The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  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.

  Her cheek had rested against that chest. She’d felt his heartbeat.

  He’d treated her son with such sensitivity, respecting his small-boy dignity. And he’d brought them both in from the cold.

  Soft golden lamplight poured out over the kitchen, and as she glanced up their gaze met.

  “Green!” he said, sounding satisfied. He finished trimming the wick and stepped back.

  She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been wondering what color they were ever since I’ve met you.”

  “What color what were?”

  “Your eyes. They’re green.”

  She blinked and had no idea what to say.

  Nicky came back with a huge pile of towels, and Mr. Renfrew filled a large bowl with hot water. He knelt and placed it at Callie’s feet, then slipped off her remaining slipper.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, startled.

  “Your feet are a mess. They’re all cut to ribbons; hadn’t you noticed?”

  Callie looked. Her toes were bruised and scraped and bloody, as well as muddy. They really were a mess. She’d hardly noticed. Her feet had been so cold, and though she was aware of some discomfort, other, more urgent things had occupied her attention.

  “It must have happened when we were coming ashore. I do remember stubbing my toes a few times on the rocks.” And now she thought of it, they did hurt.

  “Here, put them in the water. Careful, it’s hot and there’s salt, which will sting, but it’ll help the cuts to heal.”

  Gingerly she lowered her feet into the hot water. It burned at first; her feet were half frozen, and the cuts stung, but after a few moments it felt heavenly.

  She sat back, soaking up the warmth and the comfort, rubbing her own and Nicky’s hair dry with a towel.

  “Better?” Gabriel Renfrew asked after a while.

  “Yes, thank you. It’s lovely,” she said gratefully.

  “Good.” He smiled. His teeth were white and even. “Now, I’ll just put some salve on those cuts. Mrs. Barrow makes an excellent salve for cuts and abrasions.”

  Callie’s mouth dropped open as, in a matter-of-fact way, he began to dry her feet with a towel.

  “I—I can do that,” she stammered. It was rather unsettling feeling his big, warm hands caressing her feet so gently through the towel.

  He smiled again. “I know, but I don’t mind doing it. Could you fetch me two more towels, please, Nicky.” Her son ran off and a pair of guileless blue eyes met hers.

  “I don’t believe this is very proper,” she muttered.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  She gave him a troubled look. Yes, she liked it. Of course she liked it. And that was the point. She didn’t even know him and he shouldn’t be handling her feet so…so intimately. It made her…feel things, things she had no business feeling with a stranger.

  As he dried the last toe, she said, “Thank you. You may now unhand my feet.”

  He took no notice. Scooping out a fingerful of aromatic salve, he proceeded to rub it into her feet with his hands, slowly, gently, and with a sensuous rhythm. Her toes curled in pleasure and she felt the tingles all the way up her legs.

  She blinked, torn between pleasure and embarrassment. He was merely attending to her injuries, she reminded herself, but try as she might, she could not stop herself from reacting, even though she knew she should not.

  “Please, that’s enough,” she said. “Did you not hear me, I asked you to unhand my feet!”

  “Oh, unhand—I thought you said hand them,” he explained, looking up at her with a twinkle. “Hand being a foreign term for massage.”

  Her jaw dropped. He knew what his touch was doing to her. He was flirting.

  The realization astounded her. No man had flirted with her in…forever. She’d gone from being a child to being Rupert’s wife. Nobody would dare flirt with Rupert’s wife. She had no idea what to do.

  She said feebly, “That’s a barefaced l—nonsense!” She balked at calling the man a liar in his own house.

  “Oh, massage isn’t l—nonsense.” His voice was serious, but the blue eyes danced. “It’s very helpful. Helped many a soldier prevent frostbite, or chilblains. And it’s wonderful for weary feet, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “And in English we don’t say ‘le nonsense,’ we just say ‘nonsense.’” His eyes twinkled. He’d known very well what she’d been going to say.

