The Prince's Bride

Chapter Eighteen

Ryan was told at breakfast that Gabriel would remain at Mayapple while they sorted out some solution to the imposter prince.

The announcement came from Mr. Crewes; an off-hand comment as he’d salted his eggs. It was clear to Ryan that Elise Crewes already knew, but she launched into an odd battery of questions—“Did you invite him to stay or did he ask to stay?” “How long will he remain?” “Where is he now?” “Will he join us for breakfast in future; will he come to any meal at all?”—but her husband deflected them all.

“I’ve told you everything I know on the matter,” Killian said. “He means to stay and get Lady Ryan sorted.”

Ryan stared into her plate, riding out the galloping hooves that had replaced her heart. Gabriel would leave the forest. Gabriel would be here, with her—or at the very least, near her. Gabriel had arranged for this with Mr. Crewes but not discussed it with Ryan. She’d come all this way, she’d drummed him from his seclusion, she’d caused him to admit his real identity, she was his bloody fiancée—and she was the last to know.

Even Gabriel’s nieces seemed to know more about his intentions. The girls trundled through the breakfast room to pilfer scones and little Marie announced: “When Uncle Gabriel returns from checking on his horses in the forest, he will live with Papa’s horses in the stable. And every day he will teach us something new about being horsewomen.” She ticked off future skills on her fingers. “How to tie actual knots in actual ropes. How to braid the tails of the horses without danger from their powerful hind legs. How to examine their teeth.”

“We mustn’t overwhelm Uncle Gabriel, girls,” said Mr. Crewes. “But will you eat your scone at the table? With a proper plate and napkin in your lap? Where is Nanny?”

“Nanny has eaten undercooked fish,” reported Marie, walking out the door, a scone in each hand. Sofie hurried behind her.

“I worry Nanny has a weak constitution,” tsked Elise, watching them go.

“That’s the problem, is it?” drawled Killian from behind his newspaper.

Ryan smiled, in spite of herself. The Creweses were generous hosts, warm and accommodating; and their obvious affection and mutual respect made Elise feel safe and inexplicably hopeful. They talked openly about the work of running Mayapple and of raising their girls. If Ryan felt a trickle of homesickness for her sisters and her busy life at Winscombe, she reminded herself that she’d come to England to restore that busy life and protect those sisters. If she also felt a stab of longing for a family of her own, a husband and children, she pushed it away. Her life was so very full. She was under attack at the moment, but things were looking up. And Gabriel would (apparently) be nearby. Whether he’d simply observe Ryan from the safe distance of the stables or actually interact with her—she couldn’t say. But she left breakfast feeling bolstered, and eager, and ever so slightly annoyed.

She made a silent vow to expect nothing from Gabriel Rein. She needed less disappointment and anxiety in her life, not more; and Gabriel was unpredictable and uncommunicative. And he would never leave Mayapple with her, he would not share any part of his life with her, regardless of what happened in their shared time on the estate. The fewer expectations meant less heartbreak in the end.

And then, just after breakfast, she saw him.

He stepped into a passageway in the servants’ corridor and they came face-to-face. Agnes had been working her magic on Ryan’s gown, a new-to-her frock given to her by Elise. The fit was good except for the sleeves, which needed lengthening, and the hem, which should be let out.

“Hello,” Gabriel clipped, taking in the sight of her with a long, hard look. He stopped five feet from her.

Ryan wouldn’t have been more surprised if the Prince Regent had appeared in the corridor. He wore buckskins and a jacket; both of which had seen considerable wear but were clean, unlike the rumpled, dusty clothes of the day before. He held his hat in his hand, exposing his hair, which was less uneven than she remembered. His beard had also been trimmed. He looked... if not, gentlemanly (or even civilized), then neat and respectable. He looked like a very large, very fit woodsman. Which she supposed he was. Was it wrong that she also found him devastatingly handsome? Ryan couldn’t say; she knew only that the sight of Gabriel in tan buckskin and chocolate leather put her off of brocade waistcoats or linen cravats for life.

Beside her, Agnes gasped. Agnes hadn’t liked the look of Gabriel when she’d seen him from the distance of the carriage the day before, and a closer view was unlikely to improve her opinion.

“That should do, Agnes,” Ryan said, dismissing her. “I’ll be mindful of the lace. You can sew it in earnest tonight.”

