The Prince's Bride

Chapter Eight

Ryan was lying when she said she wasn’t trying to manage him.

Manage himwas exactly what she was trying to do. He was caustic and evasive and lying to her—which, he lived in a cave (a very tidy cave, but still a cave); of course he would pretend not to know her. She could allow for some dancing about the truth from a man who’d been born in a castle and now lived in... this. But the situation wanted some productive way to evolve. There wasn’t time to evade and lie forever. And his one-sentence utterances must stop. There was so much to be said—years of history and explanations and strategizing from both of them. He would simply have to find a way to be more forthcoming.

Ryan was adept at managing many things—household staff, the weekly budget for the market, her father, her sisters, sick tenants, gossiping villagers, just to name a few—but she had less of an idea how to manage a man. That is, she knew absolutely nothing about seduction.

No—that wasn’t true. She knew enough about seduction to identify this man’s keen interest in human contact. That is, human contact withher.

Gabriel’s regard for her and the regard of other men was the difference between memorizing a book and glancing at the title. And wasn’t this an interesting development? It hadn’t happened in the forest—in the forest, she was a parcel to be borne about. But in the hour since he’d returned to the cottage, he’d stared at her like she was a cool stream and he’d not had water for a week.

And perhaps it was a bold leap—to go from his stare to her seduction—but she was not a child. She was inexperienced and had no idea what she was doing, but when he’d caught her up by the cupboard and held her against him, she realized the advantage.

In the end, seduction—even an amateur one—was an easy risk for Ryan to take, because Prince Gabriel was so very much more... spectacular (was there any other word?) than what she’d imagined. It would not be a difficult chore to seduce him—or to endeavor to seduce him.

She’d prepared herself to find a frail man; a degenerate man; a man who lived beneath a bridge and subsisted on grubs and raw fish. Despite these predictions, she’d come for him because almost anything was preferrable to the imposter prince.

But the real Prince Gabriel was the opposite of frail, and if he was degenerate, he was very slow to reveal it. He was virile, and robust—a horseman who could carry her over muddy hillsides. He was a man who hadn’t welcomed her snooping but also hadn’t thrown her out. At least not yet.

And he’d clutched her against him like he was fighting an invisible force that was trying to peel her away.

And her letters. He’d kept the letters she’d written to him.

And now who was being seduced?

Ryan licked her lips, watching him. He said nothing, and she raised her eyebrows, inviting him to begin the tour he so clearly did not want.

“Kitchen,” he said, gesturing to the tiny room.

“I do believe I’ve seen the kitchen.”

“Fire,” he said, pointing to the chair beside the fire.

A passage extended into darkness between the kitchen and the fireplace, and he took up a candle and stalked through the murk. Ryan followed, marveling at the uneven rock that formed the walls of this corridor. She skimmed a hand down the cold, hard surface, her fingertips snagging here and there on rough spots. It really was a cave. Gabriel d’Orleans, Prince of the Blood, resided in a cave. She thought back to his visits to Winscombe. How incredibly showy and overprovisioned they’d been. His family had arrived with a line of gleaming carriages they’d ferried from France. They’d worn what had seemed (even to her young eyes) unnecessary layers of formal clothes in metallic fabrics that reflected the sun. His parents brought so many servants Winscombe’s basement couldn’t house them all, and they’d been posted at the inn in the village.

And now he lived alone in a cave and referred to himself as Mr. Rein.

Ahead of them, Ryan heard the distinctive sound of falling water splashing against a hard surface. Was there a crag somewhere that allowed rainwater in? An underground river? They’d not walked three yards when the narrow blackness opened up into broader, higher blackness. She followed the light of the candle drawing a yellow line across the void. One by one, he lit sconces and a chamber came into view.

“Bedroom,” he said.

Ryan blinked into the newly illuminated space. It was a room, of sorts. There was a low ceiling formed of solid rock. It just missed the top of Gabriel’s head. There were walls, but they weren’t straight or flat. These were also rock, cut away by whatever natural force formed caves. There was no timber embedded here; they were in the belly of the hill.

In the lowest, tightest corner, he’d situated a bed, the mattress neatly covered with a quilt and fluffy pillows. There was a chair, a wardrobe, another desk, a basin. A mirror hung from a stake driven into the rock. The floor was wooden and a rug stretched beside the bed.

Ryan considered all of it, keeping her face pleasant. The room was modest but not uncomfortable—a little cold, but not suffocating. She stepped to the bed and fingered the coverlet and dug a bare toe into the rug.

“Have you seen it?” he asked, stepping behind her.

“I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like it, if that’s what you mean.”

The sound of splashing water was louder now, but the air was not damp. Behind him, she could just make out a gap in the rock, another passageway perhaps, but it was too dark to see where it led.

“What is that notch in the wall?” she asked.

“Nothing of consequence. This is the bedroom and there’s not much more to see. It is a modest dwelling, obviously.”

“Yes, alright,” she said. “And for tonight, I will sleep by the fire.”

“No, I will sleep by the fire. You may have the bed.”

“Oh I couldn’t possibly put you out of your bed, Mr. Rein. I’ll not impose.”

“It’s no imposition. When Samuel was alive, he slept every night by the fire. It’s perfectly comfortable.”

