The Stolen Princess (18 page)

He was right, she knew, but how could she stop Count Anton? The only thing that would stop him was death, and she wasn't sure she had it in her to kill someone. She tried to list her options, but it kept coming back to just two: Run or kill Count Anton…run or kill Count Anton.

If Nicky could abdicate…but he couldn't, not until he was eighteen. And she didn't want him to, anyway. To be the prince of Zindaria was his birthright.

Plans and possibilities swirled in her brain. The sun streamed in through the octagonal window. The warmth was heavenly. She folded her sewing on her lap and closed her eyes, just to enjoy it for a moment.

“M
ama, I have had the most splendid time!” Nicky burst into the room chattering nineteen to the dozen. “We caught lots of fish, and we lit a fire on the beach and cooked them and ate them—with our fingers, Mama! And they were the most delicious fish I have ever eaten in my life. And little shells we dug out of the sand and we boiled them and ate them, too. And we met two other boys that Jim knew and they are splendid fellows and I fell in and got wet, but I am dry now because one of the other boys lived in the oddest little hut near the beach and he lent me some clothes while mine got dry. Oh, Mama, you should have been there!”

By the time he stopped to draw breath Callie was laughing helplessly. “And did you think to save a fish for me, my brave fisherman?”

“Yes, of course, Mama. I promised I would.”

“Of course you did, darling. Thank you.” She looked at the tall man who was lounging in the doorway, watching them with a faint smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Renfrew.” She smiled up at him. “I have not seen Nicky this happy in…oh, forever. It makes everything worthwhile.”

“Even the delay I foisted on you?”

“Yes, even that, though…” She scanned his long, lean body. “I don't suppose you fell in, too, did you?” she asked hopefully.

He laughed. “Nope.”

“No fingers or toes nipped by a lobster or a crab?”

“Nope.”

She produced a mock sigh. “Oh well, one cannot have everything, I suppose. We must be content with Nicky's splendid time.” She tried not to smile, but it broke out anyway.

She ran her fingers affectionately though Nicky's hair. And saw something. She frowned, and peered closer. “What? It's a, it's a—”

“A nit. A louse,” said Gabriel, looking over her shoulder. “In fact, several lice. See there's another one.”

“Lice?” she exclaimed. “My son has lice?”

He seemed to find her horror amusing. “Don't worry, they don't eat much.”

She stared at him in speechless indignation.

“You're not very good with things that wriggle and crawl, are you?” he commented. “Leeches, lice…”

“No, I'm not!” she snapped, annoyed by his amusement. Lice were horrid, dirty things. Her son had never in his life been exposed to such creatures. “Nicky, how did you—” She broke off. It would have happened when he swapped clothes with that other boy. She looked at Gabriel. “How could you let this happen?”

He shrugged indifferently. “Nits won't kill him. You said yourself he had a splendid day. Besides it might even do him good.”

“Do him good?” She shuddered.

“Nicky will one day be crown prince of Zindaria. Tell me, who will make the better ruler—the man who has no idea of the daily life and hardships of the ordinary folk, or the man who as a boy, rubbed shoulders—or heads—with the sons of the poor?”

She closed her eyes. “All right, I suppose I can see your point.”

“So don't worry about lice and bangs or scrapes or mud or fleas—”

She opened her eyes. “
Fleas?
” she said faintly.

His blue eyes twinkled. “Bound to be fleas. Mrs. Barrow is well used to dealing with boys and the livestock they can bring home. She'll whisk Nicky and Jim into a bath, go over them with a fine-toothed comb and rub her special nit cream into their hair—it's stinky, but efficacious, I promise you. And she'll boil their clothes in the copper.”

“How do you know so much about…” She glanced at the lice in her son's hair and shuddered.

“I've had lice before. They're a constant nuisance in the army—yes, even the officers get 'em. And when I was a boy Harry and I picked up our share of bodily livestock. We ran wild with the local lads, too.”

Callie gave her son a little push. “Go on, Nicky, go and show Mrs. Barrow what else you caught today beside the fish.”

