The Stolen Princess (22 page)

“Just get out man! Don't make it any worse than you already have,” the squire told the count, shoving him bodily toward the door.

“You haven't heard the last of this,” Count Anton muttered. The squire grabbed him by the arm and pulled him outside, saying, “Bad enough to have clouted that ragamuffin brat, but to draw steel on a child, and that child your own crown prince! I'm shocked, Count, shocked! There's something devilish havey cavey about you and no mistake!”

Outside Callie saw the count's men waiting in an oddly still group.

Then she saw Barrow standing nearby, with a silver pistol in each hand trained on the waiting men. Callie recognized those pistols.

“I'll just see them off the premises,” Gabriel told her, and he followed Sir Walter and the count outside.

“Shall we?” said the elegant man called Rafe, and without waiting he strolled outside, followed by his friends. Callie noticed they each had produced pistols as well.

Gabriel drew the magistrate aside and spoke to him for a minute or two. Sir Walter turned, stared at the count severely, then nodded.

As Callie watched the count and his men disappear from sight, her knees suddenly gave out and she plonked down on the stairs.

When Gabriel returned he said immediately, “Are you all right?”

Callie looked up at him. Was she all right? Yes, more than all right—she felt wonderful. Just a bit shaky, for some odd reason. She looked up at the man who'd offered to kill her enemy for her and asked him, “Do you have any brandy?”

“Yes.”

“Then could I have a large glass, immediately.”

“I'll have one, too,” declared the man called Rafe.

“And me,” said his friend.

Laughing, Gabriel held out a hand. “Come along then, I think we all deserve a drink.”

Nicky took her other hand. “We showed Count Anton, Mama, didn't we?”

“We did, my darling. We all did.” She could not get out of her mind the way Gabriel had looked at her when he'd said,
For you, I'd do anything. Just say the word.

They retired to the octagonal room, where drinks were poured and everyone joined in relating the events of the morning for those who hadn't been present.

When Gabriel related the part about how Tibby had reprimanded the count for reading other people's letters, the room exploded with masculine laughter. Tibby, usually withdrawn and uncomfortable in the presence of men, laughed and blushed happily as Gabriel proposed a toast to the two heroines.

Callie could still not look at him. Something had happened there at the foot of the stairs that she wasn't quite sure of and didn't know how to deal with. She needed to think about it, and with his eyes on her she couldn't think at all.

“But tell me, Princess.” Tall, elegant Rafe Ramsey turned to Callie. “Do you always wear that tiara?”

Callie's hands flew up to the tiara. She'd forgotten she was wearing it. She smiled sheepishly, feeling rather foolish. “No, I know it looks silly. It's just…It was my mother's…I wore it to make me feel brave.”

She half expected them to laugh, but instead, Rafe Ramsey simply nodded. “I wondered if that was it.”

“Like a uniform,” Luke Ripton added. “Or a flag.”

Their acceptance surprised her. They'd all been soldiers. She would have thought that soldiers would be scornful of such stratagems.

And then she remembered the sword. “Where did you get that sword?” she asked Nicky. She turned to the others and explained. “One minute he was clutching a black walking stick and the next he was charging down the stairs with a sword in his hand.”

“The sword was in the stick,” Nicky told her. “I twisted the handle and suddenly it came off in my hand and there was a sword inside the stick.”

“Great-Aunt Gert's sword stick,” Gabriel and Harry said at the same time.

Callie's jaw dropped. “Your great-aunt carried a
sword stick
?”

Gabriel gave a reminiscent smile. “Never went anywhere without it. She was a most redoubtable old lady. As far as I know she never actually used the blade on anyone, but the stick put paid to a highwayman, once. The fellow was a bit cocky, imagining he was dealing with a frail old lady, until the frail old lady whacked him hard over the head and knocked him cold.”

Everyone laughed. He lifted his glass. “To Great-Aunt Gert and her trusty sword stick.” They all drank.

“Are we still going to London, Mama?” Nicky asked as they drained their glasses.

Callie glanced quickly at Gabriel.

“Not today, Nicky,” he said. “We'll wait and see if Count Anton has any more tricks up his sleeve. He has a habit of setting fire to places, so I'll post a watch and we'll see. I had a word to Sir Walter about the count's activities and he was going to question him. It seems the large white yacht we saw anchored in Lulworth Cove belongs to Count Anton.”

“And if Count Anton doesn't come?” Nicky persisted.

Gabriel looked at Callie. “It's up to your mother. Whatever she wants.”

She did not meet his eyes.
Whatever she wants.
It was what he'd said earlier, over the sword:
For you, I'd do anything. Just say the word.

The way he said it sounded like a promise, an oath.

She didn't want to think about it. Refused to think about it. She was older now and wiser, and she knew better than to believe noble-sounding words. Or actions. But gallantry was second nature to the man. Some men were like that.

She couldn't stay here. She was, after all, an uninvited guest, even though he'd made her more than welcome. It was time she began her own new life. Running was only a short-term solution. She had to work out something more lasting, more durable.

In the meantime she would arrange protection for Nicky—indeed, Mr. Renfrew already had. What could be better protection than four tall former soldiers—five counting Mr. Delaney.

And London? She wasn't sure what she'd do with her life yet, but she had definite plans for London.

“Yes, Nicky, we shall go to London,” she decided. “Tibby and I need to go shopping.”

“All of us?” Nicky said. “Jim, too?”

Callie hesitated. Gabriel intervened. “I need to have a word with Jim in private, first. Jim?” He waved a hand toward the door, and with visible trepidation Jim went.