“Who is Samuel?”

“My...” and here he paused. He looked pained. She worried she’d overstepped, but then he exhaled and said, “My guardian.”

“Oh.”

“I was his ward, I should say. He took me in when I was eleven years old. He was a surrogate parent to me, and I became a son to him and an older brother to his two young boys. This was his home and the horses were his trade. He welcomed me in and he taught me to heal animals.”

“But where is he now?” she asked.

“Dead. Six years now.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. I owe him my life.”

“And many nights’ good sleep,” she said, trying to make a joke.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I simply mean that he was very generous if he gave his only bedroom to his ward.”

“He made three small beds for this chamber. One for me and two others for his boys. He was a widower but a good father. He wanted us to be warm and safe. After Samuel died and his boys left the forest for school, I removed the small beds and built this larger one.”

“Oh,” she said, thinking of Prince Gabriel felling trees to hew his own furniture—and also rearranging beds in this cave as if it was a proper house. When his family visited Winscombe, her parents had vacated their bedchamber so that Gabriel’s royal parents might enjoy the largest bed in the house.

“You should sleep now,” he said. “Dawn is hours away. There’s nothing more to do or say tonight.”

Oh, no, not yet, Ryan thought. Please keep talking. She didn’t look at him.

“Lady Marianne?” he prompted.

“Will you call me ‘Ryan’? Or ‘Lady Ryan’ if you must. I cannot promise I will answer to ‘Lady Marianne.’”

“How did you come by the name Ryan?” he asked.

How did you come by the name Gabriel Rein?Ryan thought. She liked this line of questioning. They were making slow progress. She smiled at him.

“When my sister Charlotte was learning to speak,” she explained, “she could only say the middle piece of my name—the riann bit of Marianne. Even that came out distorted—it came out ‘Ryan.’ The name sort of attached itself to me. Honestly, it suits me more than the other.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well, Marianne is a bit fussy, isn’t it? It’s not really two syllables, but also not really three. There are a great many vowels and n’s and the silent e on the end. It’s a frilly name whereas I—as a person—am decidedly unembellished. I am not given to unnecessary letters.”

She glanced at him. He was frowning. She took a breath and went on. “Also, I’m in rather high demand—around Winscombe, that is. It’s no exaggeration to say that someone is always in search of me. Many days, I’m sought from the moment I awaken until I close the door to my bedchamber at night. Someone is forever calling, summoning, demanding, asking for my opinion. ‘Ryan’ is simply more to the point than ‘Marianne,’ I suppose?”

“Why is your attention so prized?”

Ryan shrugged. She’d not meant to complain about it. She loved her family and her home; their constant need for her was both rewarding and motivating. She was good at solving problems and giving assurances. It was why she’d dragged herself to mainland England and dived into a forest.

But she needn’t explain that. She needn’t tell him half of this—honestly, he probably remembered that her family called her Ryan. But he’d not yet admitted that he was Gabriel d’Orleans or that he knew her, so she would play along.

“My father is the Earl of Amhurst and the title is old and respected. The locals look to our family for leadership. Winscombe is large but was built several centuries ago. It’s maintained by a staff that is more loyal than robust. And my father is in poor health. My sisters and I get along as best we can, but I’d be lying if I said there are not constant challenges. It’s my nature to be less reactionary and more practical, I suppose? This makes me popular in a crisis.”

He stared at her, saying nothing.

“Why are you called Rein, Mr. Rein?” she asked. He’d handed her this opportunity like a gift.

“My guardian was called Rein,” he said simply.

“Oh?”

“Samuel Rein. I honor his generosity by taking his name.”

“That is an honor,” she said. “And what is your given name, Mr. Rein? Do you call yourself ‘Samuel,’ as well?”

He didn’t answer. He stared down at her.

“Not Samuel?” she confirmed. “What is it then?”

“Gabriel.” A whisper.

An anvil dropped squarely on Ryan’s chest—she could hardly squeeze in a breath. Even so, her mouth didn’t fall open, she didn’t exclaim aha! She blinked once, twice.

After a long moment, she asked, “Gabriel? Will you hear the story of this imposter prince called Maurice? The man who’s pursuing us—pursuing me and all of Winscombe?”

He said nothing.

“Mr. Rein,” she said gently. “Will you hear it? May I tell you what’s happened?”

“No,” he said.

“Will you hear the terms of the betrothal, then? I haven’t a copy of this alleged binding document, but I’ve notes about what it says. Perhaps you can help me understand how to challenge it?”

“No.”

“Is there no help you can give me?” she pressed. “No help at all?”

“No.”

And now Ryan’s composure slipped. She wanted to slap her palm against the wall of this cave. She wanted to make the unpleasant half-shrieking noise that Diana made when she was frustrated. She wanted to take Prince Gabriel by the lapels and say, You cannot be this unfeeling!

Instead she said, “Will you show me your horses, Mr. Rein? I find myself in need of fresh air.”

“It’s raining,” he said.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s night.”

“By torchlight then.”

“It’s—”

She didn’t wait for another refusal. She stalked to the fire, shoved her bare feet into wet shoes, and trudged to the mouse-hole door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open and stepped into the mist.