The Stolen Princess (3 page)

“You'll do nothing of the sort!”

“That's your last word?”

She gave him a stiff little nod. “It is.”

“Excellent,” said Gabriel and before she knew it, he lifted her by the waist and set her sideways onto the horse. Trojan, bless him, stood steady as a rock. Almost in the same movement, Gabe swung up behind her and wrapped one arm firmly around her waist before she could jump off. She gave a small, stifled scream.

In her hand she still clutched the stone he'd given her. She raised her fist and waved it, fraught with indecision. Gabe waited.

Trojan stamped his hooves and moved restlessly.

She gasped and dropped the stone. Her free arm flailed desperately, touched Trojan's mane, recoiled, and then groped around for something to hang on to. She found Gabe's thigh. And gripped it tight.

He held out his hand to the boy, perched on the rocky ledge, watching unhappily. “Come on, Nicky, take my hand.”

The child hesitated. Both of them were scared stiff of Trojan, Gabe saw.

“I promise you won't fall. Just take my hand and I'll swing you up behind me.”

Again the boy shook his head.

“N-Nicky can't ride,” she told him through clenched teeth.

Gabe said patiently, “I'm not asking him to. I'll do the riding. All he has to do is sit behind me and hang on.”

“I can't ride, either.” Her hand gripped him tightly.

“I know. I'm holding you safe, see?” He squeezed her waist gently. She was sitting so rigidly he could snap her in two. “I'll hold him safe, too.”

She said in a voice that shook, “If one of your hands is holding me and the other is for Nicky, who will hold the horse?”

“I will. With my thighs.”

“Your
what
?” Faint outrage showed through the terror.

He smiled to himself. She obviously had no idea it was his thigh she was hanging on to with all her might. “They're very strong thighs, and he's a very well-behaved horse. Now come on, Nicky, that rain is almost upon us. Get on.”

As he spoke several large drops of rain pattered down. “Do it, Nicky,” she said at last.

His misgivings obvious, the child hesitantly reached out and took hold of Gabe's arm.

“Good boy. Now put your left foot on my boot here and when I give you the word, jump and swing your right leg over the horse behind me. You're perfectly safe. I won't let you drop.” The boy obeyed, closing his eyes and making a blind leap of faith. In a moment he was seated behind Gabe on Trojan.

“Now lift my coat over the top of you so that when the rain starts, you don't get wet. You can hold onto my belt or my waist, whichever you prefer,” Gabe told him. He felt the coat lift, then two little arms wrapped around his waist in a convulsive grip.

Gabe nudged his horse and Trojan moved off as the rain started. The woman and boy clutched on to Gabe like grim death.

Icy needles of rain pelted down on Gabe's face and trickled down the inside of his coat. He was cold and wet and he should have been miserable.

Instead, he grinned, suddenly exhilarated. Until an hour ago his life had stretched out before him, an endless stretch of pointlessness and ease. A life sentence of tranquility.

Now, suddenly—blessedly!—he had a problem, a difficulty, trouble. And she was sitting rigid and unbending in his arms like a small, wet piece of wood, her eyes screwed tight shut, clutching his thigh as if she would never let go; his own little piece of trouble.

It suited Gabe perfectly.

C
allie closed her eyes and clung on, enduring. If she'd thought this man threatened her son in any way, she would have fought him, but he'd been kind to Nicky, and to her, she admitted. Besides, she was all out of fight. She didn't know where he was taking her, but it couldn't be worse than trudging along a dark cliff top in freezing rain, not knowing where she was.

The worst thing was the horse.

She loathed horses. She hadn't been on one since she was six and Mama…She shivered, seeing it in her mind, as vividly as if it were yesterday, the horse's hoof smashing into Mama's head. And the blood…

Even Rupert hadn't been able to get her near a horse again.

But if it meant Nicky would be taken to warmth and safety sooner, well, she could put up with anything.

“Nicky, are you all right?” she called.

