The Stolen Princess (15 page)

“If you really don't mind, Your Highness.” Mrs. Barrow passed her a jar. “Rub this salve into the cuts and bruises on his back. He can do the front himself, but he can't reach the back.”

“Of course I don't mind. It's my fault he was injured in the first place,” Callie said.

“Rub it in well. It's my own special mix. It'll help loosen up the tightness and help him to heal faster. But it has to go on after all the leeches are finished—they can't abide the smell.” The elderly woman hurried out and they were left alone.

“I don't mind blood, you know,” Callie said defensively, even though he hadn't said a word and she had her back to him so she couldn't see his face. But she was sure he must be laughing at her.

“Really?”

“I've tended some quite serious injuries and not turned a hair. And vomit—I have cleaned that up before. I didn't mind.” Much.

“Dear me.”

“And pus. I've dealt with pus and I wasn't the least bit sick.” Not true. She had felt quite ill when that pus had come gushing out of Papa's swollen leg that time, but she wouldn't have Gabriel thinking she was some sort of weakling who felt ill at the sight of a small black leech.

“Even pus, eh? Well, well, well.”

He was laughing at her, she could tell by the way his voice quivered. She turned to glare at him, but was forced to turn her back again, quickly.

The wormlike creatures fastened under his eye had thickened, like slugs, engorged with his blood. The creatures dotted his torso, clinging to every major bruise, feeding off his body.

“I don't know why it works,” he told her, “but it does and it's painless. And see? The salve works—one sniff and they drop off.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

Silence fell.

“So,” he said after a moment or two, “while we're sitting here waiting for these things to finish their picnic, how about you tell me how a girl born in England came to be a princess of Zindaria?”

“My father was English, but Mama was a princess. Papa was ambitious. He'd inherited a substantial fortune, but his birth was merely genteel, so he found and married a princess—”

“Just like that, eh? How did he manage it?” Gabe inquired. “I have a friend who'd like to marry an heiress.”

“Oh, Mama wasn't an heiress, only royal. She was the youngest daughter of the house of Blenstein, hereditary rulers of the tiny and very poor Principality of Blenstein before it was absorbed by the Austrian Empire, but she was a princess, and that was all that mattered to Papa.”

“And you were born here.”

“Yes, in Kent.”

“So how did you end up married to the prince of Zindaria?” he asked, adding, “Those leeches have finished now; they drop off when they're full. You can turn around.”

Callie turned cautiously. “Good heavens.” The swollen eye was no longer so swollen. He could see out of it almost normally and the darkening color had faded considerably. There were two small bloody marks where the leeches had been.

“It's amazing, isn't it,” he agreed. “All the bad blood is inside them,” he said, holding out his hand. In his palm lay two bloated black leeches, now the size of giant slugs.

“Eeyech.” Callie averted her eyes and waited until he'd dropped the leeches back into the jar.

“There really is no need for you to accompany me,” she told him. “If we leave here quickly, Count Anton will be none the wiser. Nicky and I will do very well by ourselves. I did get him across Europe without assistance, you know.”

“I know, and I'm impressed. Nevertheless I shall escort you. You can't pretend you wouldn't welcome an extra source of protection for your son.”

She couldn't. She'd be happy to have some protection. She just didn't want it to be him. He unsettled her, the way he looked at her, teased her, treated her as something fragile and precious when she knew she wasn't at all fragile. And nobody had ever thought of her as precious.

It was very seductive to be treated like that, and she had no wish to be seduced in
any
sense of the word.

She'd fallen into that trap before. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

The kisses in the stable had been difficult enough to resist, but if she lived to be a hundred, she wouldn't forget that kiss he'd given her as he went off to rescue Tibby.

Hard. Possessive. Passionate.

She didn't want to be squashed into a carriage for hours on end with a man who thought nothing of kissing a woman he barely knew, and whose kisses made her forget all her resolutions and go weak at the knees.

Besides he was bossy. Really bossy. All her life she'd been ordered around by men, her wishes ignored, her opinions spurned. Finally she was free: as a widow she owed obedience to no man.

And no man was ever going to take that freedom from her. Not even a blue-eyed devil who kissed like a dream.

But there was her son to think of. Gabriel had offered to protect Nicky as well. She knew he'd protect her and her son or die trying. One couldn't ask for more.

But it was a lot to ask of a man, especially when you offered him nothing in return.

“You can't risk your son's safety merely because you're cross with me,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, astonished. Was the man some kind of mind-reading warlock? But he was right. Despite her reservations about him, he was a strong, honorable, protective man and she would be criminally foolish to turn down his offer of protection.

“I will accept your escort, thank you,” she told him.

Gabriel would protect her son from Count Anton.

And she would protect herself from Gabriel.

“Excellent. Now, for the salve.” He picked up a clean cloth and dabbed at the small bloody leech bites. The bruised red marks all over his body were less red and angry-looking. He saw her watching and said, “Shall we go into the sitting room? It gets the afternoon sun and I believe Barrow has lit a fire in there, so it will be nice and warm, and you can put the salve on me there in private.”

Callie wondered briefly what he suddenly wanted privacy for—after all, he'd sat, unashamed and unembarrassed, naked to the waist in front of Tibby and her, but he'd already picked up the salve and a large green tin and headed out, so she followed.

The green tin proved to contain jam tarts and Gabriel stood in the sunlight that streamed through the big bay window munching them. His body was powerful, though not in the thick-muscled way that Rupert was powerful.

