The Stolen Princess (13 page)

He watched until the curricle was out of sight. Nobody followed. Gabe started to breathe normally again. He'd fought four men this afternoon and was still standing, but she'd delivered him a blow that had knocked him endways.

The way she'd come back and burst in the door, pistols waving. To help him.
Him.
Risking herself to save a man who was more than capable of looking after himself. He'd survived eight years of warfare.

Crazy female. She had no idea of how it was supposed to be between men and women. He was the one who protected her, not the other way around.

Gabe checked the men at the back door. They were still unconscious. He was tempted to hand the cowardly swine over to the authorities, but he'd given her his word he wouldn't. The first time in his life he'd been swayed from doing what he considered to be the right thing.

He checked the cottage. There was damage to the doors and windows. He'd send a man down tomorrow to effect any repairs needed. He straightened a couple of rugs and some pictures.

He couldn't get it out of his head; no woman, ever, had tried to protect him.

He had no idea how to handle it.

She had known him a day—less than a day.

He heard a sound behind him and whirled. Nothing. Then he glimpsed a movement under the kitchen dresser. He crouched down and saw a big, old, ugly, battle-scarred ginger tomcat peering warily back at him from one good eye.

“You can't possibly be her dear little Kitty-cat,” Gabe told it. “You ought to be called Cyclops, or Ulysses.”

The cat glared at him in silence. A bitten-off, sorry-looking excuse for a tail twitched angrily. But the cat, though angry, was very much at home.

“Come on then, Kitty-cat, you old reprobate.” Gabe reached under the dresser to take the cat and the cat lashed out. Gabe swore and sucked his well-scratched hand. He wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and, uttering soothing noises, he tried again. The handkerchief got shredded and Gabe acquired some more scratches. “Look, you ugly old devil, I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just bringing that poor deluded woman her sweet little Kitty-cat.”

“Where's ze princess?” a voice from above him said, and Gabe's head exploded with pain.

“Princess? What princess?” he said, groggily. A boot kicked him hard in the groin and Gabe doubled up, groaning and cursing his own stupidity. At least three of them stood over him. He'd been half under the dresser, caught unawares like any wet-behind-the-ears novice.

The leader, in shiny black riding boots with silver spurs, snarled, “Don't waste my time, peasant! I want ze princess and her son!”

“Don't know what you're talking about. Don't know any princess.” Gabe tried to push free, but the heel of another boot stamped down on his hand. The pain was excruciating.

“Tell us where she is. She and ze prince.”

“Never seen any princes or princesses,” he ground out. “Saw the king once, afore he went mad.” He tried to look up at the speaker and found a boot planted on his head. He was pinned down and helpless.

The boot pushed down. “The princess and the boy are all we want.”

Gabe was a soldier and a realist. There was only one thing he could do. So he swore at the man, insulting him in the worst ways he could think of. Years in the army had given him an excellent vocabulary.

It had the desired effect; they stopped questioning him and started beating him up, instead.

The last thing Gabe saw was the cat streaking between a forest of black boots and out of the door…

“C
apt'n, can you hear me, Capt'n?” Cold water splashed onto Gabe's face. He tried to move and groaned. Every inch of his body ached. He managed to crack open one eye and saw Ethan, anxiously looking down at him.

“Are you hurt bad, Capt'n?”

Gabe shook his head and winced. His head felt like it was about to split. “No, just battered. Are they gone?”

“Aye. Can you move?”

“Of course.” Gabe moved and swore again. He examined the inside of his mouth with his tongue, checking to see he still had all his teeth. He did.

“Drink this.” Ethan put a flask of brandy to his lips. Gabe swallowed, then waved him back, coughing, as the fiery liquid burned its way down.

“What the devil—?” he gasped.

Ethan grinned. “A little drop of Irish mountain dew, sir—what we call poteen. Good for what ails ye.”

“If it doesn't kill you first!” Gabe spluttered.

