The Prince's Bride

Chapter Fifteen

In flashes, Ryan became aware of Gabriel following her. It took no effort to see him through the trees, keeping pace as she walked to Pewsey. She looked three times—one long, hard, disbelieving look, and then two more quick assurances—and then forced herself to face forward. Well. If this constituted “keeping hidden,” he was failing at it. She hoped he knew. She also hoped he would walk into a tree. Or fall into a bog. Or leave the cover of the trees and return to her.

Good lord, she was wretched. Tears dropped down her cheeks; her throat was tied into a tight knot, and she struggled to breathe without hitching her breath. She swiped at the tears in frustration. What a sight she was for village gossips; a stranger, trudging up the high street with no hat and a filthy dress, silently weeping.

And why? It wasn’t because he wouldn’t help her—oh no. Ryan barely thought of her family crisis in the least. (And wasn’t that selfish and shortsighted?) She cried because the jagged edges of her fractured heart hurt so much.

She’d wanted him. Of all the things she’d not expected when she’d ventured into the forest to seek him out, who could’ve guessed that she might actually enjoy his company? Or be fascinated by him, and his horses, and his camp, and all he’d overcome? Who could have guessed she’d be attracted to him?

She sniffed and swiped away more tears and glanced to the trees. There he was, thirty yards away, riding the stallion and pulling the mare on a lead, watching her. She hadn’t lied to him; she understood why he could not help her. He was correct not to leave the forest if it wasn’t safe.

So why then is he following me?

The great irony was, he hadn’t seemed to reject her. If the kiss against the tree was a rejection, then she knew far less about men than she’d thought. In fact, he’d seemed to want her. Against the tree. And at the hitching post. And in his bed last night.

And wasn’t this a small personal triumph—a man wanting her? Naturally when a man finally wanted her, he would be a prince. And also naturally, he would refuse to show his face in public or claim his title—or claim her.

So, there you have it, she thought bitterly. What more could she do but indulge in a watery cry on her long walk back to the inn? While he stalked her but would not have her?

Ten minutes later, eyes puffy, throat still tight, she was forced to placate her maid Agnes. Ryan’s long absence had traumatized the girl, and it took two minutes of imploring to convince her to open the door to their room at the inn.

“My lady!” the maid exclaimed, horrified at the sight of her.

“It’s me, Agnes.” Ryan sighed, repeating what she’d said fifty times in the hallway. “Will you let me inside, please?”

“Oh, Lady Ryan, I was sick with worry,” Agnes exclaimed. She’d opened the door only enough to grab Ryan by the wrist. Agnes pulled her through and slammed it behind her, bolting it and spinning round.

“My lady, what’s happened?” said the maid on a tearful breath. “You didn’t return, and then it was midnight, and then it was morning—and I didn’t know what to do. I was certain you’d been devoured by wolves. But were you attacked and ravaged and left for dead?”

Ryan bit her lip, thinking how—for once—Agnes’s wild imagination had lit upon two out of three.

“I was not left for dead,” Ryan told her, “but I did have a rough go of it in the... er, forest. Also, I’ve located the prince, if you can believe it. However, he is unable to help us. Sadly.”

“Located the prince?!” whispered Agnes, her hands up, fingers spread, as if Ryan might pull a prince from her cloak and toss him on the rug.

“Yes. But, he cannot leave the forest for reasons of personal safety. However, his sister Princess Elise d’Orleans—now a Mrs. Crewes—lives in a manor house nearby, and he has bid us to call on her to ask for advice and help.”

“A princess...” marveled Agnes. The maid was too young to have met the original Orleans clan, and she only recently learned that her mistress had been promised to a prince. Every mention of French royalty sent Agnes into the throes of disbelief and anxiety and wonder.

“Yes, a princess; but Agnes, we must move quickly. I am loathe to remain in Wiltshire longer than necessary. Can you help me get out of these clothes and redress my hair? If Princess Elise cannot help us, we must return to London and seek out the counsel of lawyers to make sense of the old betrothal. First thing’s first. We’ll leave the inn and travel by carriage to the estate of Gabriel’s sister—”

The maid’s hands went still as she peeled back the damp cloak. “Gabriel?” the girl repeated.

Too late, Ryan realized her error. “Gabriel,” Ryan clarified, “the Prince d’Orleans. He... he prefers informal address now that—well, he prefers informal address. He does not carry on as a prince in his work with horses. In the forest. Obviously.”

An hour later, washed and wearing a clean dress, Ryan sat across from Agnes in the hired carriage.

