The Prince's Bride

Chapter Twenty-One

After six days, Gabriel began to take meals with the family. Not only did he have to eat, he’d discovered a latent but robust appetite for fine cuisine prepared by a talented chef. Some things, perhaps, were not better in the forest—foie gras, just to name one of them. Properly baked bread, for another. Beef Wellington, glazed potatoes, poached eggs with fried herbs, the list seemed endless.

On the first night in the dining room, he’d worried that Lady Ryan would somehow feel responsible for him. He could survive scraping his knife against the porcelain or drinking from the wrong goblet, but he would not allow himself to rely on her to smooth over gaffes.

He didn’t want to catch her eye across the table, reassuring him; nor see her gesturing to a footman to bring him clean linen. This had been their dynamic on that first day at Mayapple. He’d burst onto the stoop and she’d managed the intrusion by requesting the outdoor tea and making pleasant chatter.

In the end, he’d worried for nothing. His first meal in Mayapple had come and gone without incident, and Lady Ryan had scarcely regarded him. She’d been seated next to his sister’s old friend Marie, the nun who’d delivered Elise from France when she exiled. Marie was fierce and resourceful and was working to locate a priest who would agree to marry them within the fortnight. She was also the namesake of his eldest niece. Ryan and Sister Marie had been immersed in their own conversation while Gabriel was engaged with Killian’s nephew, Bartholomew. The youth was eager and curious and almost completely without guile, and he’d launched himself at Gabriel with a litany of questions—French philosophy; Roman artifacts in the forest; the best spurs—and the meal had been a blur of delicious food and stimulating conversation.

On the whole, Gabriel’s time at Mayapple was nothing like he’d expected. He was very raw and primitive—it was impossible to deny—but no one seemed to care, least of all Gabriel himself. When a dinner party was planned for a classmate of Bartholomew’s and the classmate’s family, no one cared that Gabriel elected not to attend.

He’d not yet reckoned with his sister; but not for fear of disappointing her. His regard for Elise was fueled by a deep mine of emotion that he wanted—at the moment—to keep tightly sealed. It felt reckless and unnecessary to open it, and he would not rush it.

Finally, everyone regarded the in-name-only marriage to Ryan as an excellent plan, and they all agreed to go along with it. No one seemed to blame them for getting married only to live apart. They spent their days rehearsing the testimony they would give the solicitor and crafting the story of their courtship so all of it sounded legitimate. Reckoning with Maurice was a constant source of speculation and debate, but they did not expect Gabriel to do more than what he’d agreed to do. No one felt he owed Ryan a life debt.

He quickly found that family meals were the easiest time to engage with her because there was no temptation to also touch her. Given half the chance—given a secluded library or an empty passage—he would find a way to put his hands on her, and then his mouth, and he existed in a suspended sort of agony for what he really wanted to do to her.

In fact, the more she avoided his gaze, and ignored him at dinner, and occupied herself elsewhere around the estate, the more he wanted her—which was remarkable, considering his preexisting level of want. Gabriel went about his day with an underlying current of desire that roiled and bubbled like a fever. He was never not aware of her. He knew the rhythm of her footfalls, the sound of her laughter, the smell of her. He knew her favorite phrases, her Channel Islands accent, the way she tapped her knuckles against her lips when she thought. He knew that, given the choice between the shade or the sun, she drifted toward the sun. He wanted all of her, all the time.

The tears she’d shed in the library haunted him still, but he knew there were many painful levels of unfairness to holding her and kissing her only to send her away in the end. The pain of playing both sides was no mystery. Hell, the duality of it made him want to cry, too.

The only solution he saw was to keep away. He did not range far from the stables; instead, he watched her from afar. He allowed her to write the story of their faux courtship, and their first meeting, and the reason he would not return to Guernsey with her. When they strategized about convincing the solicitor of their marriage, he made certain at least three others were present. On the rare occasions he encountered Ryan alone, he fled. It was cowardly and rude but better than the alternative. If they did not interact, he would not upset her. If he wasn’t alone with her, he would not touch her.