The maid didn’t waste time closing the door behind her and flipping the lock.

Ryan turned back to Gabriel. His initial appraisal of her had faded, and his regard for her now seemed detached. He was suspicious and remote, like he’d come upon a distrusted acquaintance. Only he could appear so very handsome and so very rude at the same time.

Ryan narrowed her eyes. She was accustomed to being overlooked by men, but she wasn’t used to fickleness. Expect nothing, she reminded herself. Her new policy.

Finally, she replied to him. “Hello.”

He said nothing. He loomed in the corridor, staring at her.

“How do you find the stables?” she continued.

Silence.

“What brings you belowstairs?” she asked.

“A stable boy led me to the kitchens,” he said. “I’m due to meet Killian and Elise in a parlor.”

“Ah. We’re bound for the same destination then. I followed my maid to the sewing room to save her the trip.”

“I hoped to keep away from the family and their guests until strictly necessary,” he said.

“Well, your hopes have been dashed, because here I am.”

“You’re not put off by the servants quarters?”

She glanced over her shoulder. A clattery din of chopping and voices rose from the kitchens, but they were alone in the passage. “On the contrary, I trod every corner of Winscombe on a daily basis. This includes the dusty attic, the moldy cellar, and the servants quarters. In the absence of my mother, I am responsible for the house and the staff.”

“What of your dress?” he asked.

Ryan furrowed her brow. My dress?

“This is your everyday wardrobe?” he asked.

Ryan looked at the smart white dress with tiny scarlet flowers. Elise had heaped a rainbow of beautiful dresses on her bed the night before, claiming three pregnancies in five years had left her with unwearable castoffs. Ryan had never been interested in fashion, but it would be impossible to miss the beauty of the dresses. Agnes had been ecstatic and suggested Ryan try the white and scarlet first. At Winscombe, Ryan would’ve reserved a dress of this quality for Easter or a wedding or— Honestly, at Winscombe, Ryan would’ve given any new dress to one of her sisters. But she was not at Winscombe, and her dress from the forest was ruined, and Agnes had been so eager to see her in something new.

“No, in fact,” she said, eyeing him. “Elise has loaned me a handful of dresses that she no longer wears. We’ve sent a messenger to my aunt in London, asking that my own clothes be delivered to Mayapple, but in the meantime...” She let the sentence trail off.

He stared at her, his face hard. With no warning, he turned away. “Do you know the way abovestairs?”

“I meant to take the back passage.” She was speaking to his back. “Agnes and I came by this route. Staff can feel stalked when their domain is invaded, and so many are in the kitchens at this hour. You’re going the best way. But we’ll need light.”

He swiped a candle from a sconce, and strode down the passageway.

“Is there an agenda for the parlor?” he called over his shoulder.

This was his invitation to join him, Ryan presumed. She started walking. “Mr. Crewes simply said he has ideas on how I might proceed.”

The corridor came to a wall and turned sharply to the right. Gabriel made the turn. Ryan increased her speed to keep up.

“Please know, Lady Ryan, that I intend to find a solution for this,” he said. And then he stopped so suddenly she almost collided with his back. He spun around. “I know my initial response was opposite of this. I was wrong, and I admit it. You took me by surprise. Obviously. You are my responsibility and I’ve no intention of sending you back to a greedy cousin who’s bent on destroying everything you hold dear. I’ve limitations, but they are not greater than my responsibility to you.”

After he’d said it, he turned and continued his march down the empty corridor.

“Just to be clear,” Ryan called after him, “I am not, in fact, your responsibility. You’re mistaken if you think I’m flinging myself into your care. My only request has been that you reveal yourself to your cousin.”

“If I reveal myself to be the Prince d’Orleans, risen from the dead,” he said, disappearing around the corner, “I’ll have to carry on with the title until I can convince the royal court that I don’t want it; that I disavow all of it, that I abdicate. It’ll be an arduous process that could take months, if not years, and play out on the world stage. I will help you—I want to help you—but it must be done my way. We’ll invalidate the betrothal by proving arranged marriages cannot be inherited. This should be obvious to everyone but here we are. I won’t emerge from my seclusion, but Maurice can take the title and good riddance—so long as he leaves you alone.”

She followed him to a dead end, with passageways forking to the right and left. “Where the devil does this lead?”

