Chapter Four
How, Ryan wondered, had she managed to be attacked by two different men in one night? It was a record, surely—especially when she factored in the third man—the one who’d attacked her in Guernsey. That man had been the reason she’d traveled to Savernake Forest in the first place. All told, she’d suffered three attacks in the span of a month. She was at capacity for marauding men.
She was not, however, afraid—no, that was inaccurate. She was afraid, but she wasn’t terrified, not anymore. The current attacker had thrown her over his shoulder and run. He conveyed her, bodily, away from the ambush and the scrambling, shouting men. Her scalp burned from the highwayman’s meaty fist, and the wound on her leg pained her, but no one in this moment was actively threatening her.
“Please, sir,” Ryan asked, hoping to discover her agency in this particular abduction. Her voice came out like a wheeze. With every footfall, the man’s shoulder nudged into her gut. Her hip was pressed into his ear and held in place by a tight arm around the back of her thighs. Ryan’s face bounced, upside down, against the hard plates of his back. She held on by squeezing handfuls of his coat. The wound on her leg had begun to throb.
“If you please,” Ryan tried again, speaking to her abductor’s back. She turned her head to the side, sucking in a breath. “I should like to appeal to your sense of—”
“Quiet,” the man huffed. “Do not speak. Meade will not stay down for long. Even now, his men will give chase.”
“Yes, alright,” she whispered, “but please may I be allowed to walk?” Surely this should be suggested by one of them. The puncture wound in her leg was four weeks old, and she no longer walked with a limp.
“No,” he rasped.
“Perhaps you could turn me upright and swing my legs around so I could—?”
“No.”
He was hiking them steadily upward, pushing around trees, climbing over fallen logs, trudging through sunken spots packed with forest decay. With every step, he dislodged a spray of rocks. Ryan watched the debris bump down the hillside in a waterfall of gravel. How they remained upright, she had no idea.
After five minutes of steady climbing, they reached a crest of exposed rock, and the man fell against it, breathing hard.
She cleared her throat and he brought a finger to his lips. Shhh.
Ryan switched to a whisper. “I beg your pardon? But if you would simply release me to—”
Shouts from men cut her off—voices from below that echoed up the hill. Amid the shouts, she heard thrashing and snapping, the sound of the forest disrupted.
The man who held her swore in another language (French, unless she was mistaken) and shoved from the rock. Tipping forward, he rolled her unceremoniously from his shoulder and flipped her. She was suddenly face up, lying across his arms like a woman in a swoon. The forest canopy swung into focus above her head, a cathedral of foliage with the night sky behind. Before she could react, he tipped her again and folded her roughly against his chest. She tumbled against him like a string of buoys. Gathering her up, he slowly, carefully, eased around the stone. He crouched down, matching the shape of their bodies to the shape of the rock and wedged his weight into the boulder. Then he exhaled and became perfectly, breathlessly still.
Ryan was given no choice but to fold into a ball in his lap. Her ear was pressed against his clavicle and her hands were bent at odd angles against his chest. Her knees pushed into his ribs. She heard his heart, and felt his beard, and smelled wind and horses and man. She was powerless to do anything but close her eyes and exist in his arms.
A minute passed... two... She’d been chilled on his shoulder but she was rapidly growing overwarm. Her stomach growled. The wound on her leg throbbed. She tried to shift, but he squeezed her tighter. She winced and tipped up her chin to draw breath. Her mouth brushed the whisker-rough skin at his throat. The contact was as unexpected as it was intimate—prickly and warm and tangy; she felt his pulse against her lips. For a long, fuzzy moment, Ryan’s mind skipped away from the woods, and the chase, and the throb in her leg. She held her lips to his throat, sharing the air beneath the brim of his hat.
Downhill, the highwayman and his lackeys could be heard lumbering through the underbrush. After a time, silence prevailed; then more thrashing; and finally she heard complaining, curses, and the diminishing sounds of their retreat.
An eternity later, he released her. He simply dropped her and scooted away.
Ryan hit the damp, mossy ground in a tangle, sucking in air and scrambling to get her hands beneath her. The contrast between the tight, warm circle of his arms and the wet leaves of the forest felt like a throw from a horse. While she untangled herself, he slid backward, keeping his weight on one knee.
“Have they gone?” she whispered.
“Yes. They are lazy and underpaid.”
“Th-thank you,” she said. “I think. That is, if this is a rescue, I’m in your debt. If this is not a rescue, well—almost anyone would be better than the highwayman. I hesitate to ask, but I was riding a young mare when they attacked me. Do you—”
“The horse now belongs to Channing Meade,” he said. He stood and made no offer to help her up. Ryan braced against the rock to keep from rolling down the hill.
“You are acquainted with the highwayman?” she asked.
“No, but highwaymen steal horses and yours was delivered to him on a platter.”
He removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and pressed it back on his head. The clouds shifted and Ryan was able to see his face. His features matched his body; strong, angular, rough. Even so, she could tell that he was young; not much more than her own twenty-four years; certainly not thirty.
Also, he was rather handsome. He was bearded, and streaked with dirt, and scowling, but she understood handsomeness as a practical matter; the natural architecture of a face. Fine clothes and pomade only went so far. This man would be handsome in a bog.
Ryan herself was neither pretty nor plain. She was not known for her appearance, a circumstance she’d accepted years ago. Ryan’s calling cards were reason and practicality and getting the job done. Her sister Diana was very striking and her sister Charlotte was very fragile—pretty, each of them, in their own way—and their beauty predicated everything they did. It was like a suffix. Lady Charlotte, the delicate one; Lady Diana, the radiant one. Lady Ryan was the one who held everything together. She was predicated by reliance.
