The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  Callie slipped Gabriel a sideways glance to see how he’d taken this high-handed exceeding of her duties. Rupert would have exploded with rage. Even Papa would have dismissed the woman instantly.

  He was convulsed…with silent laughter.

  He saw her shocked look. “I know, I know,” he said. “But you see, she’s had me naked in the bath more times than I can remember.”

  Her eyes widened and Gabriel burst out laughing again at her expression. “Not for twenty years or so, I hasten to add. The last time I was about Nicky’s age and scrubbed just as ruthlessly.”

  “Oh! I see.”

  He gave a furtive look around and added, “I know I ought to reprove her, but, well—” He sighed. “I’m frightened of women.”

  “Hah! Frightened as a cat fears mice.”

  “Fond of cats, are you? Me, too. Contrary, sensuous creatures. Like women.” He grinned. “No, Mrs. Barrow more or less raised me, and I won’t reprimand her for her plain speaking, particularly since she’s right. I’ve been taking advantage of her good nature, and my brother Harry will be here next week and who knows who else.” He strolled to the array of dishes set out on the sideboard, picking up lids and peering at the contents.

  “Can I offer you some of this excellent bacon? And eggs? And kidneys? Mrs. Barrow’s deviled kidneys cannot be beaten.”

  “Just a little bacon, please,” she told him. She ought to have only tea and dry toast—she was cursed with a curvaceous figure and was very self-conscious of it. But the bacon smelled so delicious and it had been such a long time…

  He filled two plates and set one in front of her. Hers contained a mound of bacon and some scrambled eggs. His plate contained even more, with deviled kidneys besides.

  “Thank you.” There was far too much, of course, but she would just have a little. She inhaled the scent of bacon blissfully.

  He drew out a chair on the adjacent corner to hers and sat down.

  “I thought you were eating in the kitchen.”

  “And leave you to dine here all alone?” He shook his head. “Besides, it will give us a chance to get to know each other better.” He gave her a look that brought back all the sensations she’d experienced in the stables.

  “I don’t wish to get to know you better.” Realizing how rude that sounded, she added, “I shall be leaving here as soon as possible.”

  “Really? Let’s discuss it later. Eat your breakfast while it’s hot,” he recommended.

  She said a quiet grace and began to eat, very conscious of him seated only a few feet from her, those blue, blue eyes seeming to be on her each time she glanced his way. She was always self-conscious about eating in front of others.

  Papa’s voice echoed in her head, as it did at most mealtimes. A lady does not eat like a horse, Callie, but picks at her food daintily, like a little bird.

  With Papa’s critical eye on her, Callie never did enjoy a meal. No matter how delicately she picked at her food, no matter how often she came away from the table hungry, Papa’s gimlet eye was on her, and she always felt like a horse.

  She cut herself a sliver of bacon, just a tiny, delicate morsel, then paused. She thought of that scene in the stable, not the one where he’d—she darted a look across the table—where he’d kissed her. What had happened just before that. When she’d lost her temper with him.

  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.”

  Six

  Callie 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 he
r 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.