“It’s to the left, I believe.”

Gabriel turned left, ducking to keep from bumping his head.

“I never meant to direct how we do it,” she told him. “Revealing yourself was just an idea. If we use lawyers instead, I can see it through by myself. I exonerate you from helping, Gabriel. Honestly, I expect nothing from you.”

“How every man hopes to be perceived,” he grumbled, “no expectations.”

For some reason, this made her angry. Now she was responsible for how he was perceived?

“Gabriel, your request from the start has been ‘expect nothing.’ In hindsight, it was excellent advice.”

They came to a thin stairwell with steep, narrow steps leading upward at a slight curve. There’d been no light for the last ten yards at least. Their only defense against the darkness was the candle in his hand.

“Is it here?” he asked, lifting the candle to push back the gloom.

“Yes.”

“Up you go then. Forgive my terseness.”

“Forgiveness is not necessary, Gabriel, but I would also venture that terseness is not necessary. I’ve been nothing but cordial to you. I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

“Yes, you have.” A pause. “And what if I asked you something?”

“What? What do you mean? Ask me anything you like.”

“Fine. What if...” another pause “...I asked you to marry me?”

“I beg your pardon,” she chuckled. The acoustics of the stairwell had distorted his words. It sounded like he’d said, What if I masked you and carried me?

“Whatif,” he repeated, “we saw the betrothal through? What if you returned to Guernsey a married woman? My cousin could hardly marry you if you were already married.”

Ryan stopped climbing. She could no longer blame the acoustics; she didn’t understand because what he said made no sense. She turned back.

“You needn’t answer right away,” he said. “Think on it.”

“Forgive me,” she began. She swallowed. Her chest felt like the weight of the manor house was lodged on top of it.

“It was Killian who suggested it,” he explained. “Yesterday. I dismissed the idea at first. But then, as I was riding to and from my camp, the notion began to take root.”

She heard his words, but certain phrases hit her squarely on the head, like cold, fat raindrops that rolled down one’s forehead and into the eyes; the prelude to a downpour.

... see the betrothal through... a married woman... dismissed the notion... take root... asked you to marry me...

“...because clearly,” he was saying, “you have a happy life in Guernsey with your family and—as you’ve said repeatedly, including just now—you don’t mean to fulfill the betrothal. And I’ve my horses, and work, and my own home. We lead separate lives. But that doesn’t mean a hasty marriage wouldn’t protect you. While we carry on with these lives. Separately.” He put a hand to the wall and cocked his head, looking at her.

“Gabriel, stop,” she said. “I’ll need a moment. The notion of marriage is... is...”

“Not to overstate the obvious,” he said, “but don’t think of it as marriage in a traditional sense. I believe it’s called a union in name only? These sorts of arrangements are not widely seen, as far as I know, but certainly they are more common than for example the betrothal of infants as part of a loan.”

“How well informed you are on marriage rituals.”

“I take both London and Paris broadsheets and read voraciously. As anyone who has rifled through my possessions would know.”

Ryan looked at the wall, flat and smooth and chipped from years of servants running up and down these stairs. She herself was beginning to feel a bit chipped and cracked.

“We needn’t determine it now,” he said. “I only raise it because we might explore this option when we speak with Elise and Killian. Unless you are entirely opposed to the notion.”

“Alright,” Ryan said simply. Her mind was a jumble of emotions and contingencies and hope and defeat.

“Alright, we’ll not determine it now...” confirmed Gabriel “...or alright, you accept?”

Ryan wrinkled her brow and gaped at him, trying to understand him—to really understand him. It occurred to her that he was, in fact, very nervous to ask her this. The question had sort of popped out, and then he’d rambled. He was rambling still.

Certainly the suggestion of marriage—even a marriage where they lived separate lives—was a complete reversal. Earlier, he’d meant to lead her to the edge of the forest and deposit her on the side of the road. Now this?

His motivation was worth scrutiny. She would need more time; for now, she willed herself not to panic.

“I suppose I mean,” she said finally, “‘alright’ I’ll consider it?”

“Very good then,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No harm done?”

“No,” she agreed, although there was a very great chance that she would never be the same after this conversation.

“Carry on?” he suggested, indicating the stairs.

“Indeed.” She clipped out the word with confidence she did not feel, raised the candle, took up her skirts...

