by Anne Gracie
“Nicky, look at you!” Callie exclaimed. “I thought Tibby—”
Tibby stepped into the doorway. Mud and water dripped from her. She, too, was utterly filthy. “I tried to stop him falling in, I truly did. But I slipped.” She met Callie’s eye and started giggling. “I’ve never been so dirty in my life.”
Ethan stepped in. He was also covered in mud. “Me new coat, too,” he said, looking dolefully down at the mud-caked garment. “Miss Tibby fell in tryin’ to save Nicky and I fell in tryin’ to save her.”
“I didn’t fall in at all,” Jim announced proudly. “I just picked the leeches off ’em. The ones I could see, anyway. Here y’are.” He handed over a jar containing a black mess of writhing leeches. Callie felt squeamish looking at them.
“What do you mean, the ones you could see,” Tibby said suddenly. “Do you mean I could still have some of those horrid creatures on me?”
“Bound to,” Jim said cheerfully. “You did a lot of splashing around and they like that. And you wouldn’t let me look on your legs, remember?”
“She wouldn’t let me look, either,” Ethan murmured.
Tibby gave him a severe look. “I should think not.” She turned to Callie. “I must go upstairs immediately. Could you help me, please?”
Pick those dreadful, slimy things off someone? Someone on whose flesh they’d attached themselves, whose blood they were drinking? She felt her gorge rise at the thought.
But someone had to help poor Tibby. There was only herself or Mrs. Barrow. She looked at Mrs. Barrow, who was attending to Gabriel’s injuries.
She could face any amount of blood without turning a hair, but those ghastly wriggling, black, slimy things…She felt queasy just thinking about it.
She turned to Mrs. Barrow and in her most gracious, princessly manner she said, “Mrs. Barrow, would you mind assisting Miss Tibthorpe? I will attend to Mr. Renfrew’s injuries.”
“Yes, of course I will, lovi—Your Highness,” Mrs. Barrow said. “You’ve gone quite green, haven’t you? Miss Tibby, you get along upstairs and get those wet things off you. Take this salve.” She took the small pot from Jim and handed it to Tibby. “Leeches hate the smell of that; one touch and they’ll drop right off you, no harm done to you or them. I’ll see to Mr. Gabe here, then I’ll come up and check you over for any in places you can’t see.”
She turned to the boys. “You boys go upstairs with Mr. Delaney. Change into clean clothes and ensure no leech remains on any of you.” She handed Ethan another little pot and gave them a look that had all three exiting meekly.
“If Mrs. Barrow had been a general, I would not have been at war for eight years,” Gabe said to no one in particular.
“Right, let’s see to you,” Mrs. Barrow said. She reached into the jar and fished out several leeches. They looked like dark, slimy worms.
Callie’s stomach lurched as Mrs. Barrow placed the creatures against the swollen and discolored flesh under his injured eye. The creatures instantly attached themselves to the tender flesh.
Callie shuddered and turned away. “Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Not a bit. Can’t feel a thing, as a matter of fact,” he told her cheerily.
After a few minutes Mrs. Barrow said, “That’s that. Now, Mr. Gabe, you know what to do—you can see Her Highness can’t stand the things—they take some people like that, I know. When they’ve finished, put ’em in the jar again. There’s a market for good leeches and young Jim could earn a few pennies for ’em. I’ll go and see how those others are doing and then I’ll be back to do the rest.”
“I am perfectly capable of tending injuries,” said Callie feeling ashamed of her weak stomach. “Tell me what needs to be done after those creatures are finished.”
“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 k
isses 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 B
oney 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.”
Gabe gave a spurt of laughter. “A romantic fellow, I perceive.”
There was a sudden cessation of movement. “No. No, he wasn’t,” she said in a quiet voice. After a moment she started rubbing in salve again.
He’d obviously touched a nerve. Gabe turned to look at her. She kept her head down, smearing cold ointment onto him and continuing to massage it in without meeting his eyes.
He didn’t know many young girls, but for all he knew marrying a mysterious foreign prince was the summit of her girlish dreams.
Something made him ask, “How old were you when you married him?”
She shrugged and avoided his eyes. “Nearly sixteen.”
He frowned. “That seems rather young.”
She shrugged and slapped on more ointment, almost angrily. “Rupert thought a young bride would be more fertile. I was his second wife, you see. The first one was barren.” She rubbed hard at Gabe’s skin.
“After years away, Papa arrived out of the blue and told me we were going to Zindaria and that I was going to be married to a prince.” She rubbed at the marks on his skin as if they were stains to be got out. Gabe didn’t flinch or make a sound.
So much for girlish dreams, he thought. If he hadn’t thought the man a complete ass before, he would now. A complete royal jackass.