  It was so ridiculous she couldn’t help but laugh. “I know perfectly well what we say in English. I was born here!”

  “Were you? What a coincidence, so was I, so already we have something in common. And was Nicky also born here?”

  “No,” Nicky chimed in as he returned with the towels. “I was b—”

  “No, Nicky wasn’t born here!” She gave her son a warning glance. Nobody, even tall, unexpectedly kind men who flirted, should know who they were. “And, please, sir, my feet will do very well now, thank you.”

  “When the salve is absorbed.” His deep voice was completely imperturbable. His long, strong fingers continued to knead and massage. He caressed each toe in turn, rubbing between them and sending tiny, invisible shivers thrilling up her limbs. It felt like her bones were turning to honey.

  It was completely improper and utterly heavenly, and it was all Callie could do not to dissolve into a puddle of bliss.

  She watched his face as he ministered to her, noting the quiet strength, the deep lines around his mouth, and the faint touch of bleakness that came to his eyes when he wasn’t remembering to flirt. It was suddenly all too intimate.

  Callie closed her eyes…

  Gabe fetched a pie from the pantry. Mrs. Barrow had cooked up a storm before she’d left to visit her mother.

  “I’ll wager you’re hungry, eh, Nicky?” He cut a slice of pie and handed it to the boy. “Get that into you, lad. Cold pork pie; I can vouch for it.”

  Nicky hesitated and glanced at his mother. “Mama never eats pork,” he said. “Papa says—said it’s vulgar for ladies to eat pork.”

  “I see,” Gabe murmured, noting the tense change. Papa sounded like a bit of an ass.

  The boy glanced at his mother, who was three-quarters asleep. “Leave her be,” Gabe said softly. “She’s very tired. Just eat your pie and then we’ll all get to bed.”

  Nicky looked dubiously at the wedge of pie. He made no move to touch it.

  “Don’t you like pork, either?” Gabe asked. “Well, then, if you don’t want it.” He took it and munched into it.

  The boy watched him. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he said after Gabe had swallowed the last mouthful. “I’m very hungry.”

  “Right then, cut yourself another slice while I get you something warm to drink.”

  Nicky cut himself a small wedge and gave the pie a cautious nibble. His eyes widened. “It’s very good.”

  “Told you it was,” Gabe told him. He went back into the pantry and poured some milk into a pan. By the time he returned Nicky was finishing off his slice of pie with every evidence of satisfaction. Gabe heated the milk, poured some into a cup, stirred in some honey and handed it to the boy.

  The boy stared at it as if the cup contained a live snake.

  Gabe said in mild exasperation. “Is it some foreign custom of yours, to refuse what food and drink is first offered to you? Here, it’s polite to accept the first time, so just drink the milk and don’t make a fuss.”

  The little boy blanched. “Mama!” It came out in a thin, frightened wail.
>
  His mother woke, saw him handing the cup of milk to the boy, leapt from her chair, and dashed it from Gabe’s hands. Milk splashed over the stone floor. She thrust Nicky behind her, glanced around, saw the knife he’d used to cut the pie, and snatched it up.

  “What on earth—” Gabe began.

  “Don’t touch him!” She was poised for action; a young lioness in defense of her cub. “Nicky, did you drink any of it?”

  “No, Mama.” She sagged with visible relief.

  “It was only warm milk,” Gabe said tightly. He bent and picked up the cup.

  She waved the knife at him. “Stay back.”

  He ignored her and went to the door, opened it, and whistled. His dog, Juno, bounded in, her tail wagging joyfully. “Over there,” he told her and pointed to the spilled milk and honey.

  “No!” the boy gasped and moved to get between the milk and the dog.

  She wagged her tail briefly—Juno liked boys—but food was always a priority, and she pushed past him and happily licked up the milk. The woman and the boy stared at Gabe as if he were a monster.

  Gabe fetched another cup from the dresser and, from the small pot on the stove, poured hot milk into another cup. Two pairs of eyes watched him.

