And Tibby needed her. Tibby was lonely, too. And for Callie to feel needed…she couldn’t remember when anyone apart from Nicky had needed her for anything.
“Of course,” he added in a different tone of voice. “I should expect you to protect me in return.”
“What?” Callie’s jaw dropped. “Protect you from what?”
“From the wrath of Mrs. Barrow when she finds out I have been feeding my dog deviled kidneys under the table.”
She could not help but smile. “No, you are very kind, and I am grateful, but I could not possibly trespass any longer on your hospitality. Nobody will know I am in Lulworth, and Tibby is expecting me. Nicky and I will depart as soon as is convenient.”
He set his jaw. “I could force you to stay.”
She met his gaze squarely. “But you won’t.”
“No,” he growled. “Though it is against my better judgment. I will escort you to this Tibby, but you haven’t seen the last of me, I warn you!”
“Is that a threat?” she said coolly.
His eyes suddenly warmed. “No, a promise.”
Six
Callie came down the stairs, buttoning her gloves. In the hallway sat her salt-stained portmanteau, much lighter than before. As she’d feared, the seawater had ruined many of her clothes, shrinking some garments and causing the dye to run on a red spencer, which had stained everything it touched.
“Nicky,” she called back up the stairs. “Hurry up. Mr. Renfrew will be waiting.”
As she spoke Gabriel stepped into the hallway. He looked up. She froze, immediately feeling self-conscious. Ridiculous, she scolded herself silently. As if she hadn’t come down a staircase hundreds of times—with hundreds of people watching her. She was used to people watching her every move, critically assessing her. Usually finding her wanting.
That was the trouble. He wasn’t watching her critically at all, even though she was wearing his late great-aunt’s old traveling cloak, hastily tacked up at the hem. Mrs. Barrow had pressed it on her. She’d also given Callie one of the old lady’s hats, a black felt one with a bunch of purple flowers, just right for a widow.
She forced herself to move, pretending to button her gloves again so she didn’t have to meet his eyes and see the warmth there.
“Nicky!” she called again.
“He’s down here already,” Gabriel said. “In the kitchen, saying good-bye to the Barrows and Jim. And eating jam tarts, I’ll be bound. Mrs. Barrow has made a fresh batch.”
Callie nodded. That deep voice. Even when he uttered the most mundane things, it made her quiver inside. She’d found his offer to protect her very…appealing. Had her situation been different, she might have been tempted to risk it.
He stepped forward and held out his hand as if to assist her down the last few steps, as if she were fragile. She wasn’t, not a bit, but she allowed him to tuck her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. At the same time Nicky and his friend, Jim, came into the hall, followed by the Barrows.
“Here, lad, you come back here,” Mrs. Barrow said, and with a swift hand she seized Nicky by the collar and drew him back. “I’ll not have any boy leaving my kitchen looking like he’d come from a sty!” With a damp cloth she rubbed jam stains from his face, while Jim, watching his immediate future with foreboding, hurriedly scrubbed at his own mouth with his sleeve.
Nicky submitted to the washcloth with a bemused glance at his mother. He’d never been so summarily manhandled in his life, but from the look of him, he didn’t mind at all. Perhaps he enjoyed being treated like an ordinary boy, instead of a prince.
She liked these people. They’d been very good to her and Nicky, but she could not tell them the truth. If they had any idea who she and Nicky were, it would be bound to leak out, and any talk would bring the wrong people to their doorstep.
Callie would never forgive herself if any of them were hurt—or worse—just for giving her and her son succor.
They said their good-byes and Callie reiterated her thanks for their help. But just as they turned toward the front door, there was a loud commotion outside—hoofbeats, dozens of them—as if a small army had arrived.
Count Anton!Callie grabbed Nicky.
“That’ll be Harry. He’s early,” said Gabriel and before Callie could warn him, he threw open the front door. To her amazement, instead of Count Anton’s liveried cutthroats, nearly a dozen horses passed through the front gates and milled around near the front door.
There were three grooms, each leading two or three riderless horses. A dark-haired, swarthy man mounted on a powerful-looking roan horse seemed to be in charge. Was that Harry? she wondered.
“Good day to you, Captain Renfrew, sir, and where would you have me put these beauties?” he called out in a broad Irish brogue.
“Good God, it’s Sergeant Delaney!” Gabriel exclaimed. “Through the archway, Delaney,” he called. “You’ll find the stables with no trouble.”
