The Prince's Bride

Chapter Twenty

“Has it been difficult,” Ryan asked Gabriel later that week, “being away from the forest, engaging in manor house life?”

They were hunched over a stack of parchment, making notes about the fake story of their fake courtship they would tell the solicitor.

“It has not been difficult,” he said.

“Not at all?” she wondered.

“Mayapple is pleasant,” he clipped. “It’s not as if I cannot navigate proper doorways or stair rails or Persian rugs. Until five years ago, I made trips to villages on market days. I met clients. I called to shops and forges and granaries. I don’t live in the forest because I’m...” he exhaled “feral; I simply prefer the out-of-doors. My sister and Killian have made a happy life here.” It was mostly true. He was, perhaps a little feral. Less than he’d once thought, but even so. He was sleeping in the stables.

“I suppose it’s more unsettling that we are seeing the betrothal through.”

“Well it’s not a lasting transition, is it?” he said. “It solved a large problem without inviting sweeping changes in either of our lives.”

He said this because he didn’t know what else to say. He could hardly tell her that her dress, which was the color of whipped butter, set off the dark shine of her hair. He could hardly tell her that he’d wondered, all morning, what color she would wear, and that when she’d walked into the library, he’d thought she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. He could hardly tell her she smelled sweet and natural, like salt air with the slightest hint of a wildflower.

He knew only that the fewer compliments he paid, the less real their impending marriage would feel. Compliments were the result of paying attention. And it was imprudent, surely, for him to pay too much attention.

It was also imprudent to be left alone together in the library—or share one pen and a single sheet of parchment. Because honestly? The challenge of both Mayapple and their marriage was not feeling hemmed in, the challenge was her. He found himself categorically unable to notwant her. He felt like a boulder rolling down a hill: hard, unstoppable, and wild. Being alone with her only made it worse—and it was uncanny, really, howoften they found themselves alone. As hosts, Killian and Elise were gracious and warm; as chaperones, they were shite.

“Have you spoken to your sister?” she asked.

“My sister? Yes. She was just here five minutes ago.” Gabriel frowned at the closed door. “Where she’s gone, I cannot tell you.”

“I didn’t mean, have you uttered words. I mean, have the two of you had a proper reunion, have you spoken about your years in exile, or your flight from France, or finding your younger sister?”

“No.”

She studied his profile. “Oh.”

Gabriel wouldn’t look at her. Not for the first time, he wondered why list making was a two-person job. She was creative and presumably, as a citizen of the larger world, knew far more about what constituted a believable courtship than him. Meanwhile, he could barely focus on the page. He found himself transfixed by the delicate bend of her wrist. The small bone, the tendons, the little freckle. Lady Ryan was an island girl, and her skin was tanner than that of a well-shaded London lady. He liked the freckles on her nose.

“Well,” Ryan was saying, “you needn’t sit knee-to-knee across from Elise and struggle through a formal conversation. You could walk with her or ride with her. Now that you’ve come to Mayapple, you can return whenever you like—you can pass Christmas with her family. You needn’t stay away, after I’m gone. There is time to rebuild your relationship with Elise.”

“I know almost nothing of ‘relationships,’” he said. “And even less of rebuilding them.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. She looked back to the parchment. This was her way, he’d learned. Unless she urgently required an answer, she did not press. She made inquiries and allowed them to hover, no expectations, like a moth in the air. Eventually Gabriel was compelled to swipe at it.

“We could say that I knew you when you attended the boys’ school,” Ryan said, pointing to their notes. “Perhaps I summered in Marlborough with a relative, and I sought you out because of our letters. We could say our correspondence continued from that point. We could tell Mr. Soames that we’ve been writing ever since.”

“I regret,” Gabriel blurted, “that I did not come to Mayapple sooner. It has been wrong of me to not seek out my sister.”

Ryan paused. She turned to him. “I think your regret is misplaced. The reasons you did not leave the forest are valid. Savernake Forest was a necessary sanctuary and we all understand this. Certainly, I understand it.”

