“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…
“Capt’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?”
Eight
The 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?”
