Chapter Eight #4
“You can’t risk your son’s safety merely because you’re cross with me,” he said quietly.
She looked at him, astonished. Was the man some kind of mind-reading warlock? But he was right. Despite her reservations about him, he was a strong, honorable, protective man and she would be criminally foolish to turn down his offer of protection.
“I will accept your escort, thank you,” she told him.
Gabriel would protect her son from Count Anton.
And she would protect herself from Gabriel.
“Excellent. Now, for the salve.” He picked up a clean cloth and dabbed at the small bloody leech bites.
The bruised red marks all over his body were less red and angry-looking.
He saw her watching and said, “Shall we go into the sitting room? It gets the afternoon sun and I believe Barrow has lit a fire in there, so it will be nice and warm, and you can put the salve on me there in private.”
Callie wondered briefly what he suddenly wanted privacy for—after all, he’d sat, unashamed and unembarrassed, naked to the waist in front of Tibby and her, but he’d already picked up the salve and a large green tin and headed out, so she followed.
The green tin proved to contain jam tarts and Gabriel stood in the sunlight that streamed through the big bay window munching them. His body was powerful, though not in the thick-muscled way that Rupert was powerful.
Gabriel’s body was lithe, sleek, and hard…He was like a Greek statue in the sunlight, only warm and made of muscle and bone.
She glanced up, to discover he’d been observing her examination of his naked torso. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “Just checking where I need to put that stuff,” she muttered. “Turn around.”
“You’ll need this,” he said softly and held out the pot of salve. She took it and he turned his back to her.
She’d never really looked at a man’s back before—not naked and not up this close. Rupert was the only man she’d ever seen even partially unclothed. Rupert had been a man of physical modesty; he’d kept his nightshirt on at all times.
This was…extraordinary. Broad and powerful, with smooth, golden skin, as if he took his shirt off in the sunlight often.
The recent scrapes and bruises overlaid other older scars: the mark of a blade here, the round puckered scar of a bullet, perhaps, there. Testament of battles fought and survived. A hardened, experienced warrior.
I will protect you, he’d said.
She uncorked the pot of salve and sniffed it cautiously. It was pungent, but pleasant, too. A thick muddy green in color, she could smell camphor, marigolds, mint, and the bitterness of pennyroyal perhaps, as well as other herbs. She sniffed again. Maybe myrrh, too. “What’s in this, do you know?”
He shrugged. “I’m not completely sure, but I expect it will contain goldenseal, plantain, and Saint-John’s-wort, as well as comfrey root. Mrs. Barrow used to send us to collect the herbs when I was a boy. The knowledge came in very useful when we were at war.
Carefully, gently, she smoothed salve into the abraded flesh. The cool ointment warmed under her palm, absorbing the warmth of his body and flowing over the planes and hollows of his back.
“Tell me about Tibby,” he said after a while. “You have, I think, a closer relationship with her than most women do with their old governess.”
“Yes, Tibby is a darling. She was, in many respects, like a mother to me. My father was very…particular about my education. He had plans for a brilliant marriage for me.”
“And he succeeded.”
“Yes.” Callie dipped into the pot and scooped out another fingerful of salve. She refused to think about her successful, brilliant marriage. She took an odd comfort from kneading and massaging the firm, warm flesh beneath her hands.
“How did it come about?”
“Papa’s original plan was for me to marry the prince regent, but he married Princess Caroline of Brunswick when I was just a little girl, so Papa was forced to look to European courts for a suitable husband for me.
He went off on a tour of the various European courts, leaving me in England with Tibby, to grow up and become educated. ”
“He left you behind? Why? And how did you feel about it?”
Callie thought about it as she rubbed salve up and down the strong ridge of muscle that enclosed his spine.
“I think he thought he could arrange a better marriage for me sight unseen.” The way she’d turned out had been a crushing blow to Papa.
He’d made no secret of his frustration that she’d taken after his side of the family in looks, instead of the tall, cool blondes of her mother’s family.
Had Callie been a beauty, she could have married into one of the great royal families, instead of a small obscure principality.
“I didn’t mind being left behind,” she said. “In a way, it was a relief.”
“Good God, why?”
“I never could do anything to Papa’s satisfaction. I was a thorn in his side, really—not a drop of royal blood visible in me. I’m too short, too plump, my face is too round and with an undistinguished snub nose. And I have a great many character faults as well.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I’m argumentative, stubborn—”
“I’ve noticed that.”
She slapped a glop of cold ointment on him. He chuckled. “I know, I asked for that.”
“And I cannot seem to be interested in the important things.”
“And what were the important things?”
“Oh, you know, etiquette, diplomacy, female accomplishments—I mean, what is the point of embroidery?” She rolled her eyes.
“The palace was full of the most hideous, perfectly executed pieces of embroidery—cushions, hangings, screens—you name it, so there was no need for any more. But no, I must embroider.”
“So, you hate sewing.”
“No, I quite like sewing, but I like it to be useful. But a princess should do nothing useful. Or interesting.” She laughed wryly, thinking about it. “I don’t know who was more frustrated by me, Papa or Rupert.”
The happiest time of her life was when she’d lived with Tibby, she thought—apart from when Nicky was born. Tibby never expected her to be someone else. Tibby liked her the way she was. And Tibby was interested in all kinds of different, unsuitable things and had encouraged Callie to be, too.
