The Stolen Princess (5 page)

“Nicky?”

Blessedly, he stirred and opened sleepy eyes.

“Mama.” He smiled, yawned, and dozed off again, snuggling against the man's chest as if perfectly comfortable.

Callie examined him. He looked just as he did every night when she checked him. His breathing was deep and even, his skin slightly flushed in the way children's skin was in sleep. And his eyes just now had been clear, just sleepy. She cupped his cheek. Warm, neither too cool nor too hot.

She started to breathe again.

And then became aware that the man who held her child in his arms was staring down at her, silently absorbing the expressions on her face. She met his gaze. He looked thoughtful, the mobile mouth grim.

“I'm not Long Lankin, you know,” he said quietly.

“Who?”

“A bogeyman in a song from my childhood. Long Lankin was a gentleman who drained the blood of innocent children.”

She reddened. “I didn't think—”

“Yes, you did.” There was an awkward pause, then he added in a gentler tone, “My guess is you have your reasons.”

She looked at the face of her sleeping child and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Yes, she had her reasons.

“Will you trust me to put him to bed?”

She hesitated. Nicky's hair was damp and spiky as a new-hatched chick. He looked small and pale and vulnerable in the tall man's arms, but his thin little body was relaxed. Tired beyond caring, or trustful? Sometimes it amounted to the same thing, thought Callie wearily.

“Mrs. Prynne?”

With an effort, Callie realized he was addressing her. “Yes?”

“Trust me,” he said in that impossibly deep voice. The steady blue eyes never wavered.

Callie bit her lip, then nodded. She had no alternative. She leaned forward, kissed Nicky's forehead, and smoothed back his hair. “Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered in his native tongue. She could feel the tall man's eyes boring into her, but he said nothing, just turned and carried her son from the room.

“N
ow, ma'am, time for you.” Callie sat quietly while Mrs. Barrow fussed around her with towels and nightclothes. Swiftly the older lady stripped Callie of her clothes, tutting over the dampness of them and exclaiming over the weight of the petticoat. Callie hastily bundled it out of sight. Her future was in that petticoat.

Mrs. Barrow produced a large, bright pink flannel nightgown and dressed Callie in it, murmuring a stream of encouragement, as if Callie were a child. “That's the way, lift your arms. In you go. Now you just sit here by the fire and I'll fetch a blanket to make you all cozy and warm again.”

Callie just let it flow. She was accustomed to maids dressing and undressing her, but none of them had ever called her lovie or bossed her around in such a warm, motherly tone.

It was quite inappropriate, of course, and if her father or Rupert had been there, they would have reprimanded the woman for her familiarity.

But Papa and Rupert were both dead, and nobody else was here to witness Callie's lapse of etiquette. And so she didn't have to hide how comforting she found it.

Mrs. Barrow reminded her of Nanny. She hardly remembered Nanny, there was just a vague memory of a large, soft woman, with a capacious bosom and a comforting lap, who'd muttered and crooned over her bossily, as Mrs. Barrow did now. Callie had forgotten how soothing it could be.

What had happened to Nanny? She didn't even know her real name. Papa had sent her away when Callie was six—not long after Mama had died. He'd found her sitting sleepily in Nanny's lap, listening to a story. She was far too old to be treated like a baby, Papa had said. And stories were just a waste of time…Filling girls' heads with nonsense.

She hadn't heard another story for years, not until Miss Tibthorpe came to be her governess. Dear Tibby, with her stern looks and rigid demeanor. Papa never even suspected Miss Tibthorpe was an avid reader of novels and romantic poetry. If he had, Tibby would have been sent packing.

“Ah, here's Barrow now.” Mrs. Barrow said as she finished draping a blanket around Callie's shoulders. “I'll be off now, lovie. Mr. Gabe will be down in a minute, he'll take you up to bed.”

“Likes to see everyone safe, Mr. Gabe does,” Barrow added, sliding an affectionate arm around his wife's waist. “Are you ready for bed, my bonny lass?” He bussed her on the cheek.

Mrs. Barrow blushed like a girl. “Get away with you, Barrow, what will the lady think? Good night, ma'am, sweet dreams.” The middle-aged couple left, arm in arm.

Callie bid them good night, touched by their open affection. How marvelous to be so loving, so beloved after so many years.

She sighed wistfully. It was something she'd never know. Princesses married for reasons of state, or for blood or fortune, not for love. She'd learned that the hard way.

She glanced at the table. The pork pie sat on the table still. Mrs. Barrow had forgotten to put it away.

