She did not want to.
What she wanted to do was move closer.
Connor's voice, when it came, was throaty and low, no more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm a mon of me word, Gabby. While I still dinny think 'twill do much to end this cursed feud, Roy Maxwell is safely back with his kin. And no doubt Johnny is e'en now rejoicing in the return of his treasured cook. Methinks he will be too busy celebrating and feasting for the next fortnight or so to ride against us or any other clan."
"Thank you," Gabrielle said, her voice equally as soft and husky. She was having trouble concentrating on the subject at hand, however. The feud between Maxwell and Douglas suddenly seemed very far away; her thoughts had latched on to something else, something more immediate.
Gabby.
No one else called her that. While the nickname sounded foreign to her ears, at the same time she found she liked very much the soft, guttural way the two syllables rolled off Connor's tongue.
Warmth radiated from his fingertips, sinking into her skin, heating her blood. Waves of awareness radiated from that spot and out to the rest of her body. Her breath caught and her fingers flexed convulsively. His gave a reassuring squeeze in response.
"Ella's gone again," Gabrielle said, because she felt the need to say something, and her reason, no matter how feeble, for being here seemed as good as any.
"Aye, and well I ken it."
"How did you find out?"
"She did what any Douglas would do. There was no need to be told the obvious."
"If you knew," she countered, her green e
yes widening in surprise, "then why didn't you stop her?"
The hint of a grin tugged at one corner of Connor's lips. The tip of his thumb was stroking a leisurely path up and down the length of her index finger. "Me cousin has a mind of her own, as ye've no doubt discovered." He muttered something under his breath about finding Ella a husband, but Gabrielle couldn't make out all of his rumbling since a goodly portion was in Gaelic. "Had I tried to stop her, she'd have kicked me in the shins, cursed me blue, then set off after him no matter what I said to her. Since arguing with the stubborn wench is maun the same as arguing with a lifeless pile of wool—and comes to the same—I thought it best to save me shins the bruising, don't ye ken?"
She blinked hard. "You didn't stop her for fear she'd kick you?" she asked, then tipped her head back and laughed. She couldn't help it. The thought of this man—the infamous Black Douglas, the stuff of Border legends and ballads—being in any way afraid of a wee slip of a lass like Ella was so preposterous it was comical. Gabrielle laughed until her sides ached and her cheeks hurt.
"'Tis not that funny," Connor said, but his mind was only partially on the words his tongue formed. A bigger part of his concentration had been snagged by the sound of her laughter, and the way her pretty green eyes and softly rounded features seemed to light up the morning.
The gentle trickle of her laughter was mesmerizing in a way he'd never known before. It took effort to continue speaking, and not drag her down into the water with him so he could feel her body pressing against his again.
What had they been discussing? Och! yes, he remembered now. Vaguely. "In case ye've not noticed, me cousin is stubborn to the core and has the kick of a thoroughbred."
"Ella is a Douglas born and bred."
He thought about that for a second, then, his grin broadening, beamed proudly up at her. His thumb continued the hot, lazy strokes that made her skin tingle. "That she is, Gabby. That she maun definitely is. One of the rare facts those cursed Border ballads have gotten right is that a Douglas is relentless. Once we set our mind to something, anyone with a scrap of sense stays out of our way. Ye could say 'tis unhealthy to try to stop us. One way or another, we get what we're after."
Connor was no longer referring to Ella or Roy Maxwell or anything so simple. Gabrielle could tell by the way his piercing gray eyes narrowed and his expression sobered.
As though she was hearing it from the opposite end of a very long tunnel, her voice seemed to come from a distance when she asked, "What is it you're after, Connor Douglas?"
"Ye don't 'ken?" he counted huskily.
"I think I do, but I want to hear you say it."
"Och! Gabby, I can do better than that. Come closer, lass, and I'll show ye."
"Don't be silly. I can't. I'm already standing on the edge of the bank. Another step and I'd—"
Connor's grin was wicked and quick. A flick of his wrist saw what she'd been about to describe happen.
Gabrielle gasped when she felt her hand jerked suddenly forward, felt herself tip precariously in the same direction. Her toes curled within her shoes, as though trying to claw through the hard soles and dig into the earth beneath in an effort to find some purchase.
The chilly water of the loch loomed closer, then receded somewhat when she flailed her free arm. Unfortunately, that arm was still buried beneath the thick folds of her cloak; moving it about did precious little good to stabilize her wavering balance. If anything, the panicky gesture had the opposite effect.
She could feel herself again lurching forward. In a final attempt to save herself a frigid dousing, her fingers tightened around Connor's. She pushed with all her might against his hand. It might have worked, had Connor not been prepared for it. She'd intended to use his resistance as leverage, but there was no resistance to use. Instead, he let her push his hand backward even as his fingers meshed more tightly with her own.