Chapter Two #3
The little boy blanched. “Mama!” It came out in a thin, frightened wail.
His mother woke, saw him handing the cup of milk to the boy, leapt from her chair, and dashed it from Gabe’s hands. Milk splashed over the stone floor. She thrust Nicky behind her, glanced around, saw the knife he’d used to cut the pie, and snatched it up.
“What on earth—” Gabe began.
“Don’t touch him!” She was poised for action; a young lioness in defense of her cub. “Nicky, did you drink any of it?”
“No, Mama.” She sagged with visible relief.
“It was only warm milk,” Gabe said tightly. He bent and picked up the cup.
She waved the knife at him. “Stay back.”
He ignored her and went to the door, opened it, and whistled. His dog, Juno, bounded in, her tail wagging joyfully. “Over there,” he told her and pointed to the spilled milk and honey.
“No!” the boy gasped and moved to get between the milk and the dog.
She wagged her tail briefly—Juno liked boys—but food was always a priority, and she pushed past him and happily licked up the milk. The woman and the boy stared at Gabe as if he were a monster.
Gabe fetched another cup from the dresser and, from the small pot on the stove, poured hot milk into another cup. Two pairs of eyes watched him.
“He put something into it before,” Nicky told his mother.
“From this pot, yes,” Gabe affirmed and stirred a spoonful of viscous liquid into the mug. “It’s honey. Warm milk and honey. Good for helping people sleep.” He drank from the cup and then held it out toward Nicky.
There was a long moment of silence. Juno had licked every drop of milk from the floor and discovered a crumb or two of pie crust, and now was ready to renew her acquaintance with the boy.
She nudged his elbow in a friendly fashion, demanding to be patted.
He caressed her silky ears, felt her cold nose, and looked carefully into her eyes.
Her tail thumped happily on the floor at this attention.
The boy and the woman looked from the dog to the man to the cup of milk and to the dog again.
“Sometimes you just have to take people on trust,” Gabe said quietly and set the cup on the table.
“If I’d wanted to harm you, I could have tossed you both off that cliff and saved myself a lot of trouble. ”
For a long time nobody moved. Callie tried to read his eyes. They were steady and blue, very blue. But you couldn’t decide a man was trustworthy just because he had eyes that were blue. But steady as well as blue…
She stared into his eyes and remembered how he’d pulled her from the cliff top. She thought about the way he’d held her on the horse, steady and warm, tucking his coat around her to shelter her from the rain.
Then, staring into the bluest blue eyes she’d ever seen, Callie picked up the cup of milk and took a mouthful. It tasted of warm milk and honey. Nothing else. Just as he’d said. She tasted it again, just to be sure.
The dog nudged Nicky’s arm, her feathered tail waving gently, her brown eyes liquid and clear and trusting. And unharmed.
Slowly the tension flowed out of Callie. She nodded, passed the cup to Nicky, put the knife back on the table, and returned to her seat, feeling distinctly wobbly.
Nicky took a cautious sip of the milk. Meanwhile, the dog fetched a stick from the basket by the fire and placed it expectantly at Nicky’s feet.
“No, Juno, no stick throwing inside,” her master said. “Put it back.” To Nicky’s amazement, with tail drooping, the dog put the stick back in the basket, then returned to rub a mournful muzzle against Nicky’s leg. Nicky swiftly drained the cup, sat on the rug, and began to pat the dog.
“Do you want some milk, too?” Mr. Renfrew asked her.
Callie shook her head. “No, thank you.” She closed her eyes. She felt sick. The incident with the milk had brought it all back to her. She could never relax her vigilance.
“Mrs. Barrow has brought you some dry clothing,” she heard Mr. Renfrew say a short time later. At least she thought it was a short time. Callie’s eyes flew open. Where was Nicky? She couldn’t have dozed off again, could she?
“He’s asleep,” said the man, reading her thoughts.
Her son was curled up on the rug with the big black-and-tan dog, sound asleep. His arms were wrapped around the dog, and the dog’s muzzle rested on Nicky’s shoulder.
Callie felt a lump in her throat, thinking of the puppy he’d lost.