“This estate is called Mayapple,” Ryan told the maid. “Prince Gabriel said the driver would know it, and so he does. I’ve asked the man to wait after I’ve knocked, because I’m not certain Princess Elise will have time to receive me. We’re dropping in with no invitation. You’ll have to wait in the carriage, I’m afraid. Do you mind? You must make certain the driver doesn’t pull away before I’ve managed to dash off a note, at the very least.”

“Oh yes, my lady, I prefer it,” assured Agnes. Ryan had given her a very cursory overview, complete with half-truths and flat-out lies, about meeting Gabriel in the forest. The maid was respectful enough to withhold judgment, but it was clear she was highly suspicious of all this business with a French fiancé; and a deep, dark wood; and horse training; and calling on princesses with no invitation. It took no cajoling to convince Agnes to watch from the safe distance of the carriage.

Ryan turned to stare out the window, idly patting Gabriel’s letter in her pocket. He’d not bothered to seal it, and she was tempted to take a peek—if for nothing else, to read how he’d described Ryan’s situation. But of course Ryan could not read his private correspondence; she’d already rifled through his drawers and found her letters.

Fingering the parchment again, she forced herself to strategize the best way to describe Maurice. In hindsight, she’d blurted out too much, too quickly when she’d explained him to Gabriel. No matter how gracious or compassionate Princess Elise revealed herself to be, given the choice, she’d probably rather not have Ryan’s problems introduced into her life.

Outside the window, the deep greens of late summer cast the cloudy morning in a dark, almost pickled light. Mainland England was so very green compared to the brown, earthy crags and cliffs of Guernsey. Plant life was plentiful in the Channel Islands of course; but not like the mainland, with its grassy meadows, dense trees, and the mosses and ferns that furred over rocks and stone walls. She hadn’t realized there were quite so many shades of—

Ryan stopped, midthought, and squinted at a decidedly un-green movement in the trees. But was it—?

She leaned closer to the window, using her glove to clear away a smudge.

Oh my God.

There was a rider keeping pace with the carriage. She fell back against the seat. She blinked, trying to interpret what she saw. But it made no sense. She raised up to look again.

Yes, yes, there he was again.

Someone was riding his stallion in the forest that bordered the road. Flanking the carriage at a distance of about thirty yards, deep in the trees.

Gabriel.

The sight of him—and there was no doubt it was him, his size and posture on horseback were unmistakable—crashed into Ryan like a wave. She grabbed hold of the seat, blinking into the dimness of the carriage.

But what did he mean? They’d said goodbye. Ryan was no expert, but surely their particular goodbye—with the tree and the heavy breathing—promised the finality of battlefields and deathbeds and walking the plank.

And yet, here he was.

Ryan sat very straight against the seat, her body pinned back by the shock of seeing him.

“Are you quite well, my lady?” asked Agnes, eyeing the window cautiously.

“Yes,” said Ryan carefully. “Perfectly well. I merely—I saw something that reminded me of home.”

“Of Winscombe?” asked the maid. Agnes had been very vocal about the flatness and muddiness of mainland England, about the endless buildings and crowded streets and the sooty, airless smell. So far, she had not been impressed.

“It was nothing,” said Ryan, “I was taken by surprise, that’s all.”

Ryan fought the urge to look again; Agnes existed in a constant state of alarm. Ryan need not heap on more erratic behavior. And what was solved by watching him keep pace with the carriage? What if she looked again and he was gone?

It means nothing, it means nothing, it means nothing, she chanted in her head, even as she pretended to stretch forward and lean. Just as she broached the window, the carriage turned from the main road onto a long drive.

“Oh, perhaps we’ve arrived,” Ryan said, and pressed her face to the window again. The small road led away from the forest, positioning the tree line behind them.

“But are you certain you’re alright, my lady?” Agnes asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Fit as a fiddle. Forgive me, Agnes, I’m simply...” she turned away from the window “...I suppose I’m just nervous to drop in on a royal princess unannounced. How do I look?”

“You look...” Agnes studied her with a wary expression “...well, you’re rather flushed, to be honest, my lady. But are you overwarm?”

Ryan shook her head, raising her hands to her cheeks. She felt nothing through her gloves—in fact, all feeling seemed to have left her body. Or was it that she felt everything? She was hot, and cold, and dizzy, and sitting perfectly still in the center of this road while the world spun around her.

Why had he come?

“Did the luncheon disagree with you?” Agnes wondered, and Ryan was forced to pay attention. My God, how ill did she look?

“Luncheon was perfectly suitable. It’s merely nerves, as I said. Oh look, here we are.”

The carriage slowed, and Ryan used this as an excuse to dive to the window. Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. They’d reached the main house and the tree line was some hundred yards away, at the edge of manicured parkland. He was gone. Naturally. Or perhaps she’d imagined the whole thing. Ryan took a deep breath and forced her brain to the matter at hand.