“N
ow, Jim, I don't think you've been completely honest with us,” Gabe said once he had taken Jim into the library.

Jim sat on a chair opposite him looking small and skinny and scared. The livid mark of the count's whip bisected his swollen face. It gleamed with Mrs. Barrow's ointment. His head was hunched defensively into his shoulders. His ears stuck out, made larger-seeming by his severe haircut, and somehow adding to the look of vulnerability. He said nothing.

Gabe said gently, “You told us your father had only been gone for a week or two.”

Jim nodded, then swallowed, the action painfully visible in his scrawny neck.

“Mrs. Barrow got Barrow to ask around,” Gabe said. “Nobody has seen your father for at least six or eight weeks.”

“You're not goin' to put me on the parish as an orphan, are ya, sir? Coz if you are, I won't go. I'll run away.” Jim looked around the room desperately and tensed, as if preparing to flee.

“No, we won't put you on the parish,” Gabe assured him.

Jim's eyes fixed on Gabe's. “You promise?”

“I promise. But you must tell me the truth.”

Jim searched his face with painful intensity. He seemed to find reassurance in Gabe's expression, for the tension drained from his body. “Me dad's been gone more'n two months. I reckon he's dead. He ain't never left me for that long afore—never for longer'n a week.” He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

Gabe passed him a handkerchief. Jim thanked him, folded it, and put the handkerchief carefully in his pocket, untouched.

“I'll take care of you in the future, Jim, if you agree. But I will have the truth from you at all times.”

The boy looked at him warily. “What would you want me to do?”

“I'm not sure,” Gabe said. “For the moment, I want you to keep young Nicky company.”

Jim frowned. “You mean look after him coz bastards like that slimy yeller count are after him?”

Gabe smiled. “Something of the sort. I want you to keep him company. You'll have to do lessons with Miss Tibby when Nicky does. And you'll have to do whatever Mrs. Barrow tells you. And when we all go to London in a day or two, we might take you with us. If you agree.”

Jim's eyes bulged. “To London? You're not joking me are you, sir?”

“No joke, Jim.”

The boy's eyes lit up. “I'll go to London, all right! And I'll look after Nicky and do lessons and I'll be as good as gold, sir, just you wait!”

Gabe laughed. “Good. Now, I think we should probably have a memorial service for your father, don't you?”

Jim frowned. “You mean like in a church?”

Gabe nodded. “Yes, that's right.”

“Me dad hated churches and preachers, if you don't mind me sayin' so, sir. I don't want no church service for him.” He looked at Gabe with an anguished expression. “If you want to change your mind about keepin' me, sir, I'll understand, but…I couldn't let me dad down on this. He was a good dad.” He sniffed again, and again used his sleeve.

Gabe was touched. He ruffled Jim's spiky hair. “No, you're quite right to respect your father's wishes. But I think you should do something to say good-bye him. What do you think he'd like us to do?”

T
hey all gathered at the beach next to Jim's cottage that evening at dusk. Mrs. Barrow had prepared a good spread of baked meats and funeral fare. Barrow had spread the word and about twenty of Jim's father's friends came. They seemed to know what Jim's father would wish.

They lit a fire on the beach. They carried beach stones to the top of the cliff and built a cairn looking out to sea. Then, down on the beach, they dragged out a battered dinghy, ancient and unseaworthy, with a large gash in its side. The fishermen repaired it roughly, hammering planks over the hole and plastering it with hot tar to make it temporarily seaworthy.

From the cottage, Jim brought out a number of items. He distributed his father's things among the fishermen; his clothes, his tools, various bits and pieces from a man's life.

There was pitifully little.

He gave something to everyone. To Callie he gave a beautiful stone, with a fern fossilized in it. To Tibby he gave one containing an exquisite shell.

Jim's father had been a carver of some talent, for there were some fine pieces of scrimshaw. He gave a whale's tooth with a sea monster carved on it to Nicky.

“Don't show this to Mrs. B.,” Jim whispered to Barrow as he handed him a knife with a bone handle to Barrow. Barrow glanced at the knife and winked. The handle had a scandalous carving of a mermaid on it.

To Mrs. Barrow Jim gave a lovely necklace of polished green sea glass. “It was me mum's,” he mumbled and quickly turned away. Mrs. Barrow wiped tears from her eyes.

To Gabe he presented another knife with a whalebone handle. Lastly he presented Ethan with a small wooden box. Ethan opened it and his eyes widened. It contained a fine whalebone chess set. “You should keep this, lad,” he said.

Jim shook his head. “I can't play chess. I want you to have it.”

Ethan touched the boy on the shoulder as he turned away. “I'll keep it for you until you can beat me at chess,” he told Jim. Jim gave him a shy grin and went back to his duties.

After his father's main possessions had been given away, Jim placed the rest in the old boat. “Now fill it with driftwood,” he ordered, and they all gathered wood until the boat was full. Under his orders, they pushed the old boat into the sea until it floated. Then Jim took a burning brand from the fire and turned to face the assembly.

“Me da never did hold wi' churches, as most o' you know,” he said. “But he told me a story once about people called Vikings and how they done funerals. He told me he reckoned it would be a grand way to go. So, Da, this is for you.”

He tossed the brand into the boat and the driftwood caught fire and blazed up.

“Push!” he ordered, and the burning boat floated out to sea. They watched in silence, then one of the fishermen produced a fiddle. He started to play a slow, haunting tune, and after a moment a woman started to sing: