The Stolen Princess (10 page)

Papa would have said,
A princess does not raise her voice, Callie. A princess is not a fishwife. A princess remains serene and dignified at all times.

Callie
had
lost her temper. She
had
raised her voice. For all she knew she'd even screeched like a fishwife—she'd certainly poked him in the chest like one. She had been neither serene, nor dignified.

And it had felt wonderful.

Callie stared at the bird-portion sliver of bacon on her fork.

All forms of pork are anathema to any female of taste.
Rupert's voice echoed in her head.

“Is something wrong with your bacon?” A deep voice interrupted her thoughts. “Mine is delicious.”

Callie blinked at the man sitting across from her. “No. No,” she said thoughtfully. “There's nothing wrong with it at all.” She stabbed her fork into the pile of bacon and cut herself a proper mouthful. She chewed it slowly, savoring it.

Heavenly.

She could feel his disturbing blue gaze and decided she didn't care a rap for it. She ate another piece of bacon and another. She ate some of the scrambled eggs. They were creamy and delicious. She ate some more bacon.

He grinned at her. “Told you the bacon is good, didn't I? I can't tell you how I missed the smell of bacon—good, home-cured English bacon. There's nothing like it.”

She looked down at her plate and blinked. She'd eaten the entire mound of bacon. And the eggs. And she felt wonderful. She'd been so hungry.

“I like to see a woman with a good, healthy appetite.”

She gave him a narrow look, not sure how to take his words. He was probably hinting that she'd eaten like a horse, but Callie didn't care. It was none of his business—besides, he was supposed to like horses, so there.

Not that she cared what anyone thought of her anymore. She owed no obedience to anyone anymore. She was free, she told herself incredulously. Free to say what she liked, do what she liked, eat what she liked.

It was a heady sensation.

The door opened and Jim came in with a pile of toast followed by Nicky with honey, marmalade, and butter.

“Shall I butter your toast while it's still hot?” Gabriel asked as the two boys bounced from the room.

“No, thank you.” She took a sip of tea: weak, black, and unsweetened.

He spread butter on the toast with a lavish hand. “Marmalade? Mrs. Barrow's finest.”

Callie looked at the toast, melting with butter. She'd indulged herself with the bacon and eggs. Eating like a horse was one thing: like a pig was quite another. “No, thank you.”

“Honey then. Good choice. You'll find it interesting as well as delicious. Our bees forage for nectar among the seaside plants and it gives the honey a unique flavor.” He drizzled honey on a slice of toast and passed it to her. She should not. She really should not.

Weakly she accepted it. She bit into the warm, crunchy toast and closed her eyes in bliss, feeling the honey and melting butter slide down her throat.

“Told you it was delicious,” he said, his voice oozing with satisfaction. “Nearly as delicious-tasting as you.”

Her eyes flew open. “You, sir, are a shocking flirt. One should be free of such things at breakfast!”

She blinked. She'd just reprimanded a man at his own table. She glanced at him from under her lashes.

He seemed amused. “Anything and everything is on the menu here at the Grange. Kisses before breakfast, flirtation as an appetizer.”

She wondered what he'd offer for the main course. And then was shocked with the direction of her thoughts.

“Careful, you're dripping honey down your wrist.”

She snatched up her linen napkin and wiped the honey that had dripped onto her hand.

“I could always lick it clean for you—”

She gave him a warning look.

“Like a cat, I meant,” he said with mock innocence. “You like cats, remember? Lovely sensuous creatures, cats.”

Callie decided it was more prudent to become interested in the pattern of the curtains. She hoped she wasn't blushing. She felt a little hot.

He certainly was a bothersome man.

He poured himself some more coffee and crunched through a pile of toast. She waited politely until he had finished, and the moment he had, she said, “Thank you so much for your hospitality and care, but we really should be leaving.”

“Stay a few more days.”

“Thank you, but it's not possible.”

“It's perfectly possible. Stay and rest. There are lilac shadows under those lovely eyes.”

Callie tried not to blush. “My shadows are none of your business,” she said with quiet dignity.

“While you are on my land and under my roof, they are.”

“I am leaving your land and your roof,” she reminded him.

He frowned. “And where are you planning to go? Last night you were bent on getting to Lulworth.”

