The Stolen Princess (9 page)

Callie smiled and strolled a few steps along the path. “She didn't have any children of her own?”

“Lord, no! I doubt there was a man in England brave enough to marry her.”

“That's sad,” Callie said. It was warm in the morning sun. Bees were already out and buzzing around the sweet Alice and the lavender. The pathway led to a circular bed containing a sundial. She walked toward it.

He followed her. “With sentiments like that, I'm surprised you don't plan to marry again.”

“No, I won't remarry,” Callie told him. “Not ever. Not to anyone. I want nothing further to do with men.”

He heaved a sigh. “That's my hopes and dreams dashed forever, then.”

They walked on. It had been a good thing to set him straight, Callie thought. Best to get it clear and out in the open. No misunderstandings. He'd stop bothering her now. He'd leave her alone, and that would be a good thing.

She didn't need to be…bothered.

He was a very…bothersome man.

She darted him a sidelong glance. He'd been silent for several moments now. She hoped he wasn't too crushed by her announcement. Not that he should be—they'd only just met, for heaven's sake.

He caught her looking. “So,” he said. “You're absolutely sure. No plans to marry again?”

She gave a firm nod. “None.”

“You wouldn't consider becoming my mistress?”

She stopped short, scandalized. She'd told him she had principles. She whirled to face him. His eyes were laughing at her. He was teasing her, she realized.

The way he laughed with his eyes, laughing and seeming to…caress…at the same time…it was most disconcerting.

“You are joking,” she told him.

“Am I indeed?”

“Yes, for you know perfectly well I am a respectable widow—”

“Oh, we needn't
tell
anyone, if that's what you're worried about—”

She gave him a severe look. “I told you, I have no desire to put myself under the thumb of any man, ever again.”

“But it wasn't my
thumb
I was thinking of.” He said it with such a wicked, laughing look she was hard put to know what to say. So she turned on her heel and walked off.

It took her several minutes of marching along as fast as her legs could carry her before she was able to think at all, let alone think of an appropriately crushing, yet dignified response. His words, along with that laughing smile in his eyes, were a pure invitation to sin. She snorted, remembering the session in the stables.

Nothing
pure
about it!

She could hear him coming up behind her on the path. She quickened her pace. His didn't seem to alter, and yet he still gained on her. It wasn't fair that he should have such long, strong legs and hers should be short and rounded. The only way to escape him would be to run, but she wouldn't put it past him to run after her. The wretch probably would enjoy chasing her.

A small voice inside her suggested timidly that she might find it exciting, too. She ruthlessly squashed it.

She deliberately slowed her pace and stopped to stare earnestly at a flower. She had no idea what it was; she'd never been any good at botany, but he needn't know that.

He stopped beside her and waited. She felt the warm wash of his gaze flow over her. And ignored it. She stared hard at the flower. He bent and peered at it over her shoulder.

“Fascinating,” she murmured, trying not to be aware of the proximity of his big, masculine body.

“Utterly,” he agreed fervently. “Something special, do you think?”

She frowned thoughtfully over the small, blue-flowered plant. “It could well be,” she said, hoping he was no botanist.

“It definitely could be,” he agreed. “If only creeping charley was not regarded as a weed in England.” He paused a moment, then added, “Shall I get someone to pull it out before it spreads, or would you rather paint it or press it in your Weeds of England scrapbook?”

She continued the walk in dignified silence. He strolled along beside her.

“This is nice, isn't it?” he said chattily.

She didn't respond.

“Getting to know each other like this,” he continued unabashed. “Breathing the morning air. Learning about your fascination with English weeds…and your fear of thumbs.”

“You know perfectly well what I meant by not wanting to be under the thumb. My entire life has been spent under the rule of two extremely autocratic men—first my father and then my husband. Now, I have had my first ever taste of freedom, and nothing—no man—could ever taste sweeter than that.”

“Is that a challenge?” he said softly.

“No! Do not be so frivolous.”

“I wasn't,” he said in a meek voice, but his eyes were dancing.

It was the color, she thought irrelevantly. She'd never seen such blue, blue eyes. Like sunlight sparkling on the sea. Another thing that wasn't fair. Men shouldn't be allowed to have eyes like that.

They walked on and, as they turned a corner, the house came into view again. Thank goodness, Callie thought. She might have been walking on a firm graveled path, but it had felt as though she'd been negotiating a marsh, full of traps for the unwary.

He was a very dangerous man! She glanced at him and found him watching her.

“I'm so relieved,” he told her.

Callie could not imagine what he was talking about. “Relieved?”

“That you don't dislike my thumbs. I think they're quite nice thumbs—for thumbs, that is. Don't you think?” He spread his hands out for her to inspect, and though it was clearly ridiculous, she couldn't help glancing at his hands.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She gave them a second critical look and sniffed. “All I can see is that your thumbs are rather large,” she said in a quelling voice.

He gave her a slow smile. “Exactly.”

Callie had no idea why she should blush, but she did. “I think our breakfast will be ready now,” she said and marched briskly back to the breakfast room.

He strolled along beside her. “Yes, I'm ravenous.” The way he said it, he didn't just mean for food.

Callie walked faster. She reentered the breakfast parlor. “Did your great-aunt live to a great age?” She was determined to stick to safe subjects.

“Yes, I believe she was eighty or more—she never would let on how old she was. Harry and I thought her a hundred, at least, when we were young. She died just after I left for the war, and for some reason, she left this house to me. I have no idea why. I certainly hadn't expected it.”

