Dear Lord, it felt as if her tears were seeping straight into his skin, branding him.
* * *
The afternoon and early evening had passed by in a blur.
Once she'd calmed, Connor had left her to seek out news about Gilby's condition while Ella took care of the prisoners. Feeling oddly lost and alone, Gabrielle retreated to her room—nay, Connor's room.
Forgoing the evening meal, she'd instead preferred to closet herself away with her confusing thoughts, wrapping herself in a blanket of grief.
It wasn't until the rest of the castle's occupants had retired to their beds that hunger finally got the better of her and she snuck out of her room and into the great hall below.
She rumbled absently around the kitchen, but her meager appetite deserted her without warning and she retreated to the hall. Sitting at the table atop the dais, she stared pensively at the flames snapping and popping in the huge stone hearth.
One of the hounds chained nearby whimpered and rolled sleepily onto his side when Connor Douglas enter
ed the room. Gabrielle didn't notice his presence, so caught up was she in her thoughts.
Connor came upon Gabrielle quite by accident. Thirst had prompted him to enter the hall in search of ale. What he'd found instead had been an unusually silent Gabrielle Carelton.
She seemed oblivious to his presence when he crossed the room and filled a tankard from one of the large wood barrels tucked in a shadowy corner of the hall. Nor did she notice when he approached the table.
"Drink this, lass, 'twill help warm ye." Connor eased himself onto the bench across from Gabrielle. Age-chipped pewter scraped against the scarred oak tabletop as Connor slid the half-filled tankard of ale across the table to her.
"Thank you, but I'm not cold," Gabrielle murmured dispassionately, even as she wrapped her fingers limply around the tankard.
"Nay? Then what are ye, lass?"
"I don't know." She shook her head vaguely and a thick lock of raven hair fell forward into her eyes. She brushed it back, her gaze lifting to meet his. "I know this may sound strange, m'lord, but I'm not cold, I'm not hot, I'm not... well, I'm not anything. I feel numb."
"'Tis to be expected. Ye've suffered a shock."
"You mean Elizabeth's death? 'Twas not that much of a shock. The woman was old, and 'tis common knowledge she ailed on and off for most of her life. There are many who predicted she'd be dead decades ago." She shook her head. "Nay, her death was not unexpected to most, and anxiously awaited by many."
"I sense ye are not one of the many."
"You're correct," Gabrielle confirmed with a sigh. "I'm not." She lifted the tankard; the pewter felt cold against her lips as she tipped it and swallowed the yeasty-tasting brew. Unlike the whisky she'd drunk before, the liquor did not burn her tongue and throat, but slid with deceptive ease down to her stomach. "Elizabeth had her faults—I'd be lying if I said otherwise—yet there was also much about the woman to admire."
"She took care of ye well, then?"
Stand up straight. I said straight! Shoulders back. Oh, for God sakes, girl, suck in your stomach, you look like an overstuffed goose!
Gabrielle hesitated. A frown creased her brow as she thoughtfully nibbled her lower lip. A half dozen years of Elizabeth's harsh words played in her mind. While she was accustomed to the sting of humiliation the thoughtless comments brought, she'd never become immune to them.
"She took care of me," Gabrielle said finally, flatly. "For a girl of my station, orphaned as I was, her thoughtfulness and care were greatly appreciated. I was young and alone, grieving over my father's death, frightened for my future. Elizabeth took me into her court, she fed and clothed me and asked only for my loyalty in return. It was enough. More than I could have hoped for." She took another, deeper sip of ale then, placing the mug on the table, slid it back across to Connor.
The pewter retained the heat from her hands, Connor noticed as he wrapped his fingers around it. The rim also felt warm as he turned the tankard around and, meeting and holding her gaze over the upturned bottom rim, placed his mouth in the same spot where hers had been only a moment before. The aroma of ale assailed him, engulfed him. As he forced himself to swallow a mouthful of the brew, all he could think of was the sweetly intoxicating flavor of Gabrielle Carelton's mouth, and of how very much he ached to stand up, lean over the table, capture her lips beneath his own and taste her again. Deeply. Dear God, the need to slide his tongue over her temptingly full lower lip, to savor the essence of her mouth, was impossibly strong. He trapped a groan in his throat when he imagined her thoroughly feminine flavor mixing to absolute perfection with the rich flavor of the ale...
'Twas a heady combination. One to die for.
"And now James has united the kingdoms," Gabrielle said, feeling the need to say something to break the sudden tension crackling between them. "Scotland and England are at last one."
Connor nodded. "Aye, for what it's worth. We shall see how long the union lasts, shall we not? I'm thinking 'twill not last o'er long." He lowered the tankard onto the table with more force than was intended. "We Scots dinny take kindly to being ruled by ye Sassenach, as the past has proven, and the future will again."
"James is not English."
"For all intent and purpose he may as well be. 'Tis no secret Jamie harbors a fascination with Sassenach ways. How long do ye think 'twill be afore he has taken himself off to London and embroiled himself in English politics, meanwhile forgetting all aboot his own country's troubles? Not long, I'll wager, as will many men who live on this godforsaken side of the Border. Under James's united rule, Scotland is destined to be absorbed by England and governed by an absent monarch." Shaking his head, Connor fingered the cold pewter handle of the tankard. "Troubled times are afoot, lass, mark me words."
"From what I've seen, your precious Borders could not possibly get more troubled than they already are, m'lord. For centuries now, two sovereigns at a time could not tame them."