The Stolen Princess

by Anne Gracie

  At the hunting lodge she hadn’t let Rupert’s servants announce her. She wanted to surprise him.

  She did.

  He was lying half naked on a thick fur rug in front of the fire. Sitting astride him was a naked woman, a voluptuous Valkyrie of a woman, with flowing golden locks spilling down her naked back and over her full breasts. She was bent over him, rubbing her breasts against his naked chest, saying in a breathy girlish voice, “Oh, Wupert, Wupert, I love you so much, my darling Wupert, I am so happy, so happy, so happy, my beloved ickle-wickle Wupert.” She spoke in Zindarian, but Callie had no difficulty in recognizing the imitation of her own English accent, nor the subject of this cruel mimicry.

  Herself.

  Callie stood frozen, unable to move as the woman went on and on, talking in a ghastly baby-talk imitation of Callie.

  She vaguely remembered thinking at the time that she never had called him Wupert, nor said anything like ickle-wickle, or used that horrid baby voice. The rest of it—the accent, the words, the sentiments—were horribly, shamingly, accurate. She had uttered those very phrases to Rupert—but only ever in private.

  The only way the woman could have heard them was from Rupert himself. Callie’s soul shriveled with pain and mortification.

  The more the woman gushed in cloying imitation of Callie, the more Rupert had laughed, deep belly laughs of the sort she’d never heard from her husband before, until finally he ordered the woman to stop, saying he got enough of that sickening pap at home, and reminding the Valkyrie that the reason he came here was to get away from all that. He wanted a woman, not a dreary, love-besotted child.

  The dreary, love-besotted child had managed to clear her throat, drawing their shocked attention. They had made no move to cover themselves, just stared at her from the fur rug.

  Somehow—she had no idea how—she had managed to keep her composure. Some shred of ancestral pride had stiffened her sixteen-year-old spine. She would not make a scene. She would rather die than show her hurt and distress in front of them, in front of the husband who had betrayed her so cruelly, and in front of that naked, golden, shameless creature who had imitated her so horribly.

  In a cold little voice, Callie managed to announce that she had come to inform Rupert that she was expecting his child and that having done so, she would now return to the palace.

  They still hadn’t moved when she turned and left.

  She had walked straight out in that same distant, frozen state—she still had no idea how she had managed to find her way back to the carriage. And once safely inside, once the carriage was moving swiftly back through the forest, the tears came.

  She’d sobbed all the way home, great choking sobs that scalded her throat and almost rent her chest in two, weeping until it made her almost sick.

  Over and over she heard the woman’s voice scornfully uttering the precious endearments Callie had whispered into her husband’s ear. Her memory was seared with the sound of Rupert’s belly laughs. Sickening pap, he’d called it.

  She had wept and wept. The forest was dense and dark and ancient and it absorbed her pain, as it had absorbed pain for millennia, and by the time the carriage approached the palace, Callie had no tears left.

  How many people in the palace knew Rupert did not love her? Everyone, she decided. She’d made no effort to disguise her feelings. She’d been overflowing with love and happiness and she’d stupidly imagined the whole world shared her joy.

  She’d made a complete and utter fool of herself over him.

  Never again, she vowed. Never.

  And she’d kept her vow. By the time Rupert returned to the palace—two days later—and spoke to her, she had armored herself against him, against the shame deep within her that threatened to break out.

  He’d made what he considered an apology: he told her that he was sorry she’d found him with his mistress, but that she had been informed that his hunting lodge was private. She should never have gone there. So that any distress or embarrassment she’d experienced was her own fault.

  She had agreed. Calmly and quietly. Then she’d picked up her sewing in a clear dismissal.

  He’d seemed relieved.

  From then on she’d treated him with cool politeness. Two months after that vile day at the hunting lodge he’d congratulated her on finally growing up. He ascribed it to the maturity that came with pregnancy. Told her he was proud of her.

  When Nicky was born, Callie poured all her love into her child.