“Yes, Mama.” She felt the flutter of small fingers against her waist and she clutched her son's hand thankfully. Her own personal lifeline.

“The coat has several capes,” Gabriel Renfrew told her, his breath warm against her ear. “Nicky is warm and dry, so stop worrying about him. You, on the other hand, are frozen. Lean back against me and I'll button my coat closed. We'll all be warmer that way.”

But Callie could not bring herself to move. If she did, she was sure she'd fall off.

“Don't worry, I have you safe,” he said again. The deep rumble of his voice was soothing, but still she couldn't bring herself to change her posture one iota. She sat with a spine so straight she barely touched him, her eyes shut tight, her hand clinging to Nicky's fingers.

He sighed and pulled her right against his chest. “Now lean against me while I see to this.”

Callie opened her eyes for a brief moment, then squeezed them shut, instantly. He was buttoning up the coat. With both hands. Nobody was holding the reins of the horse. She couldn't bear to look.

“It's all right to breathe, you know,” he murmured in her ear. “There, that's better. Comfortable?”

Comfortable?
On a
horse
? She shuddered.

“Pommel sticking into you, is it?” He adjusted her position so she sat across his lap, held firmly in a circle made up of his arm and his broad, warm chest, cocooned within his coat.

“This is kidnapping,” she muttered.

“Yes, disgraceful, I know. But what could I do? You were all wet and cold.”

“So are you, now,” she pointed out.

“Ah, but a misery shared is a misery halved. Not that I'm the least bit miserable,” he added.

Neither was Callie. She felt warm and, strangely, almost safe—despite the fact that she was on a horse. And forced into an intimate position with a man she'd never met.

It was most…unsettling, the feeling of his thigh under her bottom, shifting with each movement of the horse, hard and muscular. And the heat and hardness of his chest against her…breast. And his arms, bracketing her body, so warm and strong and intimate.

But his big, strong body threw out the warmth her body craved and she was cold, so very cold. Gradually, almost against her will, she pressed herself closer to him, her frozen body greedily soaking up the heat and the strength of him.

Her cheek rested against the fine linen of his shirt. He smelled of horse and cologne and leather and wood smoke…and the skin of a man…

She fancied she could hear his heart beating, a steady, soothing thump, thump, thump…

It was strange, she thought; Rupert had smelled of horse and cologne and leather, too, but it was very different.

Stop it! she told herself. This kind of stupid imagining, this stupid longing for something she knew she couldn't have, had made her miserable in the past. She was older and wiser now. She would make her own happiness, not depend on others—on men—for it.

She was in England and would be safe with Tibby very soon. This…
weakness
was just because she was cold and wet and tired. And because he was big and warm and strong.

That was the trouble. Because he was bigger and stronger, he'd got his own way. As men always did. Men never listened. Callie had had enough of it. Once she got to Tibby's she'd never have to take orders from a man again.

“Are you warmer, now?” he said. His voice was deep and the rumble of it reverberated in his chest, against her cheek.

“Yes,” she said, and her conscience forced her to add, “Thank you.”

“Nicky,” he said in a louder voice, “We're going to go faster, so hold on tight.”

Callie heard a muffled assent from Nicky. He didn't sound worried. But then the horse lengthened its strides and she closed her eyes and clung on tight, trying not to see the flashing hooves in her mind, concentrating on the man who held her so securely, even though the rest of the world was bouncing up and down…

“W
e're here,” the deep voice said in her ear sometime later. “Are you awake?”

Callie opened her eyes and stared up at him.
“Awake?”
she exclaimed incredulously. “Of course I'm awake!”

“Really?” She saw a flash of white teeth as he grinned. She turned her head to see where “here” was.

It was a substantial house, built of stone and rising to three stories, with dormer windows set into a slate roof. A single wisp of smoke curled lazily from one of many chimneys.

They rode under a decorative stone arch into a cobbled courtyard. A large black dog ran out barking but its barks turned to wriggles of silent pleasure as it recognized its master.

