Read Online Perfect Strangers by Rebecca Sinclair - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Sinclair
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indeed!" Johnny agreed, then laughed. His fist slammed down hard on the desk as he used his other hand to wave his son closer. "Come, sit. Methinks there's a need to alter our original plan a wee bit. We need to craft the plan for a retaliatory raid that will overshadow e'en The Black Douglas's swiftly growing reputation. A plan that will... er, how should I put it? Oh, aye, a plan that will finally reunite us with our dear, long lost Carelton kin...."
* * *
A bolt of lightning cut a jagged streak through the sky, flashing a brilliant, blinding shade of silver. The immediate bowling roar of thunder was so violent it shook Bracklenaer's centuries-old stone walls.
Gabrielle winced, her ears ringing. Did she hear the bedchamber's door rattle in its hinges, or was the phantom sound a product of her fevered imagination? There was no way to be sure. Between the alarming rattle in her chest, the deafening claps of thunder, and the rain that lashed harshly at the bolted shutters, it was difficult to hear much of anything.
The pillow beneath her head was damp from her perspiration, and her inky hair clung to her sweat-beaded brow and neck. Sweet Jesus, she was hot! Her bones ached from the inside out as she restlessly kicked the sheepskin and Douglas-gray kilt off her. The chilly night air had no more washed over her body than she commenced shivering. Violently. With a groan, she yanked the coverings back up and huddled beneath them.
Mairghread had come at dinnertime and spooned more broth, this one with a thick lamb base, into her. All hopes of regaining her strength and escaping this place had fled by that time. She might be a Carelton, and therefore stubbornly determined, but right now she felt as weak as a day-old kitten. She would be going nowhere for a while, and well she knew it. It was bad enough that her stomach refused to hold much of the rich broth the old woman insisted she eat. After a few spoonfuls, Gabrielle had shaken her head and turned her head away. In seconds, she'd fallen asleep.
When she finally awoke, it was to a dark, empty bedchamber. The smoldering embers in the hearth gave off precious little light. No one, it seemed, had seen fit to rekindle them.
A quick scan of the room told her that Mairghread was gone. The only sign that the old woman had been there at all was the goblet of what Gabrielle presumed was wine sitting on the table beside the bed.
Clutching the covers close, she struggled to sit up, then took the metal goblet and lifted it to her lips. Her eyes were watery, her temples throbbed, and her mouth felt drier than the Cheviot Hills in summer. A sip of cool wine would sit well right now and do much to improve her flagging spirits.
Gabrielle tried to sniff the contents, but her nose was too stuffy. Thirsty, she took a deep sip. A fit of coughing tore through her body as she choked the stuff down. The fiery brew coated her tongue like molten lava, scorching a path down her already gritty and sore throat. Stinging tears dripped hotly down her cheeks, splashing unnoticed on her forearm as she coughed and gasped and wheezed for precious breath.
That was not wine. Oh, nay, nothing so bland. That was a large-size helping of strong Scots whisky. The liquor had been mildly diluted with water and lemon, yet neither could take away its sting. Had her sense of smell not abandoned her, Gabrielle would have recognized the pungent fumes immediately.
Gradually the sting on her tongue started to fade, as did the burn in her throat. A warm, not entirely unpleasant glow swirled in her nearly empty stomach. The heat seeped outward, radiating throughout the rest of her body like the ripples of a stone tossed in a calm lake.
Another clap of thunder rattled the shutters. Last night's storm had returned with force; slashing rain and wind settled around Bracklenaer like a dark, heavy blanket.
Gabrielle sneezed and gave a half-hearted sniffle. Truth to tell, it was a blessing the weather hadn't been this bad
* * *
A bolt of lightning cut a jagged streak through the sky, flashing a brilliant, blinding shade of silver. The immediate bowling roar of thunder was so violent it shook Bracklenaer's centuries-old stone walls.
Gabrielle winced, her ears ringing. Did she hear the bedchamber's door rattle in its hinges, or was the phantom sound a product of her fevered imagination? There was no way to be sure. Between the alarming rattle in her chest, the deafening claps of thunder, and the rain that lashed harshly at the bolted shutters, it was difficult to hear much of anything.
The pillow beneath her head was damp from her perspiration, and her inky hair clung to her sweat-beaded brow and neck. Sweet Jesus, she was hot! Her bones ached from the inside out as she restlessly kicked the sheepskin and Douglas-gray kilt off her. The chilly night air had no more washed over her body than she commenced shivering. Violently. With a groan, she yanked the coverings back up and huddled beneath them.
Mairghread had come at dinnertime and spooned more broth, this one with a thick lamb base, into her. All hopes of regaining her strength and escaping this place had fled by that time. She might be a Carelton, and therefore stubbornly determined, but right now she felt as weak as a day-old kitten. She would be going nowhere for a while, and well she knew it. It was bad enough that her stomach refused to hold much of the rich broth the old woman insisted she eat. After a few spoonfuls, Gabrielle had shaken her head and turned her head away. In seconds, she'd fallen asleep.
When she finally awoke, it was to a dark, empty bedchamber. The smoldering embers in the hearth gave off precious little light. No one, it seemed, had seen fit to rekindle them.
A quick scan of the room told her that Mairghread was gone. The only sign that the old woman had been there at all was the goblet of what Gabrielle presumed was wine sitting on the table beside the bed.
Clutching the covers close, she struggled to sit up, then took the metal goblet and lifted it to her lips. Her eyes were watery, her temples throbbed, and her mouth felt drier than the Cheviot Hills in summer. A sip of cool wine would sit well right now and do much to improve her flagging spirits.
Gabrielle tried to sniff the contents, but her nose was too stuffy. Thirsty, she took a deep sip. A fit of coughing tore through her body as she choked the stuff down. The fiery brew coated her tongue like molten lava, scorching a path down her already gritty and sore throat. Stinging tears dripped hotly down her cheeks, splashing unnoticed on her forearm as she coughed and gasped and wheezed for precious breath.
That was not wine. Oh, nay, nothing so bland. That was a large-size helping of strong Scots whisky. The liquor had been mildly diluted with water and lemon, yet neither could take away its sting. Had her sense of smell not abandoned her, Gabrielle would have recognized the pungent fumes immediately.
Gradually the sting on her tongue started to fade, as did the burn in her throat. A warm, not entirely unpleasant glow swirled in her nearly empty stomach. The heat seeped outward, radiating throughout the rest of her body like the ripples of a stone tossed in a calm lake.
Another clap of thunder rattled the shutters. Last night's storm had returned with force; slashing rain and wind settled around Bracklenaer like a dark, heavy blanket.
Gabrielle sneezed and gave a half-hearted sniffle. Truth to tell, it was a blessing the weather hadn't been this bad
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