She nodded. “Yes. The boat was supposed to take us right into Lulworth Cove, which is, I understand, an excellent safe harbor, but when it came to the point the captain simply refused!”

He shrugged. “Not surprising, if you travel with smugglers.”

“They weren't smugglers. I would never risk my son to smugglers!”

He raised his eyebrows. “No, of course not, that's why they dropped you at Brandy Bay.” He saw she didn't understand and added, “So named for all the smuggled French brandy landed there over the years. A landing place known well to men of the smuggling trade.”

“Perhaps, but they weren't smuggling anything.”

“Except you and your son.”

She frowned, not liking to think of herself and Nicky as smuggled goods. “You may think what you like. One of the sailors explained to me the real reason they couldn't enter Lulworth Cove. It was because there were too many
preventives
in the harbor.”

He gave a shout of laughter. “And what might
preventives
be, my pretty innocent?”

“Don't call me that,” she told him. “I admit that I don't precisely know what a preventive is, but I imagine it causes some sort of obstacle, perhaps a large and dangerous creature—”

He grinned. “Indeed it is. A preventive is an officer of the law, employed to prevent smuggling.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. So, don't you think it's time to tell me what sort of trouble you're in? Respectable, married ladies, or even young widows of a year's duration do not commonly hire smugglers.”

Callie bit her lip. “No, I'm sorry, but it's better for you—safer, I mean—if you don't know anything about me.”

He gave her a long look. “I don't know what country you've come from, but you've got things confused about how it is here. Things have come to a pretty pass when a woman and child must see to the protection of a grown man.”

He folded his napkin and put it to one side. “So, who's the friend at Lulworth?”

Callie gave him a troubled look. “I'm not sure if I should tell you.”

He frowned. “So, it's a man.”

She gave him an indignant look. “No, it certainly is not! Tibby, Miss Tibthorpe, is my old governess.”

“In that case you're definitely not going.”

Callie's jaw dropped at the high-handedness of it. “Indeed I am! Where I go has nothing to do with you.”

“You're a fugitive and believe yourself and Nicky to be in danger. An elderly governess cannot protect you. I can. You'll remain here.”

His calm assumption of authority irked her. All her life she'd been ordered around, her wishes and feelings ignored.

She put her own napkin aside. “Thank you, but no,” she said crisply. “I have made my plans and Tibby is expecting me. Nobody knows I am going to Tibby.”

“Except Tibby, presumably. I suppose you arranged this visit by letter?”

She knew what he was implying, but she was not as naive as he supposed. “Yes, but the letters were sent secretly through an intermediary.”

He looked skeptical. “Napoleon got some of his best information from letters sent secretly through an intermediary.”

“I know it was a risk, but sometimes one has no choi—”

“Exactly! You have no choice. You must stay here.” He stood up. “I will have a message sent to Miss Tibthorpe—”

“No, you won't.” Callie was getting annoyed. “It is my life and my son, and I need to do what I think is best. You have been very kind, but it is not for you to tell me what I may or may not do. I never met you before last night; you are neither my father nor my husband. You have no authority over me. It would be utterly scandalous of me to take up residence in the house of an unmarried man unrelated to me, and I won't do it.”

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, clearly displeased with this summation. “Nonsense! You forget Mrs. Barrow. She would lend the situation respectability.”

“A cook, however kind and respectable, is not sufficient.”

“Yes, but she's also filling the place with maidservants.” He tucked his chair back under the table and moved to assist her to rise. “It is the most sensible alternative. Nicky will be happy playing with Jim, Mrs. Barrow is in seventh heaven with two young boys to feed and nag. You will remain here.”

“No, I—”

“You are safe here,” he added. “You and Nicky. Nobody else knows you are here. And if they do, I can and will protect you.”

She swallowed. “No, you don't know—”

“I don't care who or what the danger is. I am—I was—a soldier and I can call on my friends to help, if necessary.” His voice deepened. “I promise you I can and will stand between whatever or whoever has made you and Nicky so frightened. You are not alone.”

She blinked as her eyes swelled with sudden tears. Such kindness from a stranger…Who was he, this man? One minute outrageous flirt and the next, masterful protector. And he didn't even know who she was.

That was the trouble. She couldn't tell him, for if he knew, he would be in danger, and so would everyone in this house. People had died already for the sake of Callie and her son. She could not bear the guilt of any more.