“Where are we?” she demanded, stiffening. “I thought…This isn't Lulworth.”

“I didn't say I'd take you to Lulworth. It's too far on a night like this and even Trojan has his limits.”

“Then where—”

“Welcome to my home,” he said.

H
is home.

Whoever had built the house had liked light, Callie thought; the front of the house was almost all windows. As they rounded the side, heading for the stables, she saw a huge octagonal bay window rising almost the entire height of the wall. It would no doubt flood with sunshine during the day.

Now, the house was dark and still, except for a single lantern left burning around the back. Through the icy drizzle, the golden glimmer of light looked homey and welcoming, but they made straight for the arched entrance of the stables.

Her insides were hollow with apprehension. He'd brought them to his home. Why? All sorts of possibilities clamored in her brain. She couldn't think straight.

It was so difficult, deciding who she could trust and who she couldn't. Knowing her son's life depended on the judgments and choices she made. Her record so far of judging a man was woeful.

Once inside Gabriel Renfrew eased the horse to a halt. “Nicky, give me your hand and I'll swing you down.”

Nicky dismounted and skittered away from the horse as quickly as he could, stumbling in his haste.

“He won't hurt you, I promise.” He turned to Callie. “I'll dismount first and then I'll help you—”

She jumped down, and like her son, shot to a safe distance. Gabe began to unsaddle his horse.

“You're doing that yourself?” she exclaimed.

“There's nobody else to do it at the moment. Barrow, my groom, is spending a few days in Poole with Mrs. Barrow. I won't be a moment.”

“I'll do that, Mr. Gabe,” a voice said from behind. He turned. A middle-aged man hurried toward them, dressed in a nightshirt stuffed into a pair of trousers and a loosely laced pair of boots. His sparse hair stuck up around a red flannel nightcap.

“Barrow! I thought you were staying in Poole until the end of the week.”

Barrow shook his head. “Changed me mind after a couple of days. Too much petticoat government! A man can't breathe. Four women in a small cottage and three of them widows!” He gave a hunted look as he took the reins from his hands. “Don't look at me like that, Mr. Gabe. Until you've experienced it, you don't know. My Bess is a fine woman, but the fuss her ma and sisters make!” He shuddered. “And every dratted bit of furniture, every chair, every table, even the sideboard, is covered with little crocheted…
things
!”

He shook his head. “No, we done what we went for, caught up with her ma and sisters and hired us some likely lads for the stable.” He added with a grim smile, “I should warn you, Mr. Gabe, Mrs. B. has plans for some help in the house, too, now you're home. I'll be going back there come in a few days to fetch them all. Need a wagon, I will. You shoulda been there to keep her in check.”

He glanced over at Callie and winked. “Not that any man can keep my Bessie in check, but Mr. Gabe—”

“Mr. Gabe wouldn't dream of attempting any such thing,” Gabe interrupted him. “I have far too much respect for her.”

Barrow chuckled. “Far too much respect for her cooking, you mean. And who do we have here? Guests is it? Nasty night to be caught out in.” He beamed at the bedraggled pair.

“Yes, this lady and her son, Nicky,” Gabe told him.

“Mrs. B. will be well pleased.” He eyed Nicky, then—amazingly—winked at Callie. “You watch out for that boy, missy. My missus dearly loves to get her hands on a boy.”

Callie put her arm protectively around Nicky. She wasn't going to let any strange woman get her hands on Nicky and she had never been winked at by anyone, let alone a groom!

Rupert would have had the man flogged.

She was very glad Rupert wasn't here. It made her ill when he had people flogged.

Barrow continued, “I'll see to Trojan, Mr. Gabe, while you take these two into the warmth. She looks worn to a thread, poor little lass.”

The poor little lass closed her mouth. She was worn to a thread. And it was having a bad effect on her temper. She'd been ready to snap the nose of a kindly older man, only for being overly familiar. She used to be gracious and even-tempered. She would be gracious and even-tempered again, she resolved, as soon as she discovered who these people were and where they had taken her and her son. And as soon as she stopped shivering.

