Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair

Author:Rebecca Sinclair [Sinclair, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781614170730
Google: 5N4jBQAAQBAJ
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 2446506
Publisher: Zebra
Published: 1995-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Dark and murky, the dungeon was located deep in the bowels of Caerlaverock. The cell in which Connor and Ella had been locked more than an hour ago was small and cramped. A narrow, slitlike window in the upper portion of the far wall—much too high to reach, even with Ella on his shoulders, Connor had been quick to discover—let in a modicum of midafternoon sunlight.

If he strained, Connor could see a patch of the sky. While the night's storm had dissipated, it hadn't entirely abated. Threatening clouds hung in the sky like thick, dark swatches of wool. The afternoon looked gray and dingy, as unpromising as his mood. The floor upon which he sat was as cold and hard as the stone wall against which he leaned his back.

The muscles around his heart clenched into a tight fist when he thought about Gabrielle. He'd not seen her since reaching the Maxwell stronghold, when he and Ella had been hauled down to the dungeon while Gabrielle had been taken...

Where?

He knew not, nor did he dare to guess at what the Maxwells had done with her. A shiver coursed icily down his spine. The possibilities were too gruesome to contemplate.

Lord, how he wished he knew what was going on elsewhere in this cursed keep!

Unfortunately, the dungeon was situated too far below the ground floor for them to hear any activity coming from above. Connor was sure there was a good deal of noise and commotion going on up there somewhere, but the thick stones and mortar deadened any noise. And all of it centered around Gabrielle.

To distract his mind from unwelcome images, he concentrated on the sound of Ella's bootheels echoing crisply off frigid stone as she paced restlessly in front of him.

"Ye ken, of course, 'tis only thanks to a Maxwell—may the devil roast the lot of 'em in hell for all eternity!—that a Douglas could find himself in a scrape such as this. I swear there's not been a moment's rest for our poor, weary clan since those detestable Maxwells stole that ugly auld nag near on twa centuries ago!"

"Och! lass, ye dinny ken what ye're talking aboot. That horse was a prime specimen. 'Twas not auld, not ugly, and certainly not a nag. 'Twas a maun fine example of its breed, well worth fighting o'er. Our ancestors were right to want the beastie back at all costs."

"Dinny be such a simpleton, Cousin." Ella shook her head, gave forth a sigh of exaggerated impatience at the same time she sent Connor an indignant glance from the corner of her eye. "'Tis our great-aunt Ailean I be referring to," she explained with forced patience, "not the fine beast lifted from Bracklenaer on the same midnight raid. The horse was recovered quickly enough. Nay, whilst the theft of the beastie may have started the feud, 'twas Ailean who kindled the grudge between Douglas and Maxwell by choosing to stay and marry into the hated clan."

"Had she a choice?" Connor shook his head and frowned.

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