The Stolen Princess (8 page)

“I do blame you, yes! Because it
was
your fault. If you hadn't taken him—”

“Yes, yes, mea culpa. Do you know, I have the perfect solution for the way you're feeling,” Gabe told her.

“Oh, do you? And what might that be?”

“This.” And before she could even guess what he intended, he took a step forward. Which brought her hard against him, breast to chest.

She gasped. The most kissable mouth in the world formed a perfect
O
of surprise and Gabriel did what he'd been planning to do since he'd first clapped eyes on her.

He kissed her.

H
is lips were warm and firm and his action so unexpected that at first Callie was too surprised to move. Or resist.

She was being kissed in the stable like a maidservant.

She ought to scream. She ought to resist.

But the way he kissed…resistance was futile.

He tasted of salt and apples and of man. It was just a kiss, she told herself, and yet it felt so…intimate. He kissed her with his whole mouth, not just his lips, possessive and sure, and she felt herself melting against him.

After a moment he released her. She stood staring at his mouth, dazed.

“That was wrong,” she murmured. “I'm a respectable wi––woman. Let me go, please.” He didn't move, but his gaze dropped to her hands and his mouth curved into a slow grin. She followed his gaze and saw her own hands clutching his coat lapels in a convulsive grip. She hastily released them.

“If it was wrong, we'll get it right this time,” he murmured. “This will be a
very
respectable kiss.”

She pressed her hands against his chest, meaning to hold him off, but somehow, it changed. His mouth closed over hers again, and again she felt those swirling, heady sensations. She could feel his heartbeat under her fingers. He cupped her face in his hands as if he were holding something precious and the kiss went on forever.

Her hands slipped up over his chest, along his strong, rough jawline, and her fingers tangled in his hair. His tongue caressed hers and flames licked along her nerve endings, pooling in her core.

By the time he stopped Callie could barely stand, let alone speak.

Her legs felt strange and rubbery and for a moment she thought she was going to sink into the hay on the floor. She locked her knees as stiffly as she could until they were back in working order and tried to look serene. And dignified. A princess, not a maidservant.

“I don't kiss strange men,” she managed feebly after a moment. Had she really run her hands through his hair? It wasn't like her. And yet, his hair was undeniably messy.

He smiled down at her in a way that made her blush and feel strangely unsettled. “I'm glad to hear it. Though I'm not so very strange, am I? I always thought I was a fairly ordinary fellow.”

He was far from ordinary. “I meant I don't
know
you!” she said, desperately trying to compose herself. She could not believe that she'd allowed herself to kiss him back. She knew where this sort of thing led.

Straight to heartbreak.

He gave her a tragic look. “You've forgotten me, so soon? But I'm the fellow who took you up to bed last night. You were dressed most delightfully in an enormous pink nightgown. Ring a bell?”

She blushed. “You know what I mean.”

“Never mind, since you've apparently forgotten me, I'll introduce myself: Gabriel Renfrew, at your service.” He gave her that wicked, glinting smile. “At your very exclusive, very personal service. How do you do? Redundant question, really. You do beautifully, don't you? You certainly taste delicious—like wild honey.”

He leaned forward to kiss her again, but this time Callie managed to step back out of reach. “No! Stop. It's impossible.”

“I'm hoping you'll decide I'm very possible. You have to admit we're progressing. Last night you called me a snake, remember? But you must concede now that I'm very warm-blooded. You can feel that about me, can't you? My warm blood?”

Callie's blush deepened. She didn't know what to say or where to look. Under no circumstances was she admitting that she could feel anything warm about him. Not his mouth, not his big, warm body, not anything. He was far too warm-blooded for any virtuous woman's comfort.

He smiled. “Well, if you're finished having your way with me, we'd better not stay here dillydallying the day away.” She gave a gasp of indignation, but he continued, “We have to unpack that portmanteau of yours. I fear it's rather sea-damaged and some of your things could be ruined.” He held out his hand to her. “And then there's the question of breakfast.”

She turned toward the door. He followed her, saying, “Next time we'll find somewhere more comfortable.”