If she was behaving like a shrew, well, there had been provocation. Several provocations. Being dumped into the freezing sea, then being ridden over, kidnapped, and forced to ride a horse was not conducive to graciousness. Nor was constant fear.

“Yes, she's exhausted,” the current provocation agreed. “She's had a trying time of it, I fear. Wet, cold, lost her luggage, and she's hurt herself into the bargain.”

“
I
didn't hurt
myself
!” she said indignantly. “Your horse
kicked
me!”

“What, Trojan? Never!” Barrow exclaimed in amazement. “He's as gentle as a puppy, aren't you, my beauty?” he crooned to the horse.

“To be fair to the horse, you did fling yourself under his hooves,” Mr. Gabe said.

“Oh, yes, by all means let us be fair to the horse!” To Barrow she explained, “He just happened to be jumping that dreadful creature over my son's head at the time. I took exception to it.”

“Mr. Gabe? Jump his horse over a child?” Barrow exclaimed in horror. “I don't believe it.”

Mr. Gabe said nothing. A small smile hovered around his lips and his eyes rested on Callie with a lazy appreciation.

Callie pushed back her hair and avoided his gaze. The knot had come undone and her hair draggled everywhere in damp strings. She knew she looked a sight.

“Mr. Gabe…you're smiling!” the groom exclaimed as if that was something amazing.

Callie's stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. She coughed to cover the dreadful sound.

Barrow's smile broadened. “Take your young lady inside and feed her. What did you say your name was, Miss?”

“Prin—” Callie caught herself in time. “Pr—Prynne,” she said, feeling her blush deepening and hoping they would notice nothing amiss. Her tiredness had made her forget for a moment who she was—or rather who she was pretending to be.

“I am Mrs. Prynne, and this is my son, Nicholas.”

She glanced at Nicky, who'd squatted down to pat the dog. At her introduction he rose and gave a formal little bow. Callie bit her lip. She should not be teaching her son to lie and pretend with such facility, but she had no choice. They'd used several different names already in their journey. This was the first time she'd slipped and almost said Princess. She was so tired.

And that man had distracted her. She darted a glance to see if Mr. Gabe had noticed the pause or not and found he was watching Nicky with a faint frown. Perhaps he didn't like her son patting his dog.

“Nicky,” she said quietly and gestured for him to leave the dog. Nicky moved to her side. His limp was worse than usual; the cliff climb on top of their long journey had worn him to a thread.

“How d'ye do, ma'am,” Barrow said. “So, you're a widow, eh?”

She blinked. The habit of common people to ask direct, personal questions still shocked her a little. It was not polite to inquire so intimately of a stranger. But she had the response to this one off by heart—she'd learned by hard experience which answer served her and Nicky best.

“No, of course not. My husband was delayed on the road and is a short way behind us.” Too late she realized she should have said he was delayed at sea. Or something. She darted another glance at Mr. Renfrew. He knew she'd come by boat. She bit her lip and tried to look indifferent.

He looked down at her, an odd look on his face. “I think, Mrs. Prynne, that you are quite at the end of your tether,” he said softly. “And so is your son. Come on, let's get you both into the warmth.”

Nicky took two ragged steps and without hesitation, Mr. Renfrew scooped him up and carried him from the stable.

She ran after him. “What are you doing?”

“He's hurt himself. Didn't you see he was limping? Badly, too.” To Nicky he said, “Don't worry, lad, we'll see that foot seen to.”

“But—” she began, then stopped. Nicky had made no attempt to resist, which was unlike him. He must really be exhausted.

“Prynne,” Gabriel Renfrew said as they crossed the courtyard. “Interesting name. A Quaker, are you?”

“No.”

He carried Nicky into a large, open country kitchen. It was a cozy room, with copper pots gleaming in the lamplight and the smells of food and herbs. An enormous scrubbed wooden table stood in the center, with a dozen ladder-back chairs surrounding it.