Callie knew from Mrs. Barrow that Gabriel had spent almost eight years at war, yet the curtains looked new and the paintwork of the room seemed fresh, as if done quite recently. “So you kept her color scheme in memory of her. That's lovely.”

“No, it isn't. I had no say in the color scheme. When I sold out of the army, my eldest brother had this place cleaned up for me. I doubt he gave any orders about colors or fabric, so everything was simply renewed.”

“That was nice of him,” she offered.

“Hmm.” He made a noncommittal noise. “I expect he was relieved to have somewhere to put me.”

“Put you?” He didn't seem like the sort of man anyone
put
anywhere.

“I'm the youngest of three sons—legitimate ones, that is,” he explained. “Surplus to requirements, therefore. My older brother is the earl of Alverleigh, my second brother is in the diplomatic service, and I entered the army. But now that Boney is finally defeated I'm surplus to requirements there also. Ah, here is our breakfast.”

Mrs. Barrow entered, carrying a teapot, a coffeepot, and a jug, probably of milk, on a tray. She was followed by two small, ferociously clean boys, each one carefully carrying a tray containing silver chafing dishes. Callie stared. Her son had never carried a tray in his life.

The crown prince of Zindaria waiting at table. Papa and Rupert would have been utterly appalled.

Her Serene Highness, Princess Caroline of Zindaria, wanted to giggle.

The prince grinned at her, clearly enjoying himself, the mischief in his eyes conveying that he'd had much the same thought.

“That reminds me, Mr. Gabe,” Mrs. Barrow said, “I hired a few servants while I was visiting my mother.”

She set her tray down on the sideboard with a thump and fixed him with a contentious look. “You won't have any objection to that, I'm sure. They'll start tomorrow. Give us time to set everything to rights. Harry will be arriving any day now with Lord knows how many grooms and ostlers, and I'll be run off me feet with just the cooking. Yes, Jim, put the hot dishes on those cork mats, otherwise they'll ruin the varnish; careful now, don't burn yourself. Good lad. Now off you go and start toasting that bread.”

She turned back to Gabriel, hands on hips and said, “There's bacon and scrambled eggs and I did you some deviled kidneys, Mr. Gabe, knowing as you're partial to them, so eat them while they're hot. I got three maidservants for the cleaning, and two footmen, and a scullery maid, so the next time breakfast is served in here it'll be by a footman or a maid. And Barrow reckons young Jim's pa has been missing for some weeks, now, so I thought we could take him in and train him up for something. Can't leave a boy to starve. Enjoy your breakfast, ma'am. I'll send one o'them lads back in with toast in a trice.” And she swept out of the room.

Callie slipped Gabriel a sideways glance to see how he'd taken this high-handed exceeding of her duties. Rupert would have exploded with rage. Even Papa would have dismissed the woman instantly.

He was convulsed…with silent laughter.

He saw her shocked look. “I know, I know,” he said. “But you see, she's had me naked in the bath more times than I can remember.”

Her eyes widened and Gabriel burst out laughing again at her expression. “Not for twenty years or so, I hasten to add. The last time I was about Nicky's age and scrubbed just as ruthlessly.”

“Oh! I see.”

He gave a furtive look around and added, “I know I ought to reprove her, but, well—” He sighed. “I'm frightened of women.”

“Hah! Frightened as a cat fears mice.”

“Fond of cats, are you? Me, too. Contrary, sensuous creatures. Like women.” He grinned. “No, Mrs. Barrow more or less raised me, and I won't reprimand her for her plain speaking, particularly since she's right. I've been taking advantage of her good nature, and my brother Harry will be here next week and who knows who else.” He strolled to the array of dishes set out on the sideboard, picking up lids and peering at the contents.

“Can I offer you some of this excellent bacon? And eggs? And kidneys? Mrs. Barrow's deviled kidneys cannot be beaten.”

“Just a little bacon, please,” she told him. She ought to have only tea and dry toast—she was cursed with a curvaceous figure and was very self-conscious of it. But the bacon smelled so delicious and it had been such a long time…

He filled two plates and set one in front of her. Hers contained a mound of bacon and some scrambled eggs. His plate contained even more, with deviled kidneys besides.

“Thank you.” There was far too much, of course, but she would just have a little. She inhaled the scent of bacon blissfully.

He drew out a chair on the adjacent corner to hers and sat down.

“I thought you were eating in the kitchen.”

“And leave you to dine here all alone?” He shook his head. “Besides, it will give us a chance to get to know each other better.” He gave her a look that brought back all the sensations she'd experienced in the stables.

“I don't wish to get to know you better.” Realizing how rude that sounded, she added, “I shall be leaving here as soon as possible.”

“Really? Let's discuss it later. Eat your breakfast while it's hot,” he recommended.

She said a quiet grace and began to eat, very conscious of him seated only a few feet from her, those blue, blue eyes seeming to be on her each time she glanced his way. She was always self-conscious about eating in front of others.

Papa's voice echoed in her head, as it did at most mealtimes.
A lady does not eat like a horse, Callie, but picks at her food daintily, like a little bird.

With Papa's critical eye on her, Callie never did enjoy a meal. No matter how delicately she picked at her food, no matter how often she came away from the table hungry, Papa's gimlet eye was on her, and she always
felt
like a horse.

She cut herself a sliver of bacon, just a tiny, delicate morsel, then paused. She thought of that scene in the stable, not the one where he'd—she darted a look across the table—where he'd kissed her. What had happened just before that. When she'd lost her temper with him.