Ethan gave him a few seconds to recover, then helped Gabe to stand. “I have the curricle outside. When you didn't turn up, I got worried. Left the ladies at the Grange and came back. So, what happened?”

Gabe pulled a wry face. “The blackguards got the jump on me.”

Ethan's jaw dropped. “You, Capt'n?”

“Me,” Gabe admitted ruefully. “Own stupid fault. Worse than the greenest new recruit. They caught me half under that dresser, chasing that blasted cat.”

He staggered to the front door and looked at the cinder path, at the end of which waited his curricle. “Any more of that blasted Irish firewater?”

T
he first thing Gabe saw when he and Ethan entered the house was the battered portmanteau and bandbox sitting neatly, side by side, in the entrance hall.

Callie appeared at the end of the corridor. “Oh no, what happened?” she exclaimed and ran to meet them. She was still wearing his great-aunt's cloak.

Gabe staggered and clutched Ethan's arm, forcing Ethan to look at him in surprise.

“Are you all right? Can I help?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern.

Gabriel immediately put an arm around her shoulders and gave Ethan a little push. “You may see to the horse, Ethan,” he said, guiding Callie's other arm around his waist. “I shall do very well with Mrs. Prynne's help, thank you.”

The Irishman shot him an amused glance. “Oh, I can see that fine,” he murmured.

She struggled to wedge her shoulder more firmly under his arm. Gabe found the sensation of her squirming and thrusting against him quite delightful. He moaned softly and let his knees sag and his arm curl around her waist. Her arm tightened around his midriff and her other hand came up and pressed firmly against his chest.

“Ouch!” he said involuntarily. She'd pressed right where that swine's boot had landed.

“Oh dear, I am so sorry! Does it hurt very much?” she said. “What happened? I thought you were just tidying up. Did the men get free?”

“No. Why are you still wearing that cloak?”

She shot him an indignant look. “I was waiting for you, of course. Oh, your poor face.” She examined his face anxiously. He wasn't a pretty sight, Gabe surmised ruefully. One eye was swollen shut. It would make a devil of a shiner. And from the way the rest of his body ached and stung, he was a mass of cuts and bruises.

She, on the other hand, looked so beautiful it made him ache, and not from any bruises. Her lovely green eyes scanned him.

“What's the verdict?” he asked softly.

She bit her lip. “You look, you look…”

“Heroic?” he said hopefully. “Intrepid? Valiant?”

“Dreadful!”

“Oh,” he said, dampened. “So why do you need to wait for me in a cloak?”

“You didn't think I'd leave without thanking you, do you?”

Gabe frowned and tightened his grip on her. “Leave? Leave for where? You're not going anywhere.”

She tried to shake off his hand. “Of course I am. Count Anton—my enemy—is here. Those were his men at Tibby's cottage. I have to leave before they discover me.”

“Nonsense! Stay here. I will protect you.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “You?” From the look on her face Gabe gathered he was a less than reassuring sight.

“These,” he gestured to his injuries, “are just superficial.”

She gave him a look that said she didn't believe him, but was too polite to say so. “Thank you for your offer, but really, it is imperative I leave as soon as possible.”

She was utterly determined to go, he could see. “Very well, wait until I can get cleaned up. It won't take long.”

She jerked her head back and stared at him. Her face was just inches away. “Wait? Why wait, when I can thank you and take my leave of you just as well now?”

“Because I'm not traveling all bloodied and in a mess, that's why.” At her look of confusion he added, “You don't imagine I'm letting you and that boy travel on alone when there is a pack of vicious thugs after you, do you?”

She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “No, thank you. It is very kind of you, but it's not necessary. I could not ask you—”

“You're not asking me, I'm telling you.” His arm tightened around her.

Her green eyes narrowed. “Mr. Renfrew, as I've pointed out before, you have no authority over me. It's kind of you to be concerned, but it really isn't your business what I do or where I go. I don't wish to quarrel with you, so—”

“Good. Then you will wait.”