... and promptly missed a step.

The stumble caused her to tip sideways. She caught herself on the wall—or, she tried to catch herself—and fell back instead.

She let out a little yelp and whooshed backward. The candle fell from her hand, hitting the step with a thud; the flame sputtered but did not go out. The last thing she heard before Gabriel caught her was a muffled curse—then her shoulders collided with the immovable wall of his chest, his hand clasped to her waist. He closed his other arm around her and held her—her back to his front—in a long, tight, silent embrace.

For a full minute... two... three minutes (it felt like a blissful eternity), they remained very still, and very locked together. The only sound was their breathing. After a long moment, Gabriel ever so carefully, ever so gingerly, sank his face into her hair. She heard his slow, deep inhale as he breathed her in. His mouth touched her neck. She reveled in the stamp of his lips on her throat and tingled from his beard on her cheek.

“Ryan,” he whispered.

She blinked, trying to orient herself in this backward lean, her toes teetering on the steps. It was a position she couldn’t possibly sustain if he weren’t holding her up—but he did hold her; and he called her name; and he inhaled her. The combination of touch and breath and beard set off a ricochet of flying stars inside her. The weight of the house was gone; now she felt buoyant and rising. Meanwhile, Gabriel fell against the wall, seemingly too overwhelmed to stand. He pulled her with him, balancing his shoulders against the plaster, clutching her back to his chest.

Ryan’s thoughts matched the weightlessness inside her; all reason floating away. She retained enough sense to examine the situation—their hazy, breathless path from quarreling, to considering marriage, to now cleaving wordlessly against the wall. And then, for a reason not entirely clear, she started to giggle.

“What?” he breathed.

“I don’t know.” She bit her lip.

He made a growling noise and flipped her, spinning her in his arms until she faced him. Now they were nose to nose; he held her against him with an open palm to her bottom; his thigh between her legs.

“If we marry,” he threatened, “there can be no more of this.”

Now she laughed even harder. “Oh no, not this. Never this. Why not?”

“Because, it will confuse our resolve to live separate lives. Neither should have to choose between our established homes—the homes we love.” He stared at her mouth.

“Oh please tell me more,” she said, still laughing, “your offer gets better and better, the more you describe it.”

“Go on then—laugh. How hilarious, this predicament. My freedom upended. Your life under attack. The only solution...” He trailed off, staring at her mouth. Ryan licked her lips.

“The only solution is a marriage in name only,” she finished softly.

“If we can manage it—yes. If you’ll not corner me in dark passages.” He squeezed her bottom, pressing her into his hardness. The contact levitated her, body and mind. She closed her eyes savoring the thrill of it.

“I’ve not cornered you,” she told him. “I was minding my own business with my maid. You appeared from nowhere. You followed me down this dark stairwell. You have made this odd proposal.”

He dropped his head forward, notching his face against her neck. He growled.

Ryan answered that growl with a little whimper. One of the first things he’d taught her in his dark bedroom was how very good his rough beard felt against her sensitive neck. From scalp to toes, Ryan’s body buzzed to life. Every point of contact was suffused by heat; one place in particular burned with bright urgency. Ryan hiked up her knee, hitching her ankle over his hip, trying to satiate that burn.

Gabriel repeated the growling noise and tucked her foot behind his back, grinding her into his erection. Ryan let out a sigh of pleasure, the sound escaping through a smile. He was so... dramatic—and it thrilled her. Everything about this encounter was overblown and gothic and felt far more tragic than necessary. How had he survived the forest without the potential for forbidden stairwell embraces?

How had she survived her own life at Winscombe without the same? She’d always been measured and reasonable; the answer to everyone else’s crises. She couldn’t remember ever having experienced feelings so intense—hope, confusion, doubt, want—that stemmed from her own crisis.

With boldness she didn’t know she possessed, Ryan moved her head just enough to press her lips to his ear. “Gabriel?” she called on a low whisper.

For half a second, his body went very still, then he squeezed her more tightly, raised his head, and kissed her.