Nicky stood. “I have had leeches and now I have lice!” he exclaimed.

Both Callie and Gabriel laughed at his apparent pride in his achievement.

“Indeed, Nicky, and the experience will make you a better prince, someday,” Gabriel said, ruffling his hair as he passed.

Callie watched him and smiled.

“I'm glad to see you've accepted it,” he said after Nicky had left.

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of Nicky's princely development.” She glanced at Gabriel. “I don't suppose you've picked up any livestock, too.”

“No. Your luck is quite out today.”

“I'm not so sure,” she said, trying not to smile. “You ruffled my son's hair just then. And for the past few minutes, you've been scratching. Perhaps you'd better see Mrs. Barrow, too.”

C
allie was bored. She'd spent the whole morning sewing, and now she wanted a change. The books in the library didn't appeal—it seemed Great-aunt Gert had disdained frivolous reading matter of the sort Callie and Tibby adored, for there was not one single novel—she had no letters to write and nobody to talk to.

She'd even offered to help Mrs. Barrow organizing the maidservants, an offer that had been received with horror. A princess, keeping a bunch of useless scatty girls applied to their work? Heaven forfend! And Mrs. Barrow had bustled off.

The princess, feeling a certain kinship with the useless, scatty girls, dolefully returned to her sewing.

A shout and the clatter of hooves in the courtyard outside caused her to jump up and run to the window. In the courtyard two horses were walking around in a rough circle, their hooves clip-clopping on the stones. Gabriel stood in the middle, observing, giving instructions.

Jim clung to the back of the first horse like a little monkey, his face alive with excitement.

Her son sat on the back of the second horse, pale and straight-backed, his face stiff with anxiety, his hands in the correct position.

Callie pressed her hand to her mouth. How many times had she watched this scene before, the prelude to the moment when Nicky went crashing on the ground, to lie crumpled and shamed, a failure yet again.

Gabriel called out something and she saw Nicky stiffen and rein his animal to a halt. His face frozen, he waited as the tall man strode across the courtyard, a frown on his face.

If he dared to yell at her son…Callie stood poised, ready to fly to Nicky's defense.

He stood on the other side of the horse, fiddling with something, and suddenly she realized he was adjusting the stirrup. Callie blinked. She hadn't even noticed there was a saddle. Every other time her son had been put on a horse it had been bareback.

Gabriel said something and stepped back. Nicky gave him a startled look, then grinned. He made a movement and the horse moved off.

Callie watched.

As the horses moved around the courtyard, Nicky's stiffness faded. His face lost that frozen look, and he even began to call out remarks to Jim. Callie wished she could hear what they were saying, but she was glued to the octagonal window.

Gabriel said something else, and the boys kicked their horses into a trot. For a breathless moment, Nicky bounced unsteadily, clinging on, his face white with the expectation of falling, but Gabriel called out advice and suddenly Nicky was rising and falling with the rhythm of the horse.

She was biting on her knuckles, she realized. Even from here she could read the pride in his bearing. He was riding. Not bareback, not fast, but alone and unaided.

He glanced at the window and saw her watching. His eyes lit up. With great daring, he raised a hand and quickly waved to her, his small face incandescent with joy.

Callie waved back, hoping he could not see the tears in her eyes. Nicky returned to his lesson with renewed determination.

Callie's gaze drifted to the tall man in the center of the courtyard. He was watching her, an enigmatic expression on his face.

She mouthed the words “thank you” and he gave her a slow smile, before turning back to the boys.

She stood watching with a lump in her throat and a hard knot in the middle of her chest. It was going to be harder to protect herself from him than she thought.

He had a way of sneaking under her defenses.

S
uddenly there was a flurry of noise and movement as the curricle, driven by Ethan Delaney, came shooting under the arch and into the courtyard. The horses shied and the two boys clutched their manes, all instruction forgotten, but thankfully nobody fell.

