Chapter Twelve #3
He grinned at her. “See? I knew you would have liked Great-aunt Gert. She would have agreed with you there. Mind you, she gave the best scolds in the world and came quite close to crushing me once or twice.”
She laughed again.
“There, that’s better,” he said. “You climbed out of that chaise before looking so wan and dejected I was worried you were ill. But a good feed, some fresh air, and a little badinage has done you the world of good. The roses are blooming in your cheeks again. And see, Miss Tibby is doing the same.”
They both looked to where Tibby sat up on the driver’s seat next to Ethan. Gabe hoped Ethan knew what he was doing, fostering such an acquaintance. Ethan must have suggested the seating arrangement to Miss Tibby: a lady like Tibby would never have thought of riding up with the driver.
Gabe frowned. It was unlike Ethan to have much to do with respectable ladies. Socially, the two were poles apart.
Ethan had a certain rough charm, he knew. The ladies of Spain and Portugal had certainly appreciated him. But that was in wartime, and war made people act in ways they would not otherwise countenance.
Things were different now. He hoped Ethan remembered it.
They came to a clearing and he instantly reined in the horses. “Look,” he said, pointing to where a small herd of deer grazed on the sweet grass by the forest’s edge. As they watched the deer melted away into the trees.
“I expect they think we’ll shoot at them,” she said.
“I’m not really a cold-blooded killer,” he said quietly.
She gave him a surprised look. “I didn’t mean—”
“Not the deer; the other morning, with the count. You’ve hardly been able to look at me since.”
Callie looked away, distressed. He thought she despised him for doing what he had done. He was so wrong. It was quite the contrary.
He went on, “Once a man starts burning women’s houses and trying to murder children, he must be stopped.
I would prefer the law to do it, I admit, but if it came to the crunch I would have no hesitation in killing him.
And it would not bother me in the least.” He paused and looked at her.
“But I would never hurt you or Nicky, or any woman or child.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? Of course I know you wouldn’t hurt us.
You’ve been nothing but kind.” If just one person in Zindaria had listened to her, believed her, as he had…
but they hadn’t. She’d had to travel across a continent and sail across the English Channel to find him, this one man who believed her, and without hesitation had declared himself her champion.
Sir Galahad indeed.
But how could she tell him that, and not reveal what was in her heart? What she thought might be in her heart, if only she dared to look. She didn’t dare, she couldn’t. She couldn’t go through it all again.
He’d said it himself—he would protect any woman, any child. That is what a Galahad did.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t deliberately avoiding you,” she lied. “It’s just that I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“I know.” He took her hand in his and squeezed it. “I was just worried that my actions that morning had given you a disgust of me.”
“A disgust?” she exclaimed. “No, I thought you were a hero!”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “Just as long as you’re not frightened of me.”
It depended what the definition of being frightened was, she thought.
That morning had changed her life. Standing up to Count Anton had given her a small piece of pride back. She’d done something she’d never done before; she’d behaved like a ruling princess. And people had believed her. Even Count Anton had believed her.
It was a powerful thought.
And when Gabriel said he would kill Count Anton for her, he’d offered her the most powerful choice of all: the power of life and death. To protect her son.
She had no doubt he would have done it. And Gabriel would have taken the responsibility, the blame.
He knew what he was doing. How could he not—a soldier, an officer of eight years? And with the magistrate at his elbow, warning him of the consequences. A hanging offense.
At the very least he would have had to flee the country and live as an exile.
And he would have done it, for her, for Callie.
It threatened every carefully built wall she’d maintained around her heart since she’d walked out of that hunting lodge eight years ago.
To be that vulnerable to a man again?
Yes, she was frightened of him. He frightened her to death.
They stopped several nights on the road. The first night Ethan approached Tibby, and asked could he have a word in private with her. She agreed.
“Miss Tibby?” The room wasn’t hot at all, but Ethan was sweating like a pig.
“Yes, Mr. Delaney?”
“I was wondering…”
“Yes?” She tilted her head inquiringly.
Ethan ran a finger around his collar. It was far too tight. He’d spent half an hour arranging his neck cloth just so, and now the damned thing was choking him. He cleared his throat.
“Miss Tibby, as you know, I’m plannin’ to go into business with Mr. Morant. And Mr. Renfrew, of course,” he added as an afterthought. Harry Morant was the driving force in this venture.
“Yes, I know. It sounds a most exciting venture.”
“It is. The trouble is, Miss Tibby, there is…stuff…I need to learn. If I want to be a partner on the same terms as the others, that is. It’s not just a matter of money. Or horse sense. Or work.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He wanted to rip his neck cloth off. He took a turn around the room.
“Miss Tibby, I want to hire your services.”
“But Mr. Delaney, I don’t know anything about horses or horse racing. Or business.”
“No, not that.” He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “As a partner in the business there are things I need to know, to be able to do to be on the same footing as the people I’ll be dealing with.”
She looked puzzled, then her brow cleared. “Do you mean you want me to teach you how to go on in polite society?”
“No.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve been around enough officers to know how to ape the gentleman if I have to.”
“Mr. Delaney,” she said with brisk reproof. “You have no need to ‘ape the gentleman,’ as you put it. You are more truly a gentleman than many men in society. And believe me, I know.”
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. The unexpected compliment had thrown him—and he was already off balance.
He returned to the main point. He was going to get this over with if it killed him.
“To tell you the truth, Miss Tibby, I have no desire to be what I am not, but there are things I wish to learn. And I want to hire you to teach me.”
“But, Mr. Delaney, what could I possibly teach you?”
Ethan took a deep breath. “Books,” he croaked. There, it was out.
“Books? What books?”
“Any books. All of ’em.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ethan drew himself up as if he were facing a firing squad and said, “I can’t read, Miss Tibby. Or write.”
She didn’t say a word.
After a moment he looked at her. Her brown eyes were wide and steady on his face. “Mr. Delaney,” she said softly, “I’d be honored to teach you how to read and write.”