Ethan had a face like a thundercloud. Tibby sat on the seat beside him, stiff and bolt upright, her face pinched and colorless.
Something was horribly wrong. Callie ran from the room.
Her initial fear—that Mr. Delaney had done something dreadful to Tibby—faded as she saw the gentle way he lifted Tibby down from the high-slung curricle, as if she were a child, or an invalid.
Tibby’s face was ashen, but she showed no self-consciousness about the Irishman’s big hands spanning her waist. She murmured an automatic thanks to him and stood, looking blankly in front of her.
“Tibby, what’s wrong?” Callie asked as she hurried toward her friend.
Tibby tried to speak and failed. She swallowed, then tried again. “My cottage,” she croaked. “It’s all burned. Burned to the ground. There’s nothing left, just charcoal and ashes.” And then she burst into tears. Callie ushered her inside.
“Is there truly nothing left?” Gabe asked Ethan after the two women had gone into the house.
“Nothing at all.”
Which as they both knew, was most unlikely, even with a thatched cottage. “So, it was deliberate?”
“I’d say so,” Ethan said, his face grim. “I checked that house before we left. There was nothin’ left alight. Not so much as a spark in the fireplace—all swept out clean, it was.”
“Those bastards! Revenge, do you think? They wanted the princess and she’d eluded them, so they burned down her friend’s house.”
Ethan nodded. “Probably. And mebbe they were hopin’ to smoke her out as well. Hopin’ she’d lead them back to the princess. Nothin’ more natural if you hear your house is burned than to come and look. I had the devil’s own job stoppin’ Miss Tibby from jumpin’ out of the curricle as it was. Frettin’ about her poor little cat and her books, she was.” From Ethan’s tone he didn’t understand why anyone would worry about either.
“That ‘poor little cat’ is the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen,” Gabe told him. “A battle-scarred old ginger tom, with a broken tail and”—he glanced at Ethan—“ears a bit like yours.”
Ethan began to saddle a fresh horse.
“Where are you going?” Gabe asked.
“I’m goin’ back to check.”
“Check what?”
Ethan gave him an opaque look. “Something.” He mounted his horse and rode back the way he’d come.
An hour later Callie came downstairs. “She’s resting now,” she told him. “Poor Tibby. She’s lost everything.” She hung her head. “I should never have written to her, never have come here.”
“It’s not your fault,” Gabe told her firmly.
“It is. I knew what Count Anton was like.” Guilt mixed with anger flickered across her face. “It’s not the first time he’s burned someone’s house. He has a terrible temper and cannot endure to be crossed. But I promise you I never imagined for one moment he’d do something like that here in England, where he isn’t even a member of the ruling family.” Her voice choked on a sob. “It’s my fault this happened to her.”
“It’s no such thing.”
She looked away. An errant tear slipped down her cheek. She dashed it angrily away.
Gabe gripped her by the chin. “Look at me. This is not your fault.”
“I am responsible. And Tibby is my friend. She is now destitute because she tried to help me. You cannot imagine I would simply leave and let her fend for herself.”
No, Gabe didn’t imagine that. Not for one minute. His Callie…his Callie was a woman in a million.
He pulled her into his arms and held her for a long moment. Then he gently tipped her tear-stained face up and kissed her. He kissed the tears from her cheeks and the distress from her lips. It wasn’t like their last kiss; this was comfort. And reassurance. Tender.
On Ethan’s return he entered the house by the kitchen. “Do you know where Miss Tibby might be?” he asked Mrs. Barrow.
She nodded. “Poor little soul, like a wrung-out rag she is. She’s in the conservatory, though why anyone should want to sit in that gloomy old place, I don’t know.”
“Right,” Ethan said and headed for the conservatory.