It had been against her better judgment to go to Tibby, but Tibby had written that she knew the risks and would never forgive Callie if she didn't come. Tibby had known and loved her since she was a child, the closest thing Callie now had to family.

And Tibby needed her. Tibby was lonely, too. And for Callie to feel needed…she couldn't remember when anyone apart from Nicky had needed her for anything.

“Of course,” he added in a different tone of voice. “I should expect you to protect me in return.”

“What?” Callie's jaw dropped. “Protect you from what?”

“From the wrath of Mrs. Barrow when she finds out I have been feeding my dog deviled kidneys under the table.”

She could not help but smile. “No, you are very kind, and I am grateful, but I could not possibly trespass any longer on your hospitality. Nobody will know I am in Lulworth, and Tibby is expecting me. Nicky and I will depart as soon as is convenient.”

He set his jaw. “I could force you to stay.”

She met his gaze squarely. “But you won't.”

“No,” he growled. “Though it is against my better judgment. I will escort you to this Tibby, but you haven't seen the last of me, I warn you!”

“Is that a threat?” she said coolly.

His eyes suddenly warmed. “No, a promise.”

C
allie came down the stairs, buttoning her gloves. In the hallway sat her salt-stained portmanteau, much lighter than before. As she'd feared, the seawater had ruined many of her clothes, shrinking some garments and causing the dye to run on a red spencer, which had stained everything it touched.

“Nicky,” she called back up the stairs. “Hurry up. Mr. Renfrew will be waiting.”

As she spoke Gabriel stepped into the hallway. He looked up. She froze, immediately feeling self-conscious. Ridiculous, she scolded herself silently. As if she hadn't come down a staircase hundreds of times—with hundreds of people watching her. She was used to people watching her every move, critically assessing her. Usually finding her wanting.

That was the trouble. He wasn't watching her critically at all, even though she was wearing his late great-aunt's old traveling cloak, hastily tacked up at the hem. Mrs. Barrow had pressed it on her. She'd also given Callie one of the old lady's hats, a black felt one with a bunch of purple flowers, just right for a widow.

She forced herself to move, pretending to button her gloves again so she didn't have to meet his eyes and see the warmth there.

“Nicky!” she called again.

“He's down here already,” Gabriel said. “In the kitchen, saying good-bye to the Barrows and Jim. And eating jam tarts, I'll be bound. Mrs. Barrow has made a fresh batch.”

Callie nodded. That deep voice. Even when he uttered the most mundane things, it made her quiver inside. She'd found his offer to protect her very…appealing. Had her situation been different, she might have been tempted to risk it.

He stepped forward and held out his hand as if to assist her down the last few steps, as if she were fragile. She wasn't, not a bit, but she allowed him to tuck her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. At the same time Nicky and his friend, Jim, came into the hall, followed by the Barrows.

“Here, lad, you come back here,” Mrs. Barrow said, and with a swift hand she seized Nicky by the collar and drew him back. “I'll not have any boy leaving my kitchen looking like he'd come from a sty!” With a damp cloth she rubbed jam stains from his face, while Jim, watching his immediate future with foreboding, hurriedly scrubbed at his own mouth with his sleeve.

Nicky submitted to the washcloth with a bemused glance at his mother. He'd never been so summarily manhandled in his life, but from the look of him, he didn't mind at all. Perhaps he enjoyed being treated like an ordinary boy, instead of a prince.

She liked these people. They'd been very good to her and Nicky, but she could not tell them the truth. If they had any idea who she and Nicky were, it would be bound to leak out, and any talk would bring the wrong people to their doorstep.

Callie would never forgive herself if any of them were hurt—or worse—just for giving her and her son succor.

They said their good-byes and Callie reiterated her thanks for their help. But just as they turned toward the front door, there was a loud commotion outside—hoofbeats, dozens of them—as if a small army had arrived.

Count Anton!
Callie grabbed Nicky.

“That'll be Harry. He's early,” said Gabriel and before Callie could warn him, he threw open the front door. To her amazement, instead of Count Anton's liveried cutthroats, nearly a dozen horses passed through the front gates and milled around near the front door.

There were three grooms, each leading two or three riderless horses. A dark-haired, swarthy man mounted on a powerful-looking roan horse seemed to be in charge. Was that Harry? she wondered.