Likely, this man’s handsomeness was also deeply embedded in his personality. She’d only now seen his face, but she’d recognized the beauty of his physical form the moment he’d hefted her onto his shoulder. He had long legs and a broad chest, a rakish hat and dashing leather coat. All of it worked together to make him appear savior-y, rather than menacing. She reminded herself that even though handsome might feel safe, it was no guarantee.
“I’m going,” he said suddenly, shoving to his feet.
Going?she thought, and she realized he meant to leave her. He had rescued her perhaps, but to what end? To desert her in the dark forest?
“Oh,” she said, looking around. “Alright. Yes of course.”
“It will soon rain. I’ve left a nervous horse tied to a tree.”
“Right. Sorry, but can I impose on you to... to...”
She studied the trees around her. The landscape appeared the same in every direction: dark, steep, uncompromising. Her heartbeat ticked up. Perhaps this man wasn’t a threat to her, but the forest certainly was.
“I’ll have to bring you to my camp,” he said. “We’ve no other choice. Can you walk?”
“Your camp,” she repeated, dragging herself up. “How very...” she searched for the word “...kind.”
She was relieved, certainly, but now the veneer of safety wrought by his handsomeness began to tarnish. His camp. She felt the prickle of unease. She didn’t even know this person’s name.
“Forgive me,” she began, “but might I inquire... that is, can you tell me—? Do you have—? Will your family be there? At this camp? Will we be—”
“I live alone except for my horses.”
Ryan blinked at him. He turned away and began walking along a rocky ledge.
He lives alone except for his horses.
But would he simply leave—?
Yes. Yes he would. He was walking away.
Ryan tested the ground in front of the rock—one foot, then the next foot, then the next. The forest floor was slick and uneven, but she been raised on the windswept cliffs of Guernsey. The island was steep and rocky, constantly doused by ocean squalls. She knew challenging trails. She knew storms. She knew survival.
“Right...” she began, speaking to herself, picking her way behind him. She stepped on a fallen branch and it snapped in two with a pop. Ryan jumped, fell sideways, righted herself on a tree.
The man glanced back but said nothing. He turned and walked on. Ryan narrowed her eyes. What choice did she have but to follow? Gathering her skirts, she trudged after him.
After a long moment, he asked, “Why are you alone in the forest after dark?”
“Foolish mistake, I’m afraid,” she called. “I was out riding and lost my way. My maid and I have taken a room at the inn in Pewsey, and I borrowed a horse to have a closer look at the forest. I became disoriented in a clearing and couldn’t find the path. Eventually I came upon the road, but the sun set before I’d reached the end of it. I was navigating by moonlight.”
“With a storm coming.”
“Yes. The storm, the nightfall, the forest—which has been described to me as haunted by more than one person. It was all very reckless.” She glanced at the sky. “But I’ve actually traveled from London to Savernake Forest on urgent business. I cannot be deterred by weather or ghosts.”
If she thought he would ask her the nature of this business, she was mistaken. If she thought he would congratulate her courage, he did not. He walked on in silence.
Naturally, the silence compelled her to explain. “London is actually only half the distance I’ve traveled. If I’m being honest. I hail from the Channel Islands. I set out from Guernsey nearly a fortnight ago.”
Finally, he asked, “What’s your business in Savernake Forest?”
“I’m in search of a man.” Why not tell him the truth? Her intention was to leave no stone unturned.
He made no response and she pressed on, “I’ve been told he makes his home in the wood. Honestly, I’m desperate enough to ask you about him. You are local to the area, I presume, considering your... er, camp. Perhaps you know him. He’s called Gabriel d’Orleans? He’s a Frenchman—that is, he left France when he was a boy, and he’s come of age in Britain. His last known location was...” and now she looked out at the misty, moon-bathed forest, crinkling her nose “...here. In this forest. Generally speaking. Regretfully, I’ve no specific direction.”
The man stopped walking. His stillness was so sudden and so unexpected, Ryan almost collided with his back. She made a little yelp and jumped out of the way. Had he seen a snake, she wondered. Or a boghole? The highwaymen?
“Sir?” she asked carefully.
He stood motionless before her, shoulders raised, gloved hands balled into fists at his sides. When, finally, he began to walk again, he did not look back.
“I was mistaken to think my camp would be suitable for a woman,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll take you to the corner of the village instead. You can make your way to the inn from there.”
“Oh,” said Ryan, surprised by this sudden accommodation. “Very well. If that is what you prefer. I’m in your debt—truly.”
He made no reply. Ryan trudged silently behind him, watching him open and close his hands. Lightning pulsed in the sky but he didn’t look up; his gaze was fixed on the horizon. His stride lengthened. Ryan scrambled to follow, swatting at limbs and yanking at her cloak. If she didn’t keep up, he would leave her—of this, she had no doubt. He’d hardly been pleasant, but now he appeared agitated, almost angry. Unless she was mistaken, he was running away from her.
Ryan cleared her throat. “Forgive me, but I would be remiss if I didn’t ask again. This man, Gabriel d’Orleans, but do you know him? If not, have you heard tell of him? And if you have heard of him, do you know where he can be found?”
“No,” he said.
“No you don’t know him, or no you don’t know where he is?”
“Gabriel d’Orleans,” the man said, “is dead.”