The centerpiece of Mayapple was a charming manor house in the Palladian style. The smooth stone shone gold and gray in the midday sun. There was a small rise of steps and a little stoop and a giant front door. Ryan swallowed. She must pull together some little speech that would introduce herself and her problem without sounding deranged. She must mount the steps and knock on the door. She must save her family and not think about Gabriel Rein/Gabriel d’Orleans, riding with breathtaking balance and grace through the wood beside her carriage.

“Right,” she said again to Agnes. “Here we are. If the family are at home and have time for us, I’ll send for you. If not, I’ll turn round and we’ll negotiate with the driver about travel to London. You’re sure you don’t mind the carriage? Are you comfortable, Agnes?”

“Oh yes, I’m very comfortable, my lady. But are you certain you’re—”

“Fine, fine, everything is completely...” a deep breath “...fine.” She gathered her skirts and reached through the open door for the driver’s outstretched hand.

“If you are unwell, we can always depart for London now and write to these princesses or whomever they are?” Agnes called after her.

Ryan gave her a reassuring wave and spoke briefly to the driver about waiting. After that, she raised her chin, took up her skirts, and strode across the gravel drive to the steps. At first glance, the house appeared smaller than Winscombe, but the closer she got, the grander it seemed. Winscombe was large but crooked and slumped and bleached ashy by sea winds and rain. This house was pristine and immaculate—a small palace, if Ryan was being honest.

And good for you, Princess Elise, Ryan thought. To have a lovely home after all she’d been through.

Ryan reached into her pocket and felt for Gabriel’s letter. She patted the bun at the back of her head. She adjusted her hat. She’d worn her pale green dress—not her favorite, but it was a nice dress, just the same, not to mention her only remaining garment after ruining the blue traveling suit. The green dress had been her mother’s, remade in a more modern style. Say what you would about Agnes, but she was an excellent seamstress and took loving care of Ryan’s wardrobe.

Do not look, Ryan thought, trying to slice through the nonsense in her brain. Don’t look for him; don’t expect him; do not think of him. The trees were a green wall in the hazy distance. If he was there (a very significant “if”), he would not leave that wall. It was pointless to look.

And then Ryan was at the front door, and she felt so charged with jittery energy that she did not hesitate, she rapped on the door three times, very quickly.

After the knock, silence. No footsteps from within. No movement at the nearby window.

Tightening her gloves, Ryan reached up to knock a second time. Before her knuckle made contact with the wood, the door was wrenched open.

“Hello,” said a woman in a pretty lavender dress with dark hair and hazel eyes. In her arms, she held a baby—a girl—gnawing toothlessly a crust of bread, crumbs dribbling down the front of her dress.

The woman looked informal—no hat, no gloves, hair loose—and a little harried, but very beautiful. And not unkind. She smiled expectantly at Ryan.

“Can I help you?” She hitched the baby higher on her hip.

“Sorry, Mrs. Crewes!” came a man’s voice behind. “You are too quick for me. Again.”

“Noelle was making a run for the door, Wallace,” the woman said over her shoulder. “It’s no problem. I can manage.”

A resentful-looking butler appeared behind her. Now all three of them—the pretty woman, the butler, and the baby—stared at Ryan. After a beat, the baby held the bread out. “Bah!” she said, a wordless offering.

“Hello,” Ryan began.

The trio in the doorway considered her.

“Forgive my calling unannounced,” she continued. “My name is Lady Marianne Daventry, and I am from the island of Guernsey.” Another swallow. “In the English Channel.”

Ryan blinked. Of course they would know Guernsey. Everyone knew Guernsey, didn’t they? She was not accustomed to formal introductions—she rarely met someone she’d not known her entire life. In hindsight, perhaps it’d been best that she’d met Gabriel in the midst of a highway ambush.

She took a breath and smiled. The baby made the offering noise again and thrust out the bread.

“No, no darling, the bread is for you to eat,” said the woman. “Our visitor does not want it.” She looked again to Ryan.

“I—” began Ryan. She stopped and reconsidered. “That is... my family.” Another pause. “I’ve come in search of Mrs. Killian Crewes, the former Princess Elise d’Orleans? Of France?”

“I am Mrs. Killian Crewes,” said the woman, her voice a degree more cautious.

“Shall I fetch Mr. Crewes, Mrs. Crewes?” asked the butler.

Mrs. Crewes made a dismissive gesture, not taking her eyes from Ryan.

“How do you do,” said Ryan, bowing slightly. “Again, I’m so sorry to drop in on you with no warning, but I’ve come to mainland England on business pertaining to my family—and yours, that is, your childhood family—and I first sought out your brother, Prince Gabriel d’Orleans...”

