tone deep and rich with barely suppressed fury—was pushed through tightly gritted teeth. "Get on yer nag, Ella, and ride back to Bracklenaer."
"Connor?" Ella spun around, her blue eyes wide with surprise as her attention jerked to Connor. Hugging her arms around her slender waist, she regrouped quickly. "Cousin, 'tis dark!"
"Aye, and 'tis sure I am that ye noticed that fact when ye stole the horses and rode from Bracklenaer. Ye managed to get this far with only a sliver of moonlight to guide ye, ye can make yer way back with the same. Och! Ella, dinny try to look so defenseless, for I'm not so foolish as to believe it for a second. Ye ken this countryside almost as well as I do, ye'll not get lost."
"Nay, Connor, don't. 'Tis not safe!" Gabrielle cried. "What if she gets lost or, worse, what if the Maxwells are still skulking about?"
"Ver good questions, lass. Howe'er, should ye not have considered the answers to them afore leaving Bracklenaer? Dinny fash yeself aboot me cousin. Ella can use the sword hanging at her side." His hand brushed at his shoulder, and he thought of the small, hairline scar that marred the skin there, a scar that was the direct result of that same sword tip grazing him years ago, when his cousin's temper was particularly foul. "Aye, she can use the weapons well. I taught her meself. She'll come to nae harm. And if she does... Och! for what she's done this night, I'm of a mind that she deserves whate'er fate awaits her." His attention shifted to Ella, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are ye waiting for? Be off with ye!"
The furious determination in Connor's tone, the granite-hard square of his jaw, the dark shimmer of fury in his eyes... all combined to convince Ella that the wisest course of action would be to heed her cousin's grittily uttered instructions, and heed them posthaste.
After casting a quick, sympathetic glance at Gabrielle, she turned and approached her mount. The mare must have sensed Connor's temper, for the horse needed calming before she would allow Ella to mount her. The surge of sympathy she felt for the Sassenach lingered, disturbing her greatly as, ducking low-hanging branches, she guided her mount into the forest. It grated to feel anything, especially compassion, for a blood kin of the Maxwell. Yet how could she not? The poor lass was about to find out that, when it came to The Black Douglas's temper, the Border ballads had not exaggerated, they'd understated how deep it ran.
Gabrielle watched Ella go, and a strange sensation wadded in her stomach. She wanted to call Ella back, but didn't. Couldn't. She'd have needed breath with which to speak the words, and at the moment the feel of Connor's glare on her trapped the air in her lungs until they burned.
The adventurous spirit she'd felt tingle through her blood earlier had pinnacled with the idea of rescuing Mairghread; it now plummeted like a rock being tossed into the stream at her back as she watched Ella guide her mare toward the dense, shadowy line of trees. The girl's slender back was rigid and proud, the thick plait of red hair swinging saucily against her waist. Long after she'd disappeared from sight, Gabrielle thought she could still hear the soft, rhythmic thump of hooves treading over rain-soaked earth and leaves.