She turned back. “Next time? There will be no next time. I told you before, I'm a respectable, married la—”

“Widow,” he said, trying to keep his pleasure from showing. “Of more than a year, Nicky seemed to think.”

“Did you grill a seven-year—”

“I didn't precisely grill him, just…put things together. He spoke of his father in the past tense. You do, too, as a matter of fact.” He smiled. “And you're a widow.”

“Yes, but I'm not
that
sort of widow!”

“What sort do you mean?” He sauntered toward her.

She took several steps back. “I am a widow, but I have no desire to change that state! I know what marriage entails and I want nothing to do with it ever again!”

“Who said anything about marriage?”

Her eyes widened. “I have principles!”

He shrugged and took another step forward. “Principles won't keep you warm at night.”

Her eyes lit with a sudden gleam. “No, but thanks to you I know exactly what will.”

His smile widened. “Excellent, so—”

“A hot brick,” she said triumphantly and swept toward the kitchen door.

Her son was sitting in a tin bath, being ruthlessly scrubbed by Mrs. Barrow, while the urchin, Jim, watched gleefully. “'Orrible, ain't it?” he was saying, but Nicky knew better than to open his mouth while there was soap in Mrs. Barrow's hand.

“Wait till she cuts all your hair off.”

Callie opened her mouth to forbid it, but Mrs. Barrow got in first. “I won't be needing to cut this boy's hair—
his
hair has been brushed in the last six months, unlike others I could name! And if you keep sitting there making foolish remarks, you won't be wanting any breakfast.”

Jim shut his mouth.

Callie hurried to help Mrs. Barrow rinse the suds from Nicky's body. It had been years since she'd bathed her son. When Rupert had discovered how she bathed her baby herself, he'd forbidden it. The palace nursemaids did that sort of thing, not his son's mother. Such a menial chore was improper for a princess.

Callie poured warm water through her son's hair, smoothing it, enjoying the clean squeak of it, smiling at his screwed-up face, knowing perfectly well that Nicky was acting for the sake of the boy, Jim.

These moments of closeness with her son had been an unexpected consequence of this journey.

Nicky stepped from the bath to be dried. He stood stiffly, knowing his bad leg was visible to all in the room, making no sign that he cared.

Callie moved to shield him. She rubbed the small frame with rough towels, feeling defensive and angry, even though nobody had said a word. Just let them dare, that was all!

“Here y'are, lovie, he can wear these.” Mrs. Barrow passed her a set of clothes from a small tin trunk.

Gabriel eyed the trunk. “Does that contain what I think it does?”

Mrs. Barrow didn't meet his eyes. “Just a few of Harry's old clothes.”

“You've got a trunk full of Harry's old clothes? Small enough to fit these boys? How long have you been keeping them?”

“They were too good to throw out!” she said defensively.

“You could have given them away.” He explained to Callie, “Harry's as tall as me.”

“Well, I'm giving them away now,” Mrs. Barrow retorted. “Now that our Harry's back, safe from the war—and if you want your coffee good and hot, you won't be saying another word, Mr. Gabe!”

“Not a word,” he promised hastily.

Callie repressed a smile. It seemed Mrs. Barrow's threats worked as well on grown men as they did on small boys.

“Oh, but our portmanteau is here now. I don't know yet how much seawater got in—Nicky may have dry clothes of his own.” She looked around, but could not see the portmanteau.

“Barrow has taken it up to your bedchamber,” Mrs. Barrow told her. “Why not use Harry's clothes for the moment?” She scooped up the muddy pile of clothes from the floor and headed for the scullery.

Callie nodded and dressed her son in the clean, worn clothes of another boy. Never in his life had Nicky worn such shabby clothes, but he seemed quite happy about it, and beggars could not be choosers.

“Lady, everything in that bag is wet,” the boy, Jim, said.

“How do you know?” she said, as she slipped a shirt over Nicky's head.

“Jim, er, rescued the portmanteau for us, Mama,” Nicky said. His eyes met Jim's. “He brought it all the way up from the beach. It was a very difficult and dangerous thing to do. The rain made mud slides over the path.”

