The Creole Princess by Beth White Page B

Rippardá, at your service.”
    He bowed with a precise concoction of irony and courtesy, then stood with his beautiful new plumed hat over his heart while expressions of equal parts chagrin, anger, reluctant gratitude, and amusement chased across Lyse’s expressive little kitten face.
    The older man lurched away from the girl, the threat in his balled fists significantly mitigated by his unsteady stance. “You dare address my daughter in this familiar way, you Spanish court card?”
    Rafa blinked, all but leveled by Señor le Papa’s toxic breath. “I meant no insult, señor. I wish only to help.” He turned to the girl. “Perhaps I misunderstood the difficulty?”
    Under the misshapen hat, her clear caramel complexion had bloomed camellia pink. She stepped in front of her papa to look upat Rafa with humiliated golden eyes. “You didn’t misunderstand, monsieur. In fact, you are purely an answer to prayer. My papa is . . . ill. We were—this is my good friend, Niall McLeod.” She glanced over her shoulder at the young redcoat. “We were trying to help Papa walk down to the quay, where my brother is working. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too far out of your way, to take us up in your carriage and drive us that far?”
    Rafa, who considered himself a good noticer, absorbed three things all at once. First, the “good friend” McLeod seemed to be prepared to unsheathe his sword and detach Rafa from his head. Second, Papa Bear wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t inflict quite a bit of damage, should he perceive real or imagined insult to his little girl. Third, said little girl seemed already to be regretting her request for aid.
    All of which, due to a perverse twist of his personality—so obstinate that even his imposing madre had been unable to beat it out of him—made Rafa smile and take her hand, bringing it gently to his lips. He stood there studying the small grubby hand with its broken fingernails and silvery scars, which proved she was a woman who worked for every morsel of food that went into her sweet mouth. If he had not been in love before, that little hand flung Cupid’s arrow straight to the center of his heart.
    She gave an impatient tug of the grubby hand. “Do I take that to be a yes? Papa, allow Niall to help you up and let us go. We are blocking the street.” She put her hand on Rafa’s shoulder and hopped onto the bench seat of the carriage.
    Rafa was left on the ground with McLeod and Señor Lanier, who had little choice but to obey. He turned to help the soldier boost Lanier up beside his daughter, and she slipped her arm securely through his to keep him steady.
    “Niall, thank you for your help.” She leaned across her father, holding out a hand to McLeod. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
    The soldier reddened, taking her hand and squeezing it awkwardly. “Don’t worry about the—you know, what I told my sergeant. It was a stupid thing to do, and I’m sorry.”
    “Very stupid, but you meant well.” She smiled kindly as she sat back.
    Lanier scowled down at the young man. “Keep your mouth shut about it, boy.”
    “Yes, sir.” McLeod backed away, cowed.
    Rafa gave the horse leave to start and glanced at the girl. He could feel the pleasant warmth of her small, curvy body all along his side, wedged as she was between himself and her father. He decided to take the scenic route to the quay.
    “One must ask what it was McLeod told his sergeant,” he said after a moment.
    “Nothing useful.” Lyse pressed her lips together, then burst into a peal of infectious laughter. “He told the sergeant that he’d just got betrothed! To me!” The laughter bubbled again.
    Rafa frowned. “And that is funny because . . .”
    “Oh, Don Rafael! You yourself said I look like a little boy!”
    “Hmm. So I did.” He couldn’t tell her he’d said that to keep from scooping her up in his arms, so surprised and delighted was he to see her, not thirty minutes after his arrival