A tall, plump middle-aged woman stood waiting for them, a dress thrown over her nightgown, a shawl knotted around her shoulders and an apron over them all. Mrs. Barrow, Callie presumed.

“'Tis a dreadful night!” she said. “Put the wee lad and the lady by the fire, Mr. Gabe. There's hot water on the stove. I'll go and make up a bed in the blue room.”

Despite the size of the room and the stone-flagged floors, it was warm inside. The fire in the big cast-iron kitchen range glowed through the grill.

“Here you go.” He set Nicky on his feet on a plaited rag rug in front of the kitchen range. “Sit down, both of you, and get yourselves warm.”

“Thank you.” She sat gratefully, soaking up the warmth, while Nicky sank onto the rug. The size, cleanliness, and homeyness of the room was reassuring. Too many people had lied to her for her to trust strangers easily, but a well-scrubbed kitchen was…different.

Villains could be clean and homey, too, she reminded herself. Probably. She might be exhausted—she could not recall when she'd last had a good night's sleep—but she needed to stay on her guard. Her journey was far from over.

Mr. Renfrew took off his wet overcoat and hung it on a nail at the back door. He removed his damp coat and waistcoat and hung them on the back of a chair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, opened the stove door, and stirred the glowing coals.

She stared at his bare, tanned forearms and large, strong hands as he methodically fed small chips of wood into the coals, then larger pieces. He applied a pair of bellows and flames flickered up, gilding his profile, highlighting the bold nose and the hard angles and shadows of his face.

She gazed at the strong column of Mr. Renfrew's throat and the clean line of his jaw. His shirt was open at the neck. The flames leapt and crackled. His face was lit by fire. She shouldn't be staring, but she had to keep her eyes open to stop from falling asleep, and he was there, right in front of her.

He was not a pretty man, not handsome in the way of the young men Callie had admired as a girl, and yet he was…beautiful in a strange way. Hard and strong and ruthless-looking. A clean-limbed, sculpted warrior, pared down to the essentials. Formidable.

He'd ridden roughshod over her, ignoring her stated wishes completely, and yet, physically, he'd treated her and her son with surprising gentleness. She felt cared for, protected…

He straightened, and she couldn't help but look at him. He wore high boots and buckskin breeches, which were damp and clung to his long, hard, masculine frame. His legs were long and lean and hard-muscled. He'd told her his thighs were strong, she recalled. They looked…strong.

Rupert's thighs had been strong too. She supposed all horsemen's thighs were, but Rupert's had been somehow…meatier.

He finished stoking the fire and turned to Nicky. “Now, let's have a look at that leg.”

Nicky pulled back, ashamed. “It's all right,” he muttered.

“Don't be frightened. I'm not going to hurt you, but you were limping quite badly before and it doesn't do to neglect an injury, take it from an old soldier.”

Nicky looked away. “It's nothing.”

“Nicky's leg was injured at birth,” Callie said stiffly. “It's more noticeable when he's tired, that's all.” Each time Nicky had to explain it, she felt the knife turn in her breast. It was her fault, she knew, that her son had to bear this burden. She braced herself for what would come next—the embarrassment, or the hearty reassurance, or the questions.

Mr. Renfrew surprised her. “That's all right then,” he said in a matter-of-fact way to Nicky. “I was worried I'd hurt you, as well as your mother. In that case, how about you fetch me some clean towels from the linen press, Nick—that's the cupboard over there—and I'll fetch some hot water.”

Nicky hurried off. Callie gave Gabriel Renfrew a silent look of gratitude. Very few men of her acquaintance made a small, crippled boy feel useful.

He took a paper spill from a small tin on the mantel over the fire, lit it, then stood to light the lantern that hung overhead. He had to reach to do it and she couldn't help but stare at the way his shirt pulled tight against his deep, powerful chest. There looked to be no softness in the man at all.