  Rupert hadn’t come to her bed again until six months after Nicky was born. After all, her main purpose was to breed children. They’d coupled quickly, thoroughly, and more or less in silence, then he left. He came to her once a month, but she never fell pregnant again.

  Later she’d heard that he’d told people that apart from her inability to provide him with more children, she’d become the perfect wife.

  She stared out of the window at the New Forest. This was not the dark and silent forest of Zindaria, and she was no longer that miserable pregnant child, flayed by the folly of her own emotions. She was a widow, calm and mature, free to make the life she wanted for herself and her child.

  And for her own peace of mind, it would not involve any man.

  They stopped for a picnic on a sunny patch of grass beside a gurgling stream. Behind them the forest spread, sun-dappled and quiet.

  Tibby and Callie spread rugs and a cloth and unpacked the food, while the men and boys saw to the horses. Gabe handed Nicky the end of a halter and told him to lead the horse to water.

  He glanced at Callie. The moment their eyes met, she looked away. She hadn’t looked at him directly since he’d offered to kill the count for her.

  Obviously he’d frightened her off. No doubt she’d taken his statement about him being a cold-blooded killer seriously. He resolved to do something about it fast.

  “Mrs. Barrow has outdone herself,” Gabe commented as he surveyed the spread.

  “Yes, we’ll never get though all this,” Tibby agreed.

  There were boiled eggs, sandwiches, a large egg-and-bacon pie, homemade Dorset sausage, and baked chicken. There were crispy red and green apples, jam tarts, a plum cake, heavy and rich with fruit, and to top it off, Mrs. Barrow’s apple cake, Harry’s favorite. There was also ale, ginger beer, wine, and cold, sweet tea in bottles. Mrs. Barrow had thought of everything.

  Gabe laughed. “Don’t you believe it, Miss Tibby. There are five men here who lived on army rations too long to waste anything, let alone Mrs. Barrow’s cooking.”

  He sat down beside Callie and began to pour out drinks, as one by one the others arrived. She didn’t move away, though she did inconspicuously lift her skirt away from where it touched his leg.

  Experimentally, Gabe casually moved his leg so it touched hers again. Again, without so much as a glance his way, she moved. She was skittish, all right. More skittish than when he’d first met her.

  Once Harry, Rafe, Luke, Ethan, and Nicky had joined them, Miss Tibby said grace and they all began to eat.

  It was a very relaxed meal, and afterward, Miss Tibby told the boys about the New Forest, how it had been there forever, and how William the Conqueror had decided to make it a place for the protection of the deer he liked to hunt, so he drove many of the human inhabitants out, rating beasts above people.

  “It brought him and his family bad luck,” interposed Rafe. “His son, William Rufus, policed the laws most rigorously and horribly mutilated those who broke them. He was killed right here in the forest.”

  Luke added, “He was shot with an arrow, while out hunting with friends. His friends abandoned his body where it lay. A charcoal burner later found it and brought in on his cart.”

  “And the moral of that tale, young Nicky,” finished Rafe, “is to ensure you make true friends in life.” The men, as one, raised their cups and rank a toast to true friendship.

  “Like you all are,” Nicky said.

  “Indeed we are,” Gabe told him. “War forges the
bonds of friendship. I asked Harry and Rafe and Luke for help, because you and your mother were in trouble, and they came, as I knew they would.”

  “Ethan told me in the army they called you the Devil Riders, because you all ride like the devil. And not even the devil could catch you.”

  Gabe shrugged. “People like to talk. We all love fast horses—which is why we’re starting this horse-racing venture.”

  But Nicky wasn’t to be diverted. “Ethan also said before that, they used to call you the Duke’s Angels,” Nicky said.

  “Yes, the duke of Wellington made a comment once—he was using us for dispatches at the time—and the name stuck for a while. There were five of us then, but poor Michael was killed,” Gabe told him. They each drank a silent toast to Michael.

  “Why angels?” Nicky asked.