“Really?” he said, rising from the desk, “well, that makes one of us. No—that’s a lie, of course I understand. I may regret it, but I understand it. I felt safe there... and I wanted to learn horses... and other options did not immediately present themselves to an eleven-year-old prince on the run for his life.” He exhaled.

Beside him, Ryan waited patiently, brushing the feather quill against her chin.

“Savernake Forest is a great source of fear to most people, did you know it? They’re afraid of spirits and highwaymen and faeries and God knows what else.”

“It is a dangerous place,” she agreed, “at least in my experience.”

“I’ve no fears in the forest. It is a haven. This is what Samuel Rein believed, and he passed the belief on to me. Before this belief, I was gripped by fear all the time—I was seized by it. Sometimes it felt overwhelming and incapacitating; other times, it was a tiny, painful pinch at my shoulder—but it was always there. Samuel and his forest delivered me from that. He never said, ‘Your fear is not legitimate,’ or ‘You should conquer the fear.’ It was simply, ‘You’ll be safe here.’”

“It’s a powerful message, indeed,” she said.

He shook his head and turned his back to the desk, propping his hips on the edge. Ryan stood beside him, facing the paperwork. His bicep touched her shoulder, and he felt a tingling at the point of contact. The smell of her enveloped him. He was touching her, and smelling her, and revealing life truths to her. How could he also resist her?

“In my experience,” she ventured softly, “beloved parents—or surrogates, in your case—shape us in profound ways, and their views can become nearly impossible to dislodge. The world may present an alternate view, but, so what? We know only what we’ve been taught. Take for example my mother. She was the parent who shaped me. For better or for worse.” An exhale.

Gabriel braced, uncertain if he could hear about Ryan’s mother, and her shape, and her worldview. He worried he’d learned all he could about Ryan Daventry without becoming irreversibly attached. He liked every single thing that he’d discovered. Whatever she had to say about her girlhood would be, undoubtably, just as endearing. Of course he would hear it, because he was incapable of not listening. He hung on her every word.

“My mother was a remarkable woman,” she began. “Clever, and confident, and proficient in so many things, but also compassionate and cheerful—an encourager. She was perhaps better suited for a grander life than our remote estate in Guernsey. Her choices were limited, obviously. As a woman, she could hardly run for parliament—although I’ve no doubt she would’ve been excellent in the Lords. For a variety of reasons, she married my father; and by the time I came along, she was running our estate. My father was a true gentleman of leisure; she was called countess but she might as well have been the earl. I lost her when I was fourteen years old. For better or worse, the running of the household fell to me. I was young, but she’d taught me well and honestly there was no one else to do it. As I broached each new challenge, I always thought, ‘What would Mama have done?’ Her memory has informed my every decision. In hindsight, I’m not sure this has been the correct guiding force.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we allowed my father’s health to deteriorate without seeking better doctors, or second opinions, or forcing him to be mindful of how much he ate or drank. It would’ve meant coercing him, and Mama had always indulged him. She never commanded, she only suggested, and I did the same. Now he’s so infirm, he cannot leave his bed.

“Also, my debutante year came and went, Diana’s, too, and I did nothing about a Season in London, despite our aunt imploring us to take advantage of her sponsorship. I did this because my mother put little stock in the social whirl of London. The result is, Diana and I are unmarried and we have no reasonable guardian to stand in the way of your cousin. My mother was so very fearless, so capable. It’s all I know. But I am not her, am I? And I’ve not been able to manage it as she would have done. I’m not as bold; not as direct. This makes me vulnerable in a way she was not.” She chuckled sadly. “My experience is almost the opposite of yours, isn’t it? Your guardian would have you so very protected; and my mother would have me take on the world—and perhaps neither was exactly right. And that says nothing of whatever values and priorities you learned from your early childhood, living in a palace, being influenced by royalty.”

Gabriel made a scoffing noise. “They were not so much guides as aspirational figureheads. We were raised primarily by nannies and nursemaids and tutors. I only saw my parents when their late nights overlapped with my early mornings. Or at state affairs with extended family. I felt as if I belonged to them, but they were hardly invested in the raising of me. My parents did not know me—obviously, because they arranged for me to marry you.”