Mrs. Crewes’s expression turned from cautious to wide-eyed. Her pallor went white. Slowly, she began to slide the baby down her hip. The child resisted, grabbing her mother’s sleeve and holding on. While Ryan watched, the child clung to her mother’s side, chewing, as Mrs. Crewes reached for the door facing. Ryan was just about to reach for the baby when Mrs. Crewes hoisted her up again. With her free hand, she braced against the door.

“I beg your pardon?” rasped Mrs. Crewes.

“I’ll just go fetch Mr. Crewes, shall I?” the butler said. He looked to the baby, made an expression of distaste, and then hurried away.

“Forgive me,” Ryan said, “I’ve no wish to alarm or distress you—and in fact nothing is amiss... well, nothing is immediately amiss... it’s just that I’ve come seeking... well, seeking advice. By a wild turn of luck, I was able to locate—”

Before Ryan could finish, a pack of dogs—one, two, three, four... well, there must have been six of them—pushed past Mrs. Crewes and the baby and bounded onto the stoop, tails wagging, noses probing, tongues hanging.

Fear coursed through Ryan and she sucked in a breath. She clutched her chest and skittered back, falling against the house.

Her distress and retreat only intrigued the animals and they followed her, forming a panting half circle at her skirts. Immediately, the wound on her leg began to throb. She looked from one animal to the next, trying to remind herself that she needn’t be afraid of every dog. But one of these dogs, she noticed, looked exactly like the breed favored by Maurice. She locked eyes with it and began to breathe quickly in and out, in and out. She looked right and left, wondering how she might evade them. Could she outrun them? All of them? She let out a whimpering noise.

“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Mrs. Crewes said, pushing off the door and wading into the dogs, reaching for collars. She swung the baby from her hip and settled her on the stoop. The animals seemed delighted by this game—the terrified caller, the frantic host, the laughing baby on the floor who waved delicious bread. The pack of them shifted and spun, jumping and sniffing. They were like eels in a tidepool, everywhere at once, impossible to catch.

“Marie? Sofie?” Mrs. Crewes called, shouting back through the door. “Bartholomew!

“They won’t harm you,” Mrs. Crewes assured Ryan. “These are my nephew’s dogs. He’s on break from school and insists on transporting them from his own house to mine so he might not miss a moment in their company. And yet—where is he? Nowhere to be seen, while the dogs are omnipresent. My husband will speak to him. We forget how terribly behaved they are because our small daughters maintain their own version of unrelenting chaos.”

With no warning, one of the dogs, the biggest one—the one who looked like Maurice’s dog—began to bark loudly.

“Oh God, that one’s called—? Oh I can’t remember,” muttered Mrs. Crewes, reaching for the dog. “Quiet, you worthless hound.”

Ryan was just about to throw herself from the stoop. It was lofty—twenty steps high, at least—but she could jump off the side and crash into the flowerbed. She’d break a shrub or two, but at least she’d escape the dogs. She needed to escape the dogs.

“Stand. Down.”

A firm voice rang out, freezing the dogs where they stood. Ryan froze, too, her foot dangling over the edge of the stoop.

Mrs. Crewes clutched the scruff of two different dogs but her head snapped up. Even the baby went still.

Gabriel.

He appeared from nowhere, clipping up the steps and positioning himself between Ryan and the dogs. When he blocked her, he reached behind and grabbed her waist, nudging her from the edge of the stoop.

“Careful,” he said to the animals, “careful.” Mesmerized, the dogs went immediately quiet and still.

“She has a fear of dogs,” he said to Mrs. Crewes.

There was a long, heavy pause. Ryan craned to see around Gabriel’s shoulder.

Mrs. Crewes was staring at her brother with an expression of such shock and disbelief and joy, Ryan’s throat cinched.

“Gabriel?” whispered Mrs. Crewes.

“Bah!” said the baby on the stoop, holding out her bread to Gabriel.

One of the smaller dogs padded over and began to eat from the child’s hand.

But now another man was there. He popped through the doorway, the butler on his heels, his face creased with concern.

“What happened?” He glared at Gabriel. “Who the devil are you?”

He glanced at the baby on the floor; she’d tipped to her side and begun crawling in his direction. “Noelle—?”

“Forgive me,” interjected Ryan, “but I do believe Mrs. Crewes is about to—”

And then Mrs. Crewes made a small noise and collapsed into a faint.

“Bloody—” The man in the doorway lunged forward just in time and scooped her up. Six dogs crowded around him, pressing noses into her limp form.

“Bartholomew!” the man bellowed before he bent down to press a kiss to the top of her head.