  “Perhaps because of their names, Nicky,” Miss Tibby suggested. “The named angels were Michael, Gabriel, Rafael, and…” She hesitated.

  “Lucifer, who was a fallen angel,” Luke explained. “I’m christened Lucian, which is close enough.”

  Nicky looked at Harry, disappointed. “So you weren’t an angel, Mr. Morant?” Nicky was fast becoming one of Harry’s staunchest admirers, thought Gabe. Harry could outride any of them, and he had a bad leg just like the little boy.

  “Harry was one of the Duke’s Angel’s, all right,” Rafe said. “Weren’t you, Harold?”

  Harry gave a wry grin. “I was.”

  Nicky looked puzzled. “Does England have an angel called Harold, then, for we don’t have one in Zindaria.”

  Miss Tibby frowned. “No, we don’t in England, either, Nicky.” She turned to Rafe. “I’ve never heard of any angel called Harold.”

  Every one of the men produced a look of surprise, Gabe, too. It was an old joke.

  Ethan leaned forward. “Sure you have, Miss Tibby. And don’t you sing about him every Christmas?”

  Tibby frowned. “I don’t think so.”

  Ethan said, “Then do you not know the carol ‘Hark the Harold Angels Sing’?”

  Miss Tibby huffed with pretend disapproval and then joined in the general laughter.

  Even Callie laughed, Gabe noted. It lit up her face briefly. He was determined to get her alone, find out what she was fretting about.

  After the picnic, Gabe invited Callie to ride in the curricle with himself and Nicky.

  “Oh yes, Mama,” Nicky chimed in enthusiastically. “Come and watch me drive the horses. It is such fun.”

  She looked trapped. Her desire to please her son warred with her desire to avoid Gabe. Her son won, as he expected, and she moved toward his curricle feigning delight.

  She held herself rigid when Gabe lifted her up into the curricle. He was about to lift Nicky in when right on cue Harry rode up, saying, “Nicky, would you like to ride with me for a while?”

  Nicky’s eyes widened. “Yes, please, sir,” he responded eagerly, as Gabe had known he would, and before Nicky’s mother could say a word, Gabe lifted the child up in front of his brother.

  “He likes to go fast,” he told Harry, who winked at him and moved off.

  Gabe climbed nimbly into the curricle beside the princess and snapped the reins.

  For a short distance she said nothing, then, “I suppose you’re feeling pleased with yourself.”

  “Indeed I am,” Gabe agreed, his eyes twinkling. “My stratagem worked perfectly. Your son is having the time of his life and I am alone with you. What could be more perfect?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You expected me to deny it, didn’t you?”

  She laughed. “Nothing could have convinced me you did not arrange that beforehand with your brother. I have spent the last few minutes thinking up a good scold, and now you’ve taken the wind right out of my sails.”

  “Go ahead, scold away if it will make you happy,” he invited. “I promise you, I will be suitably crushed.”

  She arched her brows skeptically. “Crushed enough to stop the curricle and let me return to the chaise?”

  “No, not that crushed. Unfortunately I am quite resilient to scolds. Blame my military experience: people give thundering good scolds in the army. They quite ruined my ability to be crushed.”

  “I doubt you were ever particularly crushable.”

  He grinned at her. “See? I knew you would have liked Great-aunt Gert. She would have agreed with you there. Mind you, she gave the best scolds in the world and came quite close to crushing me once or twice.”

  She laughed again.

  “There, that’s better,” he said. “You climbed out of that chaise before looking so wan and dejected I was worried you were ill. But a good feed, some fresh air, and a little badinage has done you the world of good. The roses are blooming in your cheeks again. And see, Miss Tibby is doing the same.”

  They both looked to where Tibby sat up on the driver’s seat next to Ethan. Gabe hoped Ethan knew what he was doing, fostering such an acquaintance. Ethan must have suggested the seating arrangement to Miss Tibby: a lady like Tibby would never have thought of riding up with the driver.

  Gabe frowned. It was unlike Ethan to have much to do with respectable ladies. Socially, the two were poles apart.