The feather quill in her hand, previously flickering back and forth, stopped when he said this. Ryan sucked in an almost imperceptible little gasp. In his peripheral vision, he saw her head drop. Carefully, silently, she settled the pen into the inkwell.

“Ryan?” he asked.

She looked up and her eyes were bright. She was crying.

Panic, sharp and frigid, stabbed his chest. Something inside Gabriel collapsed, like a giant oak felled by a storm.

He looked closer, trying to remember what he’d just said.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

Ryan was being foolish. She knew it. And she must stop—she knew this, too. There had been no promises or declarations.

My parents did not know me,he’d said. Because they arranged for me to marry you...

The offhanded comment hit her so very squarely and painfully in the heart, it took her breath away. Her eyes flooded with tears.

Any sane person would agree that childhood betrothals were relics of the past. They were self-serving to families and confusing to children and strange to everyone. The chances for a future happy marriage were next to none.

And yet.

And yet she’d come to believe that the two of them were somehow well served by the betrothal. Their childhood meetings had been happy and agreeable. Their letters had become keepsakes for both of them. And now, when she’d appealed to him for help, he’d tried to help her. He was trying to help her.

But help was not affirmation of the betrothal. And an affirmation did not mean he loved her.

Even so, must he say he resented it? Must he say he resented his parents for uniting them? Must he say it to her? Oh, God, how had she allowed herself to become so attached? To hope?

He did not mean it as a personal affront, she told herself. And she wasn’t crying because of him. She was crying because she’d been overlooked for years—totally unnoticed by men—and now he’d piled on his indifference and she was universally rejected. His resentment was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

When he said the betrothal was unacceptable, it was the same as saying she was unacceptable. As ever. Again. Always.

And that’s why she was crying.

“My ramblings have offended you,” he was saying, “and why am I not surprised? This is why I’m loathe to... to expound. My wretched life story should be discouraged at all costs, not goaded and prodded until I—”

He stopped. He looked over, and she could feel him studying her. They were shoulder to shoulder, leaning over the desk. She ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Please, please don’t cry,” he whispered. “Oh God—Ryan. The very last thing I want to do is cause you distress.”

She shook her head. And now he would be sympathetic? She would never compose herself in the face of his compassion.

“Is it all this talk of your mother?” he wondered. “But your memories are mostly happy, are they not? Forgive me, my parents were preoccupied on the best of days, strangers on the worst. It’s a revelation to me each time I learn about the proficient ones.”

“You seemed very adherent to your parents when your family visited Winscombe,” she said, trying to change the subject. “Your letters mentioned your father in glowing terms.”

“Yes, well, I’d been conditioned to sort of reflect his brilliance; it was part of my job as a prince. If you detected a glow, it was manufactured. This is what I’ve been trying to say about the poisonous legacy of royalty. If the indoctrination begins within, the control becomes second nature. I was told from the earliest age that I’d been chosen by God to be a member of this ruling family. My father had been likewise anointed—even more ‘chosen,’ as he was more closely related to the king. The result was, I should feel honor bound to revere him and imitate him. And not because of any fatherly effort on his part—simply because he was a prince. If the royal family itself does not believe it, how will the people?” He glanced at her. “Wait don’t say it—woe is me, the neglected princeling. I know this isn’t the reason you’re crying.”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I suppose the people of France stopped believing in your divine right. In the end.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said. “But before the riots forced us to exile, I was a prince in every way. You saw this in my letters, I’m sure. I believed that I was so very fortunate to be one of the Chosen Ones. That’s the whole song and dance, don’t you see. You’re so very happy to be included, you don’t realize the control exerted over your own life.”

“Such as the time or attention your parents might give you...”

“Such as whether your parents notice you at all; where you live; what you learn from tutors; later, what you study at university. For a male, military service is mandatory, whether you wish it or not. You must align yourself with people who annoy you; and feign affection for people you despise. You cannot go to a pub, or browse in a shop, or walk down the street. You have every luxury but no freedom. Control of your life is ceded to the Crown.”

“Including control over who you marry,” she said, speaking on a sigh.

“Especially who you marry,” he enthused, looking at her again.

Ryan closed her eyes, blinking back another wave of ridiculous tears.