Saving Nicky was the reason she’d fled Zindaria, but it was for both their sakes that she’d fled to Tibby. She’d planned to make a new life for herself as well as Nicky, where both of them could live without the constant criticism.
Tibby had always wanted a child. Callie knew that. Just as she used to pretend in her heart of hearts that Tibby was her mother, Tibby pretended that Callie was her daughter.
Now Count Anton had ruined that dream, as well. She could never go back to living with Tibby now Count Anton knew where she lived. She rubbed harder.
Gabe arched his back into the sensuous rubbing he was receiving and thought about what she’d told him. “So while Napoleon was doing his best to gobble up Europe, your father was doing the grand tour and interviewing potential royal sons-in-law. Didn’t Boney cramp his style at all?”
“Oh, indeed yes,” she told him. “Napoleon kept taking over the royal houses of Europe and making his own relatives into kings and queens. Papa was utterly furious about it. Napoleon came from very common stock, you know. Not at all good ton. And his conquests ruined some quite good chances for me, so Papa was forced to look further afield. He found it all terribly inconvenient.”
Gabe spluttered at this novel view of the conquest of Europe. He was almost sorry he hadn’t met Papa.
“Papa was quite relieved when he got Prince Rupert to accept me. Rupert didn’t care about looks or fortune—just blood. Mama’s family was poor, but enormously distinguished. Rupert took bloodlines very seriously—well, he would, being a horse breeder.”
Gabe gave a spurt of laughter. “A romantic fellow, I perceive.”
There was a sudden cessation of movement. “No. No, he wasn’t,” she said in a quiet voice. After a moment she started rubbing in salve again.
He’d obviously touched a nerve. Gabe turned to look at her. She kept her head down, smearing cold ointment onto him and continuing to massage it in without meeting his eyes.
He didn’t know many young girls, but for all he knew marrying a mysterious foreign prince was the summit of her girlish dreams.
Something made him ask, “How old were you when you married him?”
She shrugged and avoided his eyes. “Nearly sixteen.”
He frowned. “That seems rather young.”
She shrugged and slapped on more ointment, almost angrily. “Rupert thought a young bride would be more fertile. I was his second wife, you see. The first one was barren.” She rubbed hard at Gabe’s skin.
“After years away, Papa arrived out of the blue and told me we were going to Zindaria and that I was going to be married to a prince.” She rubbed at the marks on his skin as if they were stains to be got out. Gabe didn’t flinch or make a sound.
So much for girlish dreams, he thought. If he hadn’t thought the man a complete ass before, he would now. A complete royal jackass.
How could any man not see what a treasure she was?
He looked down at the little, round-faced, snub-nosed, dusky-haired princess, scowling fiercely as she rubbed enough unguent into him to waterproof a boat.
Deep in the past, she stared blindly at his chest and rubbed unguent into his nipples.
Pain he could withstand in silence. This he could not. A soft moan escaped him. She took no notice and kept rubbing, circling the nipples with intense concentration, a faraway expression on her face. He moaned again and arched involuntarily.
She blinked and recalled herself. “I am so sorry you had to suffer in this way—”
“Hush.” Gabe put a finger over her mouth, pressing her soft, satiny lips together. “There is no need to fret. Mrs. Barrow was right. I do enjoy a good fight.”
She looked at the marks on his skin, now glistening with unguent. “How could you enjoy it? How could anyone?”
“It’s a—a form of release.” He could see she didn’t understand, so he added, “A bit like, er, congress.”
“Congress?” She gave him a puzzled look. “Like the Congress of Vienna?”
“No, marital congress. In the bedchamber.”
“Oh.” She dropped her eyes. “That. Yes I see.”
They fell silent for a moment. She stared at the mess of bruises on his chest and stroked the softened ointment carefully over and around them, long, delicate sweeps and soft butterfly touches. The sensations were both seductive and agonizing.
Gabe watched the emotions flitting across her face and realized she didn’t have a clue.
She didn’t know how seductive her touch was to him, that he was fighting for control, that the tension in the body under her fingertips was because he was fighting arousal, not pain.
It was obvious to him that she was a deeply sensual creature; the intensity with which she concentrated on massaging the pungent ointment into his flesh, her eyes dark and slumbrous, her lips full and pouting in concentration, the dark, silken brows knotted in thought—he’d wager of a place and time far from here.
She was becoming aroused, he was sure. Her soft breaths were coming shorter and faster, and she kept licking her lips, all unconscious. The moist dampness of her lips made him want to groan. If he just bent his head a few inches he could taste them, taste her. And she would taste him.
Deeply sensual.
He recalled the half-embarrassed, half-defiant relish with which she’d savored the bacon this morning, her way she’d fought against pleasure when he dried her feet, and then abandoned herself to it.
And yet she seemed ignorant of the sensual pleasures between a man and a woman.
Gabe stared at her luscious mouth in disbelief. Nine years of marriage and she couldn’t imagine how a good fight could give the same sort of release to pent-up feelings as…what did she call it? That.
Sensual but straitlaced. If she had any understanding of what her touch was doing to him, she’d be on the other side of the room.
“You have no idea, do you? Was your husband a monk?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I told you, he was a prince. And what do you mean, no idea? No idea of what?”
“Of this,” he said and pulled her into his arms.