“Worn to a frazzle, the poor little mite!” Mrs. Barrow said. “Take him up to bed, will you, Mr. Gabe, while I’ll help missy change?”
Mr. Gabe bent and scooped Nicky into his arms. The dog scrambled to her feet, clearly intending to go with them.
Callie rose.
“No, don’t come,” he said. “He’s sleeping like a babe and while I’m gone you can change into those dry clothes in front of the fire.”
Callie looked at her sleeping son and swallowed. He looked so small and helpless in the tall man’s arms. And so vulnerable. He didn’t even stir as Mr. Renfrew pushed open the door with a shove of his boot.
Sudden suspicion shot through her. Sleeping like a babe—or drugged? Some poisons were tasteless. Was that why she’d fallen asleep? Oh God, how could she have trusted him, even for a moment, with her precious Nicky—just because of his eyes? She lurched forward to stop them.
“Nicky?”
Blessedly, he stirred and opened sleepy eyes.
“Mama.” He smiled, yawned, and dozed off again, snuggling against the man’s chest as if perfectly comfortable.
Callie examined him. He looked just as he did every night when she checked him. His breathing was deep and even, his skin slightly flushed in the way children’s skin was in sleep. And his eyes just now had been clear, just sleepy. She cupped his cheek. Warm, neither too cool nor too hot.
She started to breathe again.
And then became aware that the man who held her child in his arms was staring down at her, silently absorbing the expressions on her face. She met his gaze. He looked thoughtful, the mobile mouth grim.
“I’m not Long Lankin, you know,” he said quietly.
“Who?”
“A bogeyman in a song from my childhood. Long Lankin was a gentleman who drained the blood of innocent children.”
She reddened. “I didn’t think—”
“Yes, you did.” There was an awkward pause, then he added in a gentler tone, “My guess is you have your reasons.”
She looked at the face of her sleeping child and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Yes, she had her reasons.
“Will you trust me to put him to bed?”
She hesitated. Nicky’s hair was damp and spiky as a new-hatched chick. He looked small and pale and vulnerable in the tall man’s arms, but his thin little body was relaxed. Tired beyond caring, or trustful? Sometimes it amounted to the same thing, thought Callie wearily.
“Mrs. Prynne?”
With an effort, Callie realized he was addressing her. “Yes?”
“Trust me,” he said in that impossibly deep voice. The steady blue eyes never wavered.
Callie bit her lip, then nodded. She had no alternative.
She leaned forward, kissed Nicky’s forehead, and smoothed back his hair.
“Sweet dreams, my darling,” she whispered in his native tongue.
She could feel the tall man’s eyes boring into her, but he said nothing, just turned and carried her son from the room.
“Now, ma’am, time for you.” Callie sat quietly while Mrs. Barrow fussed around her with towels and nightclothes.
Swiftly the older lady stripped Callie of her clothes, tutting over the dampness of them and exclaiming over the weight of the petticoat.
Callie hastily bundled it out of sight. Her future was in that petticoat.
Mrs. Barrow produced a large, bright pink flannel nightgown and dressed Callie in it, murmuring a stream of encouragement, as if Callie were a child. “That’s the way, lift your arms. In you go. Now you just sit here by the fire and I’ll fetch a blanket to make you all cozy and warm again.”
Callie just let it flow. She was accustomed to maids dressing and undressing her, but none of them had ever called her lovie or bossed her around in such a warm, motherly tone.
It was quite inappropriate, of course, and if her father or Rupert had been there, they would have reprimanded the woman for her familiarity.
But Papa and Rupert were both dead, and nobody else was here to witness Callie’s lapse of etiquette. And so she didn’t have to hide how comforting she found it.
Mrs. Barrow reminded her of Nanny. She hardly remembered Nanny, there was just a vague memory of a large, soft woman, with a capacious bosom and a comforting lap, who’d muttered and crooned over her bossily, as Mrs. Barrow did now. Callie had forgotten how soothing it could be.
What had happened to Nanny? She didn’t even know her real name.
Papa had sent her away when Callie was six—not long after Mama had died.
He’d found her sitting sleepily in Nanny’s lap, listening to a story.
She was far too old to be treated like a baby, Papa had said.