“Hold on,” he said, sliding a hand across her shoulders. He flattened his palm in the center of her back. “Is this what’s upset you? My spouting off about having the Crown choose my wife?”

“I’m not upset,” she lied. “I’m... exhausted. I came here to locate the real Prince d’Orleans and instead I’m fabricating a fake courtship.” She swiped up the parchment and waved it in the air.

“I don’t believe you,” he said lowly. He gave a little tug to her shoulders, trying to pull her to him but she didn’t move.

“You know,” he began gently, “I came to these conclusions about the royal family years later. When, after years of fear and anger, I could think of my father’s execution—which, despite his detachment as a parent, was still very traumatic. And after I’d read editorials about the Revolution, and the history of France—the history of all of Europe. Only when I could reflect on these and also had the opportunity to live as a normal man did I understand the lack of basic freedoms afforded to those ‘divinely chosen.’ That is to say, I didn’t begrudge any of it when I met you, nor when I wrote to you.”

“Yes,” she said, “when our betrothal was acceptable to you, you were still under the influence of the ‘indoctrination,’ of your family. And you were a child.”

“Make no mistake, Ryan, my resentment is with the control exerted by my parents, not the girl they chose for me.”

Ryan failed to suppress a bitter laugh. Faint praise, indeed.

Gabriel swore and shoved from the desk. He moved behind her and tugged gently at her shoulders until she pivoted. Now she faced him but she didn’t look up. Gabriel bent at the waist, like he was looking through the slats of a fence, trying to meet her eyes.

“I’ve offended you by suggesting that I did not want the betrothal,” he said.

“I am not offended,” she corrected. “And not wanting the betrothal makes perfect sense. Who wants their marriage decided in infancy? No one would choose this if they didn’t have to. As I said, I’m—”

He cut her off by grabbing her around the waist, lifting her, and plopping her down on the desktop.

Ryan yelped and threw out her hands. “Gabriel,” she gasped.

“I value control over my own life above all,” he said, looking her in the eye, “but that doesn’t mean I resent being pledged to you, Lady Ryan Daventry. Not ever. I enjoyed you from our very first meeting, I lived to receive your letters—obviously, they were the only thing I took when I fled France—and I have relished reuniting with you as a grown woman. My opposition to being a prince and my fondness for you are two entirely separate things.”

“Stop,” she rasped. The tears came rushing back. She hadn’t meant to make him declare all of this—truths, lies, excuses, whatever it was. She’d wanted it too much, and he’d said it too perfectly. She didn’t dare to believe.

“Stop crying, please,” he cajoled, nudging closer, bumping into her knees. He’d loosened his hands on her waist but hadn’t let her go.

She nodded, but the tears continued to come.

“Ryan?” he called softly. “Ryan? If you don’t stop crying, I’ll kiss you.”

She let out a tearful snort.

“Don’t test me,” he threatened. “I’m capable of many things, feats of strength and skill, but managing a crying woman is not one of—”

She kissed him. Not only did it end the conversation, it was what she’d wanted to do all morning.

Gabriel froze when she did it, eyes open, hands reclasping her waist. But then he gave in—he always gave in... she bloody loved it when he gave in—and kissed her back.

And why shouldn’t she kiss him? It was preferable to weeping when he claimed resentment and weeping again when he claimed fondness. And really what did he expect after he’d plopped her on the table and essentially issued a dare?

Don’t think of it, she thought. Relish it while you can.

Relishingseemed to be the most effective thing to curtail the tears. He leaned over her, devouring her mouth. One hand cupped her hip, the other palmed the heavy, aching contour of her breast. Who could find dissent in this?

“Are you still crying?” he breathed, moving from her mouth to her throat. His beard scraped the skin of her neck. And wasn’t this one of her favorite sensations in all the world? His beard created a full-body thrum that made her nipples tighten and her belly clench. She dropped her head back and arched, offering herself up.

“Probably,” she moaned. “Don’t stop. I feel a veritable waterworks coming on. Please, Gabriel...” she lifted a hand and clasped the back of his neck, pressing his head into her bodice “kiss it; make it better.”