  “He put something into it before,” Nicky told his mother.

  “From this pot, yes,” Gabe affirmed and stirred a spoonful of viscous liquid into the mug. “It’s honey. Warm milk and honey. Good for helping people sleep.” He drank from the cup and then held it out toward Nicky.

  There was a long moment of silence. Juno had licked every drop of milk from the floor and discovered a crumb or two of pie crust, and now was ready to renew her acquaintance with the boy. She nudged his elbow in a friendly fashion, demanding to be patted. He caressed her silky ears, felt her cold nose, and looked carefully into her eyes. Her tail thumped happily on the floor at this attention.

  The boy and the woman looked from the dog to the man to the cup of milk and to the dog again. “Sometimes you just have to take people on trust,” Gabe said quietly and set the cup on the table. “If I’d wanted to harm you, I could have tossed you both off that cliff and saved myself a lot of trouble.”

  For a long time nobody moved. Callie tried to read his eyes. They were steady and blue, very blue. But you couldn’t decide a man was trustworthy just because he had eyes that were blue. But steady as well as blue…

  She stared into his eyes and remembered how he’d pulled her from the cliff top. She thought about the way he’d held her on the horse, steady and warm, tucking his coat around her to shelter her from the rain.

  Then, staring into the bluest blue eyes she’d ever seen, Callie picked up the cup of milk and took a mouthful. It tasted of warm milk and honey. Nothing else. Just as he’d said. She tasted it again, just to be sure.

  The dog nudged Nicky’s arm, her feathered tail waving gently, her brown eyes liquid and clear and trusting. And unharmed.

  Slowly the tension flowed out of Callie. She nodded, passed the cup to Nicky, put the knife back on the table, and returned to her seat, feeling distinctly wobbly.

  Nicky took a cautious sip of the milk. Meanwhile, the dog fetched a stick from the basket by the fire and placed it expectantly at Nicky’s feet.

  “No, Juno, no stick throwing inside,” her master said. “Put it back.” To Nicky’s amazement, with tail drooping, the dog put the stick back in the basket, then returned to rub a mournful muzzle against Nicky’s leg. Nicky swiftly drained the cup, sat on the rug, and began to pat the dog.

  “Do you want some milk, too?” Mr. Renfrew asked her.

  Callie shook her head. “No, thank you.” She closed her eyes. She felt sick. The incident with the milk had brought it all back to her. She could never relax her vigilance.

  “Mrs. Barrow has brought you some dry clothing,” she heard Mr. Renfrew say a short time later. At least she thought it was a short time. Callie’s eyes flew open. Where was Nicky? She couldn’t have dozed off again, could she?

  “He’s asleep,” said the man, reading her thoughts.

  Her son was curled up on the rug with the big black-and-tan dog, sound asleep. His arms were wrapped around the dog, and the dog’s muzzle rested on Nicky’s shoulder.

  Callie felt a lump in her throat, thinking of the puppy he’d lost.

  “Worn to a frazzle, the poor little mite!” Mrs. Barrow said. “Take him up to bed, will you, Mr. Gabe, while I’ll help missy change?”

  Mr. Gabe bent and scooped Nicky into his arms. The dog scrambled to her feet, clearly intending to go with them.

  Callie rose.

  “No, don’t come,” he said. “He’s sleeping like a babe and while I’m gone you can change into those dry clothes in front of the fire.”

  Callie looked at her sleeping son and swallowed. He looked so small and helpless in the tall man’s arms. And so vulnerable. He didn’t even stir as Mr. Renfrew pushed open the door with a shove of his boot.

  Sudden suspicion shot through her. Sleeping like a babe—or drugged? Some poisons were tasteless. Was that why she’d fallen asleep? Oh God, how could she have trusted him, even for a moment, with her precious Nicky—just because of his eyes? She lurched forward to stop them.

  “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.

  “Now, 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 l
ovie 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.