And stories were just a waste of time…Filling girls’ heads with nonsense.
She hadn’t heard another story for years, not until Miss Tibthorpe came to be her governess. Dear Tibby, with her stern looks and rigid demeanor. Papa never even suspected Miss Tibthorpe was an avid reader of novels and romantic poetry. If he had, Tibby would have been sent packing.
“Ah, here’s Barrow now.” Mrs. Barrow said as she finished draping a blanket around Callie’s shoulders. “I’ll be off now, lovie. Mr. Gabe will be down in a minute, he’ll take you up to bed.”
“Likes to see everyone safe, Mr. Gabe does,” Barrow added, sliding an affectionate arm around his wife’s waist. “Are you ready for bed, my bonny lass?” He bussed her on the cheek.
Mrs. Barrow blushed like a girl. “Get away with you, Barrow, what will the lady think? Good night, ma’am, sweet dreams.” The middle-aged couple left, arm in arm.
Callie bid them good night, touched by their open affection. How marvelous to be so loving, so beloved after so many years.
She sighed wistfully. It was something she’d never know. Princesses married for reasons of state, or for blood or fortune, not for love. She’d learned that the hard way.
She glanced at the table. The pork pie sat on the table still. Mrs. Barrow had forgotten to put it away.
Her stomach rumbled…
Gabe returned to the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Prynne jump back guiltily from the table.
He affected not to notice. She was swathed in bright pink flannel drapery; Mrs. Barrow was a woman of height and ample girth; Mrs. Prynne was small and almost lost in a sea of nightgown.
It was buttoned to her chin and pooled in folds around her feet.
On her feet she wore a pair of too-big slippers, also Mrs. Barrow’s.
“He’s all tucked up and sound asleep,” he told her. “I see you have a nightgown—you look delightful in it. Now, are you sure you’re not hungry?” He glanced at the pie, which had shrunk, and preserved a bland countenance.
She gave him an innocent look. “No, thank you.”
“Then I shall put this away.” Gabe put the leftover pie in the larder.
“Now, I think it’s time for bed,” he said and offered her his arm.
She eyed it warily, suddenly unsure of his motives. He smiled down at her and added, “You can thank me upstairs.”
Her eyes widened. “But I am a respectable, married w-woman!”
“My favorite sort.” He tucked her arm in his and led her upstairs, to a room with a big canopied bed hung with blue curtains. A fire was burning in the grate, with an ornate mesh screen in front of it.
“On a night like this you’ll enjoy a hot brick in your bed,” he murmured.
She stiffened. Was he really suggesting he warm her bed? “I warn you—”
“Hush, you’ll wake Nicky,” he whispered. “Juno is guarding him. I hope you don’t mind sleeping with a dog in the room, but they seem to have taken to each other, and I thought it would make your boy feel happier about sleeping in a strange place.”
Callie’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. On one side of the bed the bedclothes had been folded back in readiness, on the other side lay a small, peaceful bump; her son, sound asleep.
Beside him, on a mat on the floor, lay the dog.
She looked up and her tail went thump, thump, thump, but she did not move.
“Oh,” Callie said. He’d been teasing her.
He gave her a dry look and murmured in her ear. “Mrs. Prynne, were you having naughty un-Quakerish suspicions about my intentions? I’m shocked.”
“No, you’re not,” she whispered back. “You, sir, are a rogue!”
“And you, Green Eyes, are very sweet.” He stood for a moment, looking down at her. She could feel his eyes on her and closed her own in self-defense. She had no idea of what to say or do. She was too tired to think.
He gently touched a finger to her cheek. “Good night Green Eyes. Sleep well. You and your son are safe here with me.”
Safe. The deep reassurance of his voice seeped into her bones like a drug. She heard him leave, heard the door shut quietly behind him.
“Thank you,” she whispered belatedly.
She climbed into the bed and snuggled down, feeling…cherished.
Her feet touched something hard that radiated heat. Her toes explored it. Something square and hot, wrapped in what felt like flannel. A spurt of sleepy laughter bubbled inside her. There really was a hot brick in her bed.
And so, in a strange house and strange bed, and for the first time in weeks, Callie slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.