“No. I am my own woman and—”

He turned his head. “Ethan, are you still here? Good. Take that luggage and lock it in the cupboard down the hall. Lock everything in there—that hat, too—and give the key to me.”

“You will do no such thing, Mr. Delaney,” she said instantly. “It is my luggage and I intend to depart as soon as practicable.”

“Ethan, go.”

Ethan grinned. “Yes, sir, Capt'n Renfrew.” He picked up the valise, tucked the bandbox under his arm, and picked up the hat.

“Unhand those items at once!” With some difficulty she untangled herself from Gabe and ran to wrest her things from Ethan.

Gabe grabbed her cloak and when she pulled up short, he twirled her around, snatched her hand, and tucked it into the crook of his. “Let us discuss this,” he said and propelled her toward the sitting room.

She resisted. “There is nothing to dis—” she began, then noticed with amazement his sudden ability to walk unaided. “You fraud! You can stand perfectly well without me!”

Immediately Gabe had a relapse, one that necessitated his arm clamping hers to her side, while he held tightly onto her other hand.

“I am not the least bit deceived by that,” she told him. “How dare you confiscate my luggage!”

“Oh dear, I think I'm going to swoon,” Gabe murmured and clutched her as feebly as he could manage while restraining her from running after Ethan.

“Are you indeed?” said a caustic voice from behind. “That'll be a first, then.” He turned and saw Mrs. Barrow, hands on hips, observing the whole scene. Behind her stood Miss Tibthorpe, and the two boys watching with wide eyes, his dog, Juno, peering between them.

Mrs. Barrow took one look at him and sniffed. “You'd better bring him in to the kitchen, ma'am. He needs cleaning up.” She darted him a look and added, “In more ways than one.”

Ethan returned and tossed him the key. Gabe caught it. He looked down at his stubborn, angry princess and said softly, “Just give me an hour. If you don't, I will come like this.”

She opened her mouth to argue and he added in a firm voice, “I am not taking no for an answer. I go with you bloodied or I go with you clean, but you won't leave this house alone and unprotected.”

She scowled at him a moment, then her face cleared and she nodded, as if capitulating. “Very well, I'll wait. Give me that key and while you're getting cleaned up I'll get my luggage ready.” She held out her hand.

For answer, he slipped the key into his breeches pocket. “After we've talked this through rationally.”

Callie glared at him. “Don't you trust me?”

He gave a faint smile. “I told you, those eyes of yours give your every thought away. If you had your luggage, you would leave the moment my back was turned. Shall we go?” He held out his hand as if to usher her to the kitchen.

She gave him an icy look, then, with her little nose held high, she glided past him, the very picture of a royal princess: gracious, dignified—and fuming.

It was all Gabe could do not to snatch her back and kiss the starch out of her. But in her current mood she'd probably box his ears. And quite rightly. He'd been atrociously high-handed. But he couldn't let her leave. Not without him.

In the kitchen Mrs. Barrow said to the two boys, “Jim, you'll know where the best pool for leeches is—the one in the hollow behind the copse. You and Nicky take this jar and fetch me some nice big ones. And take that dratted dog with you—you know she's not supposed to be in the kitchen.”

“Leeches?” Callie exclaimed in repugnance.

“Best thing for black eyes and bruises.” Mrs. Barrow turned back to Jim. “You know how to catch them, don't you?”

Jim nodded.

“Good lad. Off you go then, boys, and don't fall in!”

“Nicky can't go,” Callie said quickly. “He—he cannot swim.”

Nicky's face fell. “I would be very careful, Mama,” he said in his polite, little-old-man way. “I have never before fished for leeches. It sounds very interesting.” His green eyes beseeched her.

She hesitated. Gabe understood why. He found it almost impossible to resist her when she looked at him with her version of those eyes.

But the events at the cottage had obviously given her a bad fright and she was clearly reluctant to let her son out of her sight.