“Good day to you, Captain Renfrew, sir, and where would you have me put these beauties?” he called out in a broad Irish brogue.

“Good God, it's Sergeant Delaney!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Through the archway, Delaney,” he called. “You'll find the stables with no trouble.”

“I'll go and see to it, Mr. Gabe,” Barrow said. “What a fine collection of horses! Good day to you, Ethan,” he called to Delaney.

The dark man's face split with a grin. “Barrow, is it? I didn't know you'd be here. Old home week it is to be sure! You'll take good care of these lovelies, I know.” Delaney dismounted and tossed his reins to one of the grooms. “Right, boys, take 'em round and get 'em settled—Mr. Barrow is in charge. I'll have a word with the captain here.”

The herd of young horses, mainly mares, streamed around the side of the house and disappeared through the arch into the courtyard. At the same time Barrow shot back through the kitchen, the shortcut to the courtyard, followed by Nicky and Jim.

Mr. Ethan Delaney came up the steps, and the two men shook hands. A man of no more than medium height, the Irishman was thickset and powerful. He walked with a roll that was only too familiar to Callie: the walk of a man who'd been practically born on a horse. His tough-looking face and pugilist's build contrasted oddly with his attire, for though he was in riding dress, he was very neatly and stylishly turned out, with shining black boots, an elegant neck cloth, and a well-cut coat of dark blue superfine.

“Where did you spring from, Delaney?” Gabriel exclaimed. “The last time I saw you was at Salamanca, bleeding all over your beautiful uniform like a stuck pig.”

“Your brother ran into me, hanging around Tattersalls.” He shook his head. “I've not exactly been havin' a run o' luck, sir. No London gentlemen wants to take an ageing Irishman on; old soldiers are a penny a dozen. But your brother seemed to think I might be useful for this new scheme of yours, so he's appointed me his head trainer.”

“So I should hope!” Gabe clapped him on the shoulder. “Once they see what a wizard you are with horses, they'll be trying to steal you from Harry.”

“Well, mebbe they'll be findin' I'm not such an easy man to steal,” Delaney said. “Now, do you want to take a look at those horses, Captain?”

Gabe glanced at Callie. “Delaney, this is Mrs. Prynne, who, with her son, have been my guests. I'm about to escort Mrs. Prynne to her friend's house near Lulworth, so I won't have time to look at the horses until after my return.”

“Lulworth is it?” Delaney said after they'd exchanged greetings. “Would you mind if I came with you, then? I picked up a whisper of a stallion near Lulworth that might be for sale, and the sooner we get on to it, the better.” To Gabe he added, “A fellow called Blaxland, a devil for the tables he is and havin' to sell up. The whisper is that he'd sell Thunderbolt for the right sum—”

“Thunderbolt! The derby winner?”

Delaney grinned. “Aye, the very one. Harry and I mean to make Blaxland an offer.”

Gabriel's brows rose. “Harry and you?”

The Irishman nodded. “I've some savings put by, a nest egg. I've been looking for an investment in my future to keep me in my old age.” He shifted awkwardly. “I'd not be just the head trainer but a junior partner—that's if you're amenable, sir.” He eyed the younger man uncertainly. There was a difference in station as well as age here, Callie could see.

Gabriel shrugged. “It's Harry's dream and Harry's scheme, so it's for Harry to say. But if it were up to me, I'd say welcome, Delaney. A man of your talents is a valuable acquisition. You're no shirker and an honest man. We'll work well together.”

The Irishman's face lit up. “That's grand, sir. Harry said you'd not mind, but I wasn't sure. I mean, you're a lord's son, and I'm just a poor bog Irishman—”

“—who's a genius with horses,” Gabriel finished. “Now, I'd rather not keep Mrs. Prynne standing about any longer, so—”

“I am very well able to stand about a little longer,” Callie interposed. “Certainly long enough for Mr. Delaney to refresh himself after his journey. And I can see you're itching to see those horses he's brought, so shall we delay my departure for an hour or two?”

“That's very considerate of you, ma'am,” Delaney said. “Thank you kindly. I'll be off and see the mares are settled and then I'll have a quick wash and brush up. And mebbe a quick cup of tea.” He bowed and hurried off.

Gabriel took Callie's gloved hand. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice, and he raised her hand and kissed it. “We depart for Lulworth in an hour then.”