  Ethan had a certain rough charm, he knew. The ladies of Spain and Portugal had certainly appreciated him. But that was in wartime, and war made people act in ways they would not otherwise countenance.

  Things were different now. He hoped Ethan remembered it.

  They came to a clearing and he instantly reined in the horses. “Look,” he said, pointing to where a small herd of deer grazed on the sweet grass by the forest’s edge. As they watched the deer melted away into the trees.

  “I expect they think we’ll shoot at them,” she said.

  “I’m not really a cold-blooded killer,” he said quietly.

  She gave him a surprised look. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Not the deer; the other morning, with the count. You’ve hardly been able to look at me since.”

  Callie looked away, distressed. He thought she despised him for doing what he had done. He was so wrong. It was quite the contrary.

  He went on, “Once a man starts burning women’s houses and trying to murder children, he must be stopped. I would prefer the law to do it, I admit, but if it came to the crunch I would have no hesitation in killing him. And it would not bother me in the least.” He paused and looked at her. “But I would never hurt you or Nicky, or any woman or child.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? Of course I know you wouldn’t hurt us. You’ve been nothing but kind.” If just one person in Zindaria had listened to her, believed her, as he had…but they hadn’t. She’d had to travel across a continent and sail across the English Channel to find him, this one man who believed her, and without hesitation had declared himself her champion.

  Sir Galahad indeed.

  But how could she tell him that, and not reveal what was in her heart? What she thought might be in her heart, if only she dared to look. She didn’t dare, she couldn’t. She couldn’t go through it all again.

  He’d said it himself—he would protect any woman, any child. That is what a Galahad did.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t deliberately avoiding you,” she lied. “It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “I know.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “I was just worried that my actions that morning had given you a disgust of me.”

  “A disgust?” she exclaimed. “No, I thought you were a hero!”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Just as long as you’re not frightened of me.”

  It depended what the definition of being frightened was, she thought.

  That morning had changed her life. Standing up to Count Anton had given her a small piece of pride back. She’d done something she’d never done before; she’d behaved like a ruling princess. And people had believed her. Even Count Anton had believed her.

  It was a powerful thought.


  And when Gabriel said he would kill Count Anton for her, he’d offered her the most powerful choice of all: the power of life and death. To protect her son.

  She had no doubt he would have done it. And Gabriel would have taken the responsibility, the blame.

  He knew what he was doing. How could he not—a soldier, an officer of eight years? And with the magistrate at his elbow, warning him of the consequences. A hanging offense.

  At the very least he would have had to flee the country and live as an exile.

  And he would have done it, for her, for Callie.

  It threatened every carefully built wall she’d maintained around her heart since she’d walked out of that hunting lodge eight years ago.

  To be that vulnerable to a man again?

  Yes, she was frightened of him. He frightened her to death.

  They stopped several nights on the road. The first night Ethan approached Tibby, and asked could he have a word in private with her. She agreed.

  “Miss Tibby?” The room wasn’t hot at all, but Ethan was sweating like a pig.

  “Yes, Mr. Delaney?”

  “I was wondering…”

  “Yes?” She tilted her head inquiringly.

  Ethan ran a finger around his collar. It was far too tight. He’d spent half an hour arranging his neck cloth just so, and now the damned thing was choking him. He cleared his throat.

  “Miss Tibby, as you know, I’m plannin’ to go into business with Mr. Morant. And Mr. Renfrew, of course,” he added as an afterthought. Harry Morant was the driving force in this venture.

  “Yes, I know. It sounds a most exciting venture.”

  “It is. The trouble is, Miss Tibby, there is…stuff…I need to learn. If I want to be a partner on the same terms as the others, that is. It’s not just a matter of money. Or horse sense. Or work.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.” He wanted to rip his neck cloth off. He took a turn around the room.

  “Miss Tibby, I want to hire your services.”

  “But Mr. Delaney, I don’t know anything about horses or horse racing. Or business.”