“Thank you, Jim,” she said.

Jim scuffed his bare toes in embarrassment. “I didn't exactly rescue—”

Nicky interrupted, with a fierce look at Jim. “He did, Mama. He's very strong and clever.”

Callie finished dressing Nicky and gave him a kiss on the forehead. She had a very good idea what a boy like Jim would be doing with her portmanteau, but Nicky's eyes were pleading with her to accept his new friend. He'd never had a friend. He had no relations his own age and his father hadn't thought it proper for him to play with common children. Callie knew what that was like. She'd grown up lonely, too.

“Thank you, Jim.” On impulse she gave the fisher boy a kiss on the forehead as well. The boy squirmed and the tips of his sticking-out ears went red, but he tried not to grin. In Callie's head Papa and Rupert roared with outrage. Callie smiled. She was her own woman now, subject to nobody's rules.

There was a short silence, then the sound of a throat being noisily cleared from the doorway, where Gabriel had been lounging against the doorjamb, observing. “Don't I get a kiss, too?” he said.

She raised her brows.

“I fetched the portmanteau from the cliffs,” he reminded her and puckered his lips suggestively.

“Thank you, Mr. Renfrew, but a good deed is its own reward,” she said sweetly. To Mrs. Barrow she said, “I shall go upstairs and discover the condition of the things in my portmanteau.”

“Won't you be wanting any breakfast, ma'am?”

“Oh, yes, a cup of tea and some toast would be lovely, thank you.”

“And what about a nice bit o' bacon, ma'am?”

Callie hesitated. Bacon. How long had it been since she'd eaten bacon? Rupert had forbidden it to her.

“Very well then, some bacon, thank you.” She paused. “Where shall I take it?”

“I'm having mine right here.” Gabriel crossed the room and swung a long leg over one of the chairs that surrounded the long kitchen table.

Callie stared. The master of the house eating in the kitchen? She'd never heard of such a thing. He must have read her mind, for he said, “I've been breaking my fast in Mrs. Barrow's kitchen since I was Nicky's age and younger. Best place in the world, I thought it was when I was his age, apart from the stables.” He glanced across at Jim. “I'll wager Jim thinks so, too, now he's tasted Mrs. Barrow's cooking, eh, Jim?” The boy nodded fervently.

“I shall take my breakfast in the…” Callie wasn't sure where. She only knew she wasn't going to eat bacon in the kitchen with that man watching her. And with the taste of his kisses still on her mouth.

“The breakfast room, ma'am?” suggested Mrs. Barrow. “In about fifteen minutes?”

“Yes, if you will just tell me where it is,” Callie agreed gratefully.

Chair legs scraped on the stone-flagged floor. “I'll escort you.” Gabriel held out his arm.

Unable to refuse, Callie took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the breakfast room. Sunshine streamed through long French windows. They opened on to a terrace that overlooked the garden at the side of the house. Small enough to be cozy without being poky, the room was decorated in pale green and white with rose upholstery and curtains. It was almost as if the garden had crept into the room.

“Oh, what a pretty room,” she exclaimed, forgetting she'd planned to crush him with dignified silence.

“I believe my great-aunt was fond of it. I never use it,” he said indifferently, pulling out a chair for her at an oval mahogany table.

She walked to the French windows and stepped out onto the terrace. “I never had a great-aunt,” she said. “Were you fond of yours?”

He followed her outside. “Yes. She was a terrifying old lady, but with a very kind heart. She used to give me a daily grilling on my lessons.” He quirked a rueful smile. “Boys were a variety of humanity she believed were in dire need of civilizing—which came in the form of discipline, exercise, and rewards.”

He saw her expression and laughed. “Great-aunt Gert was passionate about the training and breeding of dogs. She treated boys much the same way—not the breeding, of course. But don't get the idea she was some mad old recluse—she also adored the social whirl and went up to London every season—to terrify the ton, Harry and I always thought. She always returned much refreshed.”