Gabriel strode forward, lifted first Nicky, then Jim down, handed the boys their horses' reins and ordered them to the stables. Callie could see why.

Ethan had a face like a thundercloud. Tibby sat on the seat beside him, stiff and bolt upright, her face pinched and colorless.

Something was horribly wrong. Callie ran from the room.

Her initial fear—that Mr. Delaney had done something dreadful to Tibby—faded as she saw the gentle way he lifted Tibby down from the high-slung curricle, as if she were a child, or an invalid.

Tibby's face was ashen, but she showed no self-consciousness about the Irishman's big hands spanning her waist. She murmured an automatic thanks to him and stood, looking blankly in front of her.

“Tibby, what's wrong?” Callie asked as she hurried toward her friend.

Tibby tried to speak and failed. She swallowed, then tried again. “My cottage,” she croaked. “It's all burned. Burned to the ground. There's nothing left, just charcoal and ashes.” And then she burst into tears. Callie ushered her inside.

“Is there truly nothing left?” Gabe asked Ethan after the two women had gone into the house.

“Nothing at all.”

Which as they both knew, was most unlikely, even with a thatched cottage. “So, it was deliberate?”

“I'd say so,” Ethan said, his face grim. “I checked that house before we left. There was nothin' left alight. Not so much as a spark in the fireplace—all swept out clean, it was.”

“Those bastards! Revenge, do you think? They wanted the princess and she'd eluded them, so they burned down her friend's house.”

Ethan nodded. “Probably. And mebbe they were hopin' to smoke her out as well. Hopin' she'd lead them back to the princess. Nothin' more natural if you hear your house is burned than to come and look. I had the devil's own job stoppin' Miss Tibby from jumpin' out of the curricle as it was. Frettin' about her poor little cat and her books, she was.” From Ethan's tone he didn't understand why anyone would worry about either.

“That ‘poor little cat' is the ugliest thing you've ever seen,” Gabe told him. “A battle-scarred old ginger tom, with a broken tail and”—he glanced at Ethan—“ears a bit like yours.”

Ethan began to saddle a fresh horse.

“Where are you going?” Gabe asked.

“I'm goin' back to check.”

“Check what?”

Ethan gave him an opaque look. “Something.” He mounted his horse and rode back the way he'd come.

An hour later Callie came downstairs. “She's resting now,” she told him. “Poor Tibby. She's lost everything.” She hung her head. “I should never have written to her, never have come here.”

“It's not your fault,” Gabe told her firmly.

“It is. I knew what Count Anton was like.” Guilt mixed with anger flickered across her face. “It's not the first time he's burned someone's house. He has a terrible temper and cannot endure to be crossed. But I promise you I never imagined for one moment he'd do something like that here in England, where he isn't even a member of the ruling family.” Her voice choked on a sob. “It's my fault this happened to her.”

“It's no such thing.”

She looked away. An errant tear slipped down her cheek. She dashed it angrily away.

Gabe gripped her by the chin. “Look at me. This is not your fault.”

“I am responsible. And Tibby is my friend. She is now destitute because she tried to help me. You cannot imagine I would simply leave and let her fend for herself.”

No, Gabe didn't imagine that. Not for one minute. His Callie…his Callie was a woman in a million.

He pulled her into his arms and held her for a long moment. Then he gently tipped her tear-stained face up and kissed her. He kissed the tears from her cheeks and the distress from her lips. It wasn't like their last kiss; this was comfort. And reassurance. Tender.

O
n Ethan's return he entered the house by the kitchen. “Do you know where Miss Tibby might be?” he asked Mrs. Barrow.

She nodded. “Poor little soul, like a wrung-out rag she is. She's in the conservatory, though why anyone should want to sit in that gloomy old place, I don't know.”

“Right,” Ethan said and headed for the conservatory.

“But she said she wanted to be alone,” Mrs. Barrow called after him. He took no notice.

The conservatory was built on to the back of the house. The walls were mostly windows. It must have been put in by whoever had built the octagonal bay window, Ethan thought, for it had something of the same style, and looked the same age, but it had been left too long neglected. The windows were crusted with sea salt and the few plants inside were long dead.

