He was far from ordinary. “I meant I don’tknowyou!” 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 notthatsort 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—hishair 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.