Her stomach rumbled…

G
abe returned to the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Prynne jump back guiltily from the table. He affected not to notice. She was swathed in bright pink flannel drapery; Mrs. Barrow was a woman of height and ample girth; Mrs. Prynne was small and almost lost in a sea of nightgown. It was buttoned to her chin and pooled in folds around her feet. On her feet she wore a pair of too-big slippers, also Mrs. Barrow's.

“He's all tucked up and sound asleep,” he told her. “I see you have a nightgown—you look delightful in it. Now, are you sure you're not hungry?” He glanced at the pie, which had shrunk, and preserved a bland countenance.

She gave him an innocent look. “No, thank you.”

“Then I shall put this away.” Gabe put the leftover pie in the larder.

“Now, I think it's time for bed,” he said and offered her his arm.

She eyed it warily, suddenly unsure of his motives. He smiled down at her and added, “You can thank me upstairs.”

Her eyes widened. “But I am a respectable, married w-woman!”

“My favorite sort.” He tucked her arm in his and led her upstairs, to a room with a big canopied bed hung with blue curtains. A fire was burning in the grate, with an ornate mesh screen in front of it.

“On a night like this you'll enjoy a hot brick in your bed,” he murmured.

She stiffened. Was he really suggesting he warm her bed? “I warn you—”

“Hush, you'll wake Nicky,” he whispered. “Juno is guarding him. I hope you don't mind sleeping with a dog in the room, but they seem to have taken to each other, and I thought it would make your boy feel happier about sleeping in a strange place.”

Callie's eyes adjusted to the gloom. On one side of the bed the bedclothes had been folded back in readiness, on the other side lay a small, peaceful bump; her son, sound asleep. Beside him, on a mat on the floor, lay the dog. She looked up and her tail went thump, thump, thump, but she did not move.

“Oh,” Callie said. He'd been teasing her.

He gave her a dry look and murmured in her ear. “Mrs. Prynne, were you having naughty un-Quakerish suspicions about my intentions? I'm shocked.”

“No, you're not,” she whispered back. “You, sir, are a rogue!”

“And you, Green Eyes, are very sweet.” He stood for a moment, looking down at her. She could feel his eyes on her and closed her own in self-defense. She had no idea of what to say or do. She was too tired to think.

He gently touched a finger to her cheek. “Good night Green Eyes. Sleep well. You and your son are safe here with me.”

Safe.
The deep reassurance of his voice seeped into her bones like a drug. She heard him leave, heard the door shut quietly behind him.

“Thank you,” she whispered belatedly.

She climbed into the bed and snuggled down, feeling…cherished.

Her feet touched something hard that radiated heat. Her toes explored it. Something square and hot, wrapped in what felt like flannel. A spurt of sleepy laughter bubbled inside her. There really was a hot brick in her bed.

And so, in a strange house and strange bed, and for the first time in weeks, Callie slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

D
espite his late night Gabe woke to the birds' dawn chorus. He smiled and stretched languorously. He felt alive and eager to meet the day, in a way he hadn't for years.

He slipped out of bed, padded to the window, and looked out. A chill, clear dawn greeted him, gray warming to palest gold. Wisps of mist hugged the ground. It held the promise of a beautiful day.

He dressed quickly. Her door was still shut as he passed. She'd sleep for several hours more, he thought. She and the boy had been exhausted.

Grabbing a couple of apples from the bowl on the kitchen sideboard, he bit into one with relish, pocketing the other. He'd break his fast properly and have a shave when he got back. He headed out, noting to his surprise that the kitchen door was unlocked. Barrow was up early. Surprising, after such a late night.

Opening the stable door, Gabe paused. Someone was talking in one of the stalls and it wasn't Barrow. He listened, but couldn't identify the speaker. He approached the stall, stepping softly…

“You do like them, don't you?” the light, high voice was saying.

He heard a deep whuffle, as Trojan responded. Gabe grinned. That horse was as close to human as a horse could be. Young Nicky was standing on a bale of hay, biting off chunks of apple and then tossing them over the open half door to his horse. Interesting, for a boy who was scared stiff of horses. Juno sat beside him, watching the passage of apple piece to horse with a jealous eye.

“Trojan is very fond of apples,” Gabe said.

The boy jumped and whirled around, dropping a piece of apple. He clambered hastily off the stool, then to Gabe's amazement, stood rigidly to attention, like a small soldier awaiting punishment.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the boy said stiffly. “I know I should not have come.” He spoke English well, but with a faint trace of accent. His mother had no accent at all. Juno nudged the boy's leg, trying to snaffle the fallen apple piece. He stumbled, then straightened to attention again.

“Juno also likes the occasional piece of apple. As for coming in to the stables, as long as you didn't wake your mother, I don't mind,” Gabe said easily. “I headed for the stables at every opportunity when I was your age. Come to think of it, I haven't changed much, have I?”