He could understand why Miss Tibby had chosen to come here to sit. It was a good place to be miserable. He spotted her sitting quietly on a bench between a dead potted palm and a large brown fern. “Miss Tibby,” he said and sneezed.

She jumped and turned. “Oh, Mr. Delaney, you startled me.”

“Do you mind if I join you?”

“No, of course not,” she said miserably. “I'm afraid though that I'm not very good company.”

“That's understandable,” he said as he threaded his way between the pots of dead plants. When he reached her seat he just stood there in front of her.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She glanced up at him, then dropped her gaze. She knew what she must look like, he thought, and was beyond caring.

As her gaze dropped, her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Mr. Delaney, your hands! They're all scratched and bloody.”

Ethan grimaced. “I know.” He sneezed again.

“But how—” Her eyes sharpened, riveted to his overcoat, which bulged oddly, and then moved.

“I've got something for you,” Ethan said and cautiously unbuttoned his overcoat. His waistcoat heaved and a yowl came from within. He gingerly unbuttoned his waistcoat, reached in, swore, and withdrew his hand on which were fresh scratches, reached in again and drew out a spitting, snarling cat.

“Kitty-cat!” she cried joyfully and lifted the animal out of his hands.

“Be careful it's a vicious, savage wildca…” His voice trailed off. The vicious beast that had scratched his hands to bits was snuggled against Miss Tibby's chest, purring like a coffee grinder and butting her chin with its big, ugly head. Its single yellow eye winked with evil smugness at Ethan as its mistress crooned over it like a baby.

“Oh, Mr. Delaney, thank you so much! I thought he was lost forever.” Tears sparkled on the ends of her lashes, but they were happy tears. Her cheeks were flushed and not the ghost pale they had been. She kissed the cat's head repeatedly, nuzzling his fur, stroking and caressing the ugly beast as if she thought it the most beautiful creature in the world.

Women were strange, he thought, not for the first time. “I knew you were worried about him, so…”

“I was, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. But how did you find him? He doesn't usually come to men.”

He hadn't come to Ethan, either. Ethan had coaxed him into a shed with a trail of ham pieces he'd bought at a farmhouse, then he'd trapped him in the corner and flung his coat over him. The cat had put up a mighty struggle, but Ethan had prevailed, at the cost of his hands, a half-shredded shirt, a ruined waistcoat, and a stained coat.

“Oh, I have a way with animals,” Ethan said modestly. It wasn't a lie, he thought. He did have a way with most animals—just not fiends from hell.

They sat there for a while, in silence, her crooning over the cat and him watching, bemused. She was such a lady, so small and neat and finicky-looking. He could understand her owning a cat, yes—a small, fluffy creature, with dainty ways and neat habits. But this overgrown, ugly, scarred old bruiser, now that was a mystery.

After a while he realized she'd gone quiet. Too quiet. He couldn't see her face; it was hidden by the cat. He ducked his head forward and snatched a look. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.

He wanted to say something comforting, but could think of nothing. A sniffle escaped her. Ethan pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She put the cat down and took the handkerchief with a muffled thanks. She mopped her cheeks with it then blew into it with a fierce feminine blast. The cat sat kneading her thighs with paws and claws.

“I'm sorry,” she muttered. “You saved Kitty-cat and he's the most important thing in the world to me. I know I'm lucky and I'm trying to be stoic. That's why I came out here. I don't want Callie to see me like this. She blames herself, I know.”

“She didn't set fire to the cottage.”

“I know. But she knows who it was and…She takes the weight of the world on her shoulders, that girl. She always did take everything to heart. It's her strength, but also her weakness.”

“Seems to me you're takin' a deal on your shoulders, yourself. It's not her you should be worryin' about. You're the one who's lost everything.”

“I haven't lost everything. I'm just back to where I started after Papa died. Except then I had—had my books.” Her words brought on a fresh battle with choked-back tears.