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"Nor did I expect ye to. Yet. Ye'll ken the way of it soon enough. And when ye do, methinks ye'll wish ye dinny."
Gabrielle sighed and shifted in the saddle. All this riding was making her backside and thighs sore!
The man's words echoed through her head. They were not comforting, if only because he hadn't given her an answer. No matter how hard she tried not to, she couldn't help but wonder—and worry—what Colin's reaction would be once he saw her. If his heart was on set on one of the tall, slender, beautiful women she'd left behind at court, he was destined for disappointment.
Her thoughts and emotions spiraled downward. Sweet Jesus, if she didn't distract herself soon, she would scream! That in mind, Gabrielle cast a sidelong glance at the man. He'd moved his mount away and was staring ahead blankly.
"Excuse me," she said, slowly and precisely, as she again guided her horse closer to his. He sighed deeply, glanced at her, and frowned in annoyance. Since that seemed to be his normal temperament, Gabrielle took no offense. "You said something before, in Gaelic, that I didn't understand...?"
"Chan eil thu luath?"
"Aye, that's it." She smiled. He did not. "I don't speak the language," she explained. "Could you tell me what it means, please?"
"Aye. It means that yer not ver swift." He scratched his thickly bearded jaw, nodded, and shrugged, as though he found it an apt translation. If he realized he'd just insulted her, it didn't show in either his manner or expression.
Gabrielle sat back in the saddle as if she'd just been slapped. Indeed, her cheeks smarted and burned as though the blow had been tangible.
Fuming, she clenched her teeth around a most unladylike response and, after shooting him a hot glare, mimicked the man by jerking her attention forward and forcing herself to stare straight ahead.
What she saw did not improve her mood.
The hustle and bustle of London was long behind them. They were now in the open, rough, and ragged countryside known as the Borders.
A more hostile and unwelcoming terrain Gabrielle had never seen. The area was called the Cheviot Hills. To her jaded eye, the seemingly endless ridges of hills looked more like small mountains.
What they lacked in height they made up for in steepness, she soon discovered. The tangled ridge of moorland was cut with valleys and gulleys that ran every which way. How these men knew where they were going was beyond her comprehension; one hill very quickly began to resemble the one after it. And the one after that.
Gabrielle tugged the hood of her cloak up over her head to shield her face from the whisk of the strong breeze. Her surroundings were as dreary as her mood. Desolate and bleak, the hills stretched on for what looked like an eternity.
So did her future.
* * *
"What are ye doing, Ella? Ye've been standing in front of that window half the day staring at naught. Did ye forget there be chores still left to be done?"
"I've forgotten naught. The chores will get done, Cousin. Eventually. Ye needn't worry, the evening meal will be ready on time."
"Ye still haven't told me why ye're staring out the window," Connor reminded her.
"I'd think it obvious."
Connor shook his head and sighed. Women were a constant source of confusion. Why they thought what they did, said what they did, did what they did... Och! but it rarely made a grain of sense to him. Figuring out the fairer sex was a job for much better men than himself, he'd concluded years ago.
His cousin, Connor had also concluded, was a stranger lass than most. A frown furrowed his brow. Mayhap it was time to find Ella a husband? God knows she was over the age for it. Let whomever the poor fellow ended up being deal with her; she was ever an annoyance and frustration to Connor!
"Nay," he said finally, "'tis not obvious. Why dinny ye tell me?"
"I'm waiting for yer bride to arrive. What else?"
He blinked hard, his frown deepening into a scowl. "Why?"
"Och! mon, but ye can be dense sometimes. While ye may not be the least bit curious about yer future wife, I maun certainly am. I want to see if she looks the way ye said she would."
"She'll look like a Sassenach. 'Tis what she is."
"Aye, I ken that well enough. But will she be as tiny and frail as ye think? And if so, how do ye plan to get an heir from her? The hardest part of winter is fast upon us, Cousin. What if she does not survive until spring?"
"Then we shall bury her in true Scots tradition," Connor replied matter-of-factly. His broad shoulders rose and fell in a negligent shrug. "Whether she survives the winter or nay, the end result will be the same. Maxwell and Douglas will be united by marriage and the feud tempered, at least somewhat. Meanwhile, me dear brother will have been cheated out of having accomplished the feat. Dinny ye see, Ella? The marriage will have served its purpose no matter how long—or short—a time the wench lives. Oh, I admit I'm hoping to get an heir from this, howe'er I'm not so foolish as to be counting upon it. I'm of a mind an heir would simply be a nice reward for all the trouble I am taking to fetch the lass."