“This cannot be fair,” he panted, “but I can’t muddle through the injustice. I did make you cry, but then you... you...”

Ryan was rapidly losing the strength to hold herself up by an arm, and she wound both hands around his neck. Now she hung from him, suspended above the desk. He scooped her up and lowered her onto the blotter.

“Mind the quill,” she mumbled, hoping the ink was dry on the list beneath her back. Gabriel’s legs bumped up against her knees and she tried to widen them, but she was restricted by her skirts. She made a noise of frustration and reached down, dragging the fabric to her waist, giving her knees room to slide apart, hitching her ankles around his thighs to pull him in.

Gabriel made a groaning sound and toppled over her, bracing himself with palms on the desktop. His hard, dense weight felt heavenly; a warm solid answer to the call of her body. Every burning part of her now had something to push against. Ryan constricted her legs, cinching her ankles more tightly around his thighs, sliding herself to the edge of the desk. Gabriel responded with a thrusting motion, aligning his hardness with the fiery demand that burned between her legs.

All the while, he ravaged her throat, her neck, her décolletage. He freed her breasts from the bodice of her gown, sucking, raking her with his beard, leaving a trail of sensation. She cried out and he covered her lips with a hard kiss, trying to swallow the sound.

She kissed him back, digging one hand into his hair, clawing against his hip with the other; urging him to thrust again. He kissed her hard and rocked against her.

She was just about to ask what would happen next, after the kissing and the rocking; to ask how they might kiss more and rock without the frustrating barrier of their clothes, when voices floated through the library door.

“No, no I’ve found Nanny, Killian,” came Elise’s voice. “It was a fleck of paint from the windowsill. It flew in her face and she needs an eye wash. She’ll have recovered by luncheon, surely.”

Ryan dropped her head onto the desk with a thunk. Gabriel whipped up, staring at the door. He swore, rolled up, peeling Ryan from the desk as he went.

“Can you repair your bodice?” he whispered. “Tell them the dusty books gave you a sneezing fit.”

“A sneezing fit?” she whispered. She was dizzy and burning and not entirely able to stand.

“You’re very pink,” he said, reaching to his breeches and adjusting the fall. “I’ll examine their collection of Shakespeare.”

Before Ryan could reply, he stalked between two bookshelves, disappearing into the back of the room.

Ryan drew in two deep breaths and blinked. She looked down. Her dress was hiked to her waist. Her bodice sagged. The exposed skin of her chest was whisker-burned and blotchy.

Ryan swore and began frantically shaking skirts and straightening darts and patting down flyaway hair.

“Sorry, I’m here, I’m here,” Elise sang, rattling the door handle. “Fair warning: I’m accompanied by an infant. Again.” She pushed open the door and bustled in with little Noelle on her hip.

Ryan cleared her throat. “Are the children alright?” she called, not turning around.

“Oh yes,” said Elise. “Sorry to have vanished. Our nanny suffers from a myriad of challenges to her health. The girls roam the house with no supervision and Killian worries. But where is Gabriel?”

“He’s searching for an, er, sonnet,” said Ryan over her shoulder.

“A sonnet?”

“Yes. He has a fondness for poetry. His library in the forest is large but not so big as this.”

“Take whatever you like,” Elise called to her brother. “Killian’s nephew will not stop until he owns every book in England.”

Slowly, Ryan pivoted to face the desk. To her horror, their notetaking was bent and creased at strange angles, like a wild animal had nested on the desktop. Casually, calmly, she endeavored to smooth the crumpled parchment.

“Deuced dark in here, isn’t it?” Elise was saying. She went to the window and yanked on the drapes, letting in the daylight. “That’s better. Very good. Oh look at you, Ryan—but are you overwarm?”

“Just a touch,” Ryan said. The truth.

“We can open the window as well as the drapes. But how is the progress on your faux courtship? Not too many unchaperoned hours spent alone in his camp, I hope. Should we scandalize the solicitor? I suppose it’s better than claiming no passion at all.”

“Passion would probably...” Ryan ventured, her voice high and squeaky “...not be remiss.”

Somewhere in the back of the library, a book hit the floor with a thunk.