She blushed as she watched him run down the stairs, two at a time. Even through the glove, she could still feel his kiss.

“T
hat's West Lulworth, down there, and over there is Lulworth Cove.” Gabriel gestured with the handle of his whip. They were traveling in his curricle, a sporty vehicle painted in dark gray with cherry-red trimmings and pulled by two gray horses.

“What a lovely view,” Callie exclaimed, looking at the perfect horseshoe-shaped stretch of water beyond the straggle of thatched cottages that comprised the village. Lulworth Cove shone a dazzling blue in the sunshine. It was dotted with a few small fishing boats and a large, sleek white yacht.

“Where exactly does your friend live?” Gabriel asked.

“A house called Rose Cottage. It's half a mile to the west of the village. There's a kind of map here.” Callie drew a letter from her reticule and gave it to him.

Ethan Delaney rode alongside the curricle, on his big, ugly roan horse. It suited him, Callie thought. Mr. Delaney had the look of a man who'd lived a hard life. He had a large nose that had been broken more than once, a number of scars on his face and hands, a chipped tooth, and an ear that appeared to have been chewed at some stage. His hair was thick and dark, beginning to go gray at the temples, and cut brutally short—to hide the fact that it was curly, she suspected. Yet his waistcoat was splendid, if a trifle loud, and his boots gleamed with polish.

“A grand job you're doing there, young Nicky,” Delaney called out. “It's never your first time with the ribbons!” Nicky straightened his back and gave a quick, shy nod of acknowledgment.

Callie warmed at once to the man. For all his rough looks, Mr. Delaney had a kind heart. Nearly as kind as Gabriel's.

Gabriel had decided to pass the journey showing Nicky how to drive a pair, demonstrating and explaining in a quiet, deep voice. Then, on this open stretch of road he'd handed Nicky the reins, showing him how to hold them and letting him get the feel for himself. No stream of advice to make the boy nervous, no anxiety. He'd simply sat back, trusting Nicky with his precious matched grays.

“Yes, he's a natural,” Gabriel agreed, perusing the letter. “Handles the ribbons with a nice light touch.”

Callie saw her son dart a sideways glance at the big man beside him, trying to gauge if the compliment was genuine or not. He almost visibly swelled with pride as he turned his gaze back to the road, frowning with fierce concentration.

Callie bit her lip. Why could his father not have offered such casual advice and praise? Callie could not remember a single instance when Rupert had told his only son he'd done something well. In his father's eyes, Nicky could never measure up: he was a cripple, therefore an unworthy heir.

Ironic that here, among strangers, her son should begin to blossom. Both of these very different men had shown Nicky casual acceptance and the sort of undemonstrative kindness that only men who were very sure of themselves could show a shy, needy boy.

After a brief perusal of Tibby's letter, Gabriel took the ribbons back from Nicky and turned up a narrow, rutted roadway. After a few minutes, they came to a rose-covered cottage. It stood at the end of a muddy track, too narrow for the curricle to pass. The front door was not visible, but in a window, a curtain twitched.

“Someone's home there,” Gabriel observed.

“I'll nip down and ask,” said Ethan Delaney, and rode his horse down the track. The garden was as neat and well-ordered as a picture, Ethan thought. His footsteps crunched as he walked down the cinder path that led around the side to the entrance.

The front door had a well-polished brass knocker. Ethan rapped a smart tattoo. He was aware of being observed.

There was a short delay before the door opened a crack. A small, pale, severe-looking woman of about thirty-five stood there, looking…angry?

“Can I help you?” she said. Her tone was in direct contradiction to her expression. She fixed him with an intense stare and, in a furtive manner, produced a piece of paper from her sleeve and showed it to him.

Ethan glanced at the paper. It meant nothing to him. “Good day to you, ma'am, I'm wondering if this would be—?”

She shook her head, staring at him so hard he thought her eyes would pop, and thrust the paper at him. Bemused, he took it. “And what would you like me to do with—”

To his astonishment, she reached up and pressed firm fingers over his mouth. “I'm sorry,” she said in a clear voice, “but the place you want is on quite the other side of the village. You have wasted a trip. You must turn around and go the other way.” She pushed urgently at him with her hand, glared at him, and rolled her eyes backward, first right and then left.

Ethan frowned as it dawned on him. She was in trouble. And she was trying to send him away.