Gabriel's body was lithe, sleek, and hard…He was like a Greek statue in the sunlight, only warm and made of muscle and bone.

She glanced up, to discover he'd been observing her examination of his naked torso. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “Just checking where I need to put that stuff,” she muttered. “Turn around.”

“You'll need this,” he said softly and held out the pot of salve. She took it and he turned his back to her.

She'd never really looked at a man's back before—not naked and not up this close. Rupert was the only man she'd ever seen even partially unclothed. Rupert had been a man of physical modesty; he'd kept his nightshirt on at all times.

This was…extraordinary. Broad and powerful, with smooth, golden skin, as if he took his shirt off in the sunlight often.

The recent scrapes and bruises overlaid other older scars: the mark of a blade here, the round puckered scar of a bullet, perhaps, there. Testament of battles fought and survived. A hardened, experienced warrior.

I will protect you,
he'd said.

She uncorked the pot of salve and sniffed it cautiously. It was pungent, but pleasant, too. A thick muddy green in color, she could smell camphor, marigolds, mint, and the bitterness of pennyroyal perhaps, as well as other herbs. She sniffed again. Maybe myrrh, too. “What's in this, do you know?”

He shrugged. “I'm not completely sure, but I expect it will contain goldenseal, plantain, and Saint-John's-wort, as well as comfrey root. Mrs. Barrow used to send us to collect the herbs when I was a boy. The knowledge came in very useful when we were at war.

Carefully, gently, she smoothed salve into the abraded flesh. The cool ointment warmed under her palm, absorbing the warmth of his body and flowing over the planes and hollows of his back.

“Tell me about Tibby,” he said after a while. “You have, I think, a closer relationship with her than most women do with their old governess.”

“Yes, Tibby is a darling. She was, in many respects, like a mother to me. My father was very…particular about my education. He had plans for a brilliant marriage for me.”

“And he succeeded.”

“Yes.” Callie dipped into the pot and scooped out another fingerful of salve. She refused to think about her successful, brilliant marriage. She took an odd comfort from kneading and massaging the firm, warm flesh beneath her hands.

“How did it come about?”

“Papa's original plan was for me to marry the prince regent, but he married Princess Caroline of Brunswick when I was just a little girl, so Papa was forced to look to European courts for a suitable husband for me. He went off on a tour of the various European courts, leaving me in England with Tibby, to grow up and become educated.”

“He left you behind? Why? And how did you feel about it?”

Callie thought about it as she rubbed salve up and down the strong ridge of muscle that enclosed his spine. “I think he thought he could arrange a better marriage for me sight unseen.” The way she'd turned out had been a crushing blow to Papa. He'd made no secret of his frustration that she'd taken after his side of the family in looks, instead of the tall, cool blondes of her mother's family. Had Callie been a beauty, she could have married into one of the great royal families, instead of a small obscure principality.

“I didn't mind being left behind,” she said. “In a way, it was a relief.”

“Good God, why?”

“I never could do anything to Papa's satisfaction. I was a thorn in his side, really—not a drop of royal blood visible in me. I'm too short, too plump, my face is too round and with an undistinguished snub nose. And I have a great many character faults as well.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, I'm argumentative, stubborn—”

“I've noticed that.”

She slapped a glop of cold ointment on him. He chuckled. “I know, I asked for that.”

“And I cannot seem to be interested in the
important
things.”

“And what were the important things?”

“Oh, you know, etiquette, diplomacy, female accomplishments—I mean, what is the
point
of embroidery?” She rolled her eyes. “The palace was full of the most hideous, perfectly executed pieces of embroidery—cushions, hangings, screens—you name it, so there was no need for any more. But no, I must embroider.”

“So, you hate sewing.”

“No, I quite like sewing, but I like it to be useful. But a princess should do nothing useful. Or interesting.” She laughed wryly, thinking about it. “I don't know who was more frustrated by me, Papa or Rupert.”

The happiest time of her life was when she'd lived with Tibby, she thought—apart from when Nicky was born. Tibby never expected her to be someone else. Tibby liked her the way she was. And Tibby was interested in all kinds of different, unsuitable things and had encouraged Callie to be, too.

Saving Nicky was the reason she'd fled Zindaria, but it was for both their sakes that she'd fled to Tibby. She'd planned to make a new life for herself as well as Nicky, where both of them could live without the constant criticism.

Tibby had always wanted a child. Callie knew that. Just as she used to pretend in her heart of hearts that Tibby was her mother, Tibby pretended that Callie was her daughter.

Now Count Anton had ruined that dream, as well. She could never go back to living with Tibby now Count Anton knew where she lived. She rubbed harder.

Gabe arched his back into the sensuous rubbing he was receiving and thought about what she'd told him. “So while Napoleon was doing his best to gobble up Europe, your father was doing the grand tour and interviewing potential royal sons-in-law. Didn't Boney cramp his style at all?”

“Oh, indeed yes,” she told him. “Napoleon kept taking over the royal houses of Europe and making his own relatives into kings and queens. Papa was utterly furious about it. Napoleon came from very common stock, you know. Not at all good ton. And his conquests ruined some quite good chances for me, so Papa was forced to look further afield. He found it all terribly inconvenient.”

Gabe spluttered at this novel view of the conquest of Europe. He was almost sorry he hadn't met Papa.

“Papa was quite relieved when he got Prince Rupert to accept me. Rupert didn't care about looks or fortune—just blood. Mama's family was poor, but enormously distinguished. Rupert took bloodlines very seriously—well, he would, being a horse breeder.”