She chewed on her lip indecisively. Gabe watched. She had no idea how erotic he found it. Even battered and aching, and in a room full of people, his body stirred at her action.

“I would dearly love to experience a leech hunt,” the boy added in a wistful voice. His hands unconsciously fondled Juno's ears.

“Then you shall go,” Gabe told him. He needed to talk to her in private, about things she wouldn't want to discuss in front of her son. “Take Miss Tibthorpe with you. She will find it, er, scientifically interesting.”

Miss Tibthorpe looked surprised and faintly indignant, but before she could say anything, Gabe noticed Ethan lounging in the doorway and added, “And Mr. Delaney will go, too, which will set Nicky's mother's mind at rest.”

“Indeed it will,” Ethan agreed. “Where am I goin' again? A leech hunt, is it?” He gave a rueful glance down at his immaculate outfit and gleaming boots. “That'll be…grand.” With gloomy resignation, Ethan offered his arm to Miss Tibthorpe. She hesitated, then took it, and in seconds the kitchen was deserted.

The princess stamped her foot. “How dare you take over like that! You have no right! It is for me to decide if my son stays or goes.”

“I know, but we have things to discuss. And he'll be perfectly safe. The pool is just a few minutes away; they'll be half an hour at most. Let Nicky have his fun. From the sounds of things he hasn't had much fun in his life. You do keep him wrapped in cotton wool.”

Her eyes glittered. “That's not fair. I do what I must for Nicky's own good.”

“I know, to keep him safe. But you can't keep running.”

She made a frustrated gesture. “What else can I do? I can't fight Count Anton myself. And nobody else believes me.”

“I believe you. And you can't fight him, but I can.”

“How?” she demanded. “You are but one man. Count Anton has practically an army.”

“A battle is not always won on brute strength alone.”

“You might be more convincing if you looked less like something the cat spat out, Mr. Gabe, so let's get you cleaned up,” Mrs. Barrow interrupted. She'd brought hot water, clean cloths, and a daunting array of medicinal-looking pots.

Callie stood back to let Mrs. Barrow at him.

“How do you imagine you can defeat Count Anton?” she asked Gabe as Mrs. Barrow stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, leaving only his breeches. Gabe placed a hand on his waistband to make sure they stayed that way.

Callie stared. Angry marks were all over his body, where he'd been kicked and punched. There was even the imprint of a boot heel on the back of his left hand.

It was her fault he was hurt. He'd got like this defending Tibby from Count Anton's men. Her anger faded and guilt replaced it.

“Don't do that,” he told her.

“Do what?”

“Chew your lips like that. They're a work of art, those lips, and should not to be chomped on or mangled. Nibbled on tenderly, perhaps. I'll show you how, later.”

Callie stared at him, unable to think of a single thing to say.
A work of art?
And then she realized he'd just offered to
nibble on her lips
. She fought a blush.

“That's enough of your mischief, Mr. Gabe. The lass has been beside herself with worry for you,” Mrs. Barrow said. “And you, ma'am, don't give this another thought.” She indicated the battered masculine torso. “I've been patching up him and Harry since they were knee-high to a grasshopper. As long as the devilment is still in this one, he's all right.”

Callie took comfort in the woman's words. She could see the devilment dancing in the one blue eye that could open. So while Mrs. Barrow dabbed at the cuts and abrasions with a mix of vinegar and hot saltwater, he explained what had happened.

He'd been caught half under the dresser trying to catch the cat. A high-booted thug with a thin golden mustache had demanded he produce a princess. “As if I had hidden one under the dresser!” he scoffed.

“That was Count Anton,” Callie confessed, “I am the princess he was after.”

“I knew that. Princess Caroline of Zindaria.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “The Zindari horsemen and their fabled savage horses have been an interest of my brother Harry's for years, so I'd already worked out where you came from based on Nicky's talk. And you being a princess? Well, since Nicky's father was one of the top men, it wasn't much of a stretch.”