The child regarded him solemnly. His eyes were not quite as green as his mother's. After a moment he said, “At home I was not permitted in the stables without Papa or my guar—another man.”

“I thought you didn't like horses, Nicky.” Gabe finished his apple and held the core out to the boy. “Here, give him this. Only don't toss it in. I told you, Trojan won't bite.”

Nicky shook his head, so Gabe cut the core in half and demonstrated. “Hold it on your palm, with your fingers flat, like you're serving it on a plate.” He fed the morsel to his horse and Nicky watched, wide-eyed, as Trojan extended his nose and took the core delicately from Gabe's palm.

“It is because he is your horse,” the boy said.

“No,” Gabe said. “He'll be friends with anyone who brings him apples. Why don't you try?”

“Very well.” His eyes alive with misgivings, the boy took the other half of the core and climbed back on the stool. With fingers held flat he extended his hand over the half door and waited, his face screwed up in anticipation of disaster.

Trojan leaned forward, lipped the core delicately, then lifted it from the boy's palm.

“He took it! He didn't bite me at all, not even a nip!” Nicky exclaimed. “Any one of Papa's horses would have had my hand off!”

“Fierce, are they?” Gabe pulled out his knife, cut a slice of the second apple, and handed it to the boy.

“Oh yes, they were bred for war, you know,” Nicky said, as he fed it to the horse. “Papa's are the fiercest horses in all the land. I thought Trojan would be fierce, too, because of his name. And because he's so magnificent.”

“I see.” And Gabe thought he did. “Is that why you don't like horses?”

“I—I like them well enough, though I don't like to be bitten. It's just…I cannot ride.” He said it as if confessing something shameful.

Gabe kept cutting slices and handing them to him. “How old are you?”

“I will be eight next month. His lips are so soft—like velvet!” He was feeding the big horse now with confidence.

“Plenty of time yet to learn to ride. Most people don't learn until they're much older.”

Nicky shook his head. “In England perhaps,” he said dismissively. “But not in Z—where I come from,” he amended. “There we ride from the age of four or five.” He looked away. “
They
ride,” he muttered.

“Your mother can't ride.”

“Yes, but she is a lady
and
English.”

Gabe shrugged. “Lots of English ladies ride. I know ladies who can ride better than most men.”

Nicky looked doubtful.

“Besides, what does it matter if she rides or not?”

“It matters in Z—where I come from. We are famous for horses and horsemen. Everybody rides—all the men and most of the women. Horses are my country's heritage.”

Gabe nodded, understanding the implications. “Would you like me to teach you?”

The boy shook his head. “Papa tried many times. I just fall off—like a
baby
! Useless!” He thumped his crooked leg so hard it must have hurt. “This leg is no good. Not strong enough.”

Gabe passed him the last slice of apple. “Many people with bad legs can still ride.”

The boy shook his head. “Not me. Papa had me examined by the best physicians. My leg cannot be fixed. So I will never ride.”

“Maybe,” Gabe said. He entered the stall and slipped a bridle onto his horse. “My brother Harry's leg was hurt when he was tiny. He still limps, but he rides like a demon.”

There was a silence. Gabe placed the saddle on Trojan's back and bent to tighten the cinch. “Harry will be here in a few days. He's bringing some horses.” He glanced sideways at the boy's face. The boy made no sign he'd heard.

Gabe untied Trojan and led him out of the stall. Nicky hung back, still nervous of the big horse. When Trojan made a lunge toward him, he flattened himself against the wall. His fear faded when Trojan gently lipped at his shirt and nudged impatiently at his pocket.

“He wants more apples!” the boy exclaimed, laughing. He hesitantly stroked the horse's nose, then patted him with increasing confidence.

Gabe gave them a few minutes, then led the horse outside.

Nicky followed, his limp very much in evidence. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I'd see if I could retrieve your mother's portmanteau.” He mounted and turned the horse toward the driveway. “If anyone wonders where I am, say I'll be back by bre—” He broke off. Turning unexpectedly, he'd caught on Nicky's face such a wistful expression he couldn't stand it. “Would you like to come with me, Nicky?”

“Me? Come with you?”

“You could ride with me. Trojan wouldn't mind. He likes you.”

The boy hesitated, gave a longing look at the horse, and glanced back at the house.

“I'll have you back before your mother even wakes.”

Still the boy agonized.

“You won't fall off, I promise,” Gabe told him. “You can sit in front of me.”

“Like a baby?”

“No, like Harry and I used to do when we were boys and only had one horse between us.” There was a short silence. Gabe added, “Soldiers do it all the time, too—double up, when there's only one horse.”

That was the clincher. The small boy drew himself up, gave Gabe a stiff bow and said solemnly, “I accept.” Another boy might have jumped for joy, or clapped his hands or even just grinned with pleasure. Mrs. Prynne's child gave a correct, formal bow. Or was that Papa's child?

“Excellent. Now, grab onto my hands, and when I count to three, you jump and I'll do the rest. One, two, three!” He swung Nicky up in front of him. The child sat facing the front, his hands clutching Gabe's forearms tightly.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Gabe nudged Trojan and his horse walked down the drive. The boy sat stiffly, holding on to Gabe's forearms in a death grip. Like mother, like son, he reflected.

Poor little lad, to have been forced onto horses only to keep falling off. Gabe remembered Harry falling off a great deal, but it had been Harry's choice to try and try again. Harry couldn't stay away from horses.

As they came to the open downs Gabe said, “We'll go a bit faster now, shall we?”

Nicky nodded. Gabe signaled Trojan to trot. Nicky held on tight, but soon caught the rhythm. “It'd be easier if you had a saddle that fits you,” Gabe told him.

“I have never used a saddle,” the boy said. “The only way to learn is bareback. That way one learns to master the horse. My father tried—” He broke off. “I'm not supposed to talk about Papa.”

“It doesn't matter,” Gabe said easily. He was starting to form a picture of the boy's father. “Shall we try a canter?”

“Yes,” Nicky said firmly.

“Let me know if you want me to slow down.”

Nicky said nothing. Trojan was a very smooth-gaited horse. They cantered until the sea came into sight, glittering in the brilliant morning sun. His horse's pace didn't alter, but he raised his head and snuffed the air eagerly. Trojan was itching for a gallop. So was Gabe.

“How about if we go a bit faster? You won't fall off, I promise.”

The boy nodded, so Gabe allowed his horse to pick up speed. The boy made no objection so, after a moment, he gave Trojan his head. They thundered along, the horse's mane streaming back, his hooves cutting up the turf beneath. The boy made not a sound. His small hands clung to Gabe's forearms.

Soon they reached the narrow cliff path and Gabe reluctantly reined in his horse.

“How was that?” he asked the child. There was no response. Gabe leaned forward and turned the boy's face so he could see it. His eyes were shut tight, his pale little face blank of all expression.

Gabe winced. Why the devil had the child not said something if he was so frightened? He felt like a bully. He opened his mouth to apologize.

Nicky's eyes opened. He swallowed. “Again,” he whispered. “Do it again.”

It wasn't fear in the boy's eyes, Gabe suddenly realized. It was exhilaration.

“Again?”

Nicky nodded. “Yes, only faster!”

Gabe threw back his head and laughed. “You'll do, young Nicky! You'll do. But we can't go off gallivanting just yet—I need to get you back before your mother misses you. And first we have to fetch that portmanteau.”

“And Mama's slipper?”

“Possibly.” He added, “If I dismount and lead Trojan, can you sit up there by yourself?”

He looked uncertain, but nodded gamely. Gabe dismounted and left Nicky clutching the pommel. He led the horse along the narrow path, searching for signs of last night's activities.

“Ah, this is where it happened,” he said at last. He lifted the boy down and tossed him the reins. “Tie Trojan to a bush, would you?” Nicky took the reins with an air of importance and led the big horse away.

Gabe peered over the edge of the cliff at the path leading up from the pebbly beach. A difficult climb for a woman and a child with a bad leg, especially in the dark, never mind the portmanteau. Why the devil had she landed here, of all places?

Nicky joined him and peered over. “It was very hard climbing up in the dark. We could not see and the path was very steep.” He added, “But it was not so muddy as it is now.”

“Yes, you are lucky you arrived before the rain came,” Gabe said. It was going to be a slippery expedition; the slope contained several small mudslides. Gabe was glad he hadn't worn his good boots.

“Mama was very angry with the captain of the boat. She wanted him to take her to Lulworth Cove but
he took no notice
!”

Gabe repressed a grin. “Good heavens!”

“Papa would have had him flogged. Mama explained to me on the beach that they did not know who we—” He broke off with a guilty expression. “Oh.”

“What was that?” Gabe said. “Sorry, I wasn't listening.”

“Nothing.” Nicky relaxed.

Gabe was intrigued. Who was she, that her son should be so astounded that the captain of a boat—even a smuggling boat—would refuse to obey an order from his mother?

“I can't see the portmanteau, but I think that's the trail it made when it fell—do you see?” He pointed to where some of the scrubby vegetation clinging to the rock had been recently broken and rocks disturbed. I'll climb down and have a look. I hope it hasn't been buried under mud.”