It started out gently—a nibble, a taste. Then, like a tinder catching flame, he slanted his head and dove in. His tongue plunged, his breath heaved, his body bowed off the wall to press into her. He propped up a knee, balanced her astride it, and used his free hand to roam her body. Hips, waist, ribs, the sides of her breasts—nothing was left unexplored. He tipped her backward over the steps, holding her secure at the waist, and palmed her breast. When that wasn’t enough, he delved beneath the neckline of her pretty new dress, invaded her stays, scooping out her breast. Panting, he lowered his mouth to the burning tip.

He kissed her mouth and her neck and her breasts with the same frantic desire, his only way. He kissed so fiercely, traced her so thoroughly, Ryan stopped trying to keep up and simply fell slack in his arms. Oh, she tried to touch him. She had a vague notion of her fingers skating drunkenly to the neck of his shirt, searching downward, fumbling for warm skin. She liked touching him—she wanted to touch him—but oh, how she also loved surrendering to him and being kissed within an inch of her consciousness. She was invigorated—a taut, thrumming whip of sensation—but also limp with pleasure, all at once. She was malleable and fluid and responsive. She forgot about the meeting with the Creweses, and the servants in the kitchen, and the dim passage. She forgot everything but him.

After some time—what did time matter when it would never be enough?—after her mind had left her, after strumming, burning pleasure had become her sole existence, a pungent smell invaded her consciousness. An odor. It was heat, and leather, and—

Burning leather.

“Gabriel, the candle,” she rasped, dropping her head back.

“What?”

“The candle,” she panted, “I dropped it. Do you see it? Is it—”

Gabriel swore and slid to the right. “Bloody hell. It’s singed a notch in the heel of my boot.”

“But can you get it? We’ll need it. We’ll need...”

Gabriel swore again and bent sideways. He held Ryan around the waist with one hand and stooped for the candle with the other. When the candle was once again in hand, he rested his head against the wall, panting. He opened and closed his eyes. The candle sputtered and jumped but did not go out. Wax dripped to the floor.

For a long moment, they did not speak. They breathed in the stale air of the stairwell and the now familiar scent of each other. They dabbed lips and patted hair and allowed desire to, reluctantly, drain from their bodies. Ryan wiggled and Gabriel lowered his knee and slid her to the step.

“Can you manage?” he rasped. “How is the wound on your leg? Oh, God I’ve not upset it, have I?”

She clung to the wall, trying to put some distance between them. She forced her legs to work.

“I feel no pain, I assure you,” she said. “But the Creweses are waiting. We’re being rude. We should press on.”

“Yes,” he panted, not lifting his head from the wall.

“We’re almost to the door, actually.” She took the candle from his hand. She held it out and the flame shook.

“It complicates our situation when I touch you, Ryan,” he said. “Certainly, if we were to marry, it would be... We couldn’t...”

“Yes, well, this cannot fall to me,” she said, taking up her skirts. “I am many things but ‘complicated’ is not one of them, so please don’t ascribe it. Also, don’t pin me with the burden of ‘not touching.’ Marriage or no. It’s not fair.”

“It’s unsporting, I know—”

“Unsporting? Gabriel, it’s misplaced. I don’t want to be the gatekeeper of whether we touch or don’t touch. On top of everything else. And anyway, you kissed me.”

“You whispered my name.”

“I called you by name. Lock me up and toss out the key.”

He snorted. “I know it’s misplaced. But please. I’m begging you. Will you keep away?”

Absolutely not, she thought, but she said, “I will carry on as I always have.”

One step at a time, she ascended the stairwell. Her body was gangly and uncoordinated; she jangled from their embrace. Was she being obtuse or uncooperative? Possibly. What did she know of kisses and men and complications? No man had ever been so overcome by her mere presence. Before Gabriel, no man had so much as walked her home from church. She was patently ignored by men. So how, in God’s name, was she to blame if Gabriel seemed stricken by her? Improbably. Miraculously. She was plain and functional, not alluring or diverting. This was not her fault. Keeping away from him would be his problem, not hers.

Ryan’s problem—because she did have one—was heartbreak. This would be the only result of their carryings on. Her vast inexperience did not mean she wasn’t afraid of a broken heart. After some solution could be found for the imposter prince, they would part ways. Gabriel had been very clear about this.

And perhaps this was the “complications” he was trying so hard to avoid—heartbreak. But a broken heart, surely, would be worth moments like this.

Almost anything, Ryan thought, straightening her bodice, taking a shaky step, would be worth moments like this. Gabriel was worth the heartbreak.