By far, his favorite part of visiting Mayapple had been the burgeoning relationship he had with his nieces. If the reunion with Elise was gradual, and his avoidance of Ryan was a daily test, his interactions with Marie and Sofie and Baby Noelle came very easily and were a genuine delight. He’d developed a love and affection for the girls so suddenly and unexpectedly; and it brought him such joy, he allowed himself to embrace it without caution. They laughed, they said clever things, they adored him, and he simply basked in it. It didn’t hurt that the two older girls were largely untended by their so-called nanny. Gabriel had only ever glimpsed the woman on one occasion, when she was being chased from the garden by a bee. As a result, the girls flitted in and out of the stables at will. They were omnipresent and he loved it.

A week after Gabriel had made Ryan cry in the library, the girls sought him out to play a game of hide-and-seek. As with all of their games, this one involved less playing and more arbitrary rule following. His eldest niece, Marie, managed playtime like a general at battle, telling everyone where to stand (or in this case, where to hide), and what to say, or how they should best enjoy themselves. As it turned out, hide-and-seek was always played in pairs (for safety’s sake), out of doors (so as to not disrupt Nanny), and with no fully closed hatches or doors (because of that time Sofie had been locked in the hayloft).

Today, Marie was partnered with her cousin Bartholomew. Gabriel’s partner was not named until the moment he was instructed to crawl beneath a wagon and hide beside her.

“And now you will hide here, Uncle Gabriel,” lectured Marie, pulling open the door to the carriage house and pointing to the hay beneath a parked wagon. “Take care that your boots do not poke out the end of the wagon because Sofie will see them immediately.”

“And what of me finding my own hiding place, Marie?” Gabriel inquired.

“Oh no, Uncle Gabriel, I must know where everyone is, in case you are never found. Remember the hayloft.”

“And who is my partner?” Gabriel asked, dropping to his knees, grabbing the slats of the wagon, and swinging dutifully underneath.

“Lady Ryan, of course,” exclaimed Marie, bending over to supervise Gabriel’s position beneath the carriage.

“Wait ...” Gabriel rasped—but it was too late. Ryan rolled from the shadows and blinked at him. She was lying on her side beneath the wagon, head propped on her fist.

Gabriel startled, nearly bumping his head. Ryan cocked a brow, idly picking straw from her hair. Gabriel’s heart began to thud. He tried to reverse, but—

“No, no, no, Uncle Gabriel,” scolded Marie, swatting the sole of his boot with a stick. “You must keep hidden. Sofie has already begun to count and she can only count to ten.”

“Best just to submit, mate,” suggested Bartholomew sagely from beside the wagon.

“Now we shall hide beneath the steps to the house!” proclaimed Marie. Her stick landed on the ground with a tap and tiny shoes retreated. The carriage door creaked and the daylight dimmed to a narrow crack. Marie and Bartholomew were gone and Gabriel was alone beneath a parked wagon with his soon-to-be wife.

“Hello,” Ryan said to him.

Gabriel frowned at her. His nieces were sunny little balms for the soul, but they were bossy. He needn’t—

“I find,” said Ryan, “that if you comply for the first five minutes, she’ll soon be distracted by the next flight of fancy and you may go about your business.”

He removed his hat and dropped it in the hay.

“Or perhaps you cannot abide the underside of the wagon for five minutes,” she said. “With me.”

“Did you tell her we should hide together?” he asked.

Ryan laughed. “Ah, no. If you believe Miss Marie Loretta Gloria Crewes is open to suggestions, you are not well acquainted with the child, clearly.”

Gabriel considered this. He felt a piece of iron dig into his shoulder, and he reached into the hay and found a wheel bolt. He tossed it aside.

“Also,” she continued, “I’ve made a point not to stalk you about the property. In case you haven’t noticed. Your avoidance of me is very clear. Far be it for me to infringe.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he said. “I’m avoiding being alone with you.”

She’d been looking at him, but now rolled onto her back and stared at the underside of the wagon.

Gabriel swore and lowered himself beside her in the hay.

“Perhaps we needn’t wait five minutes,” she said. “Go now if you prefer.”

Gabriel thought about this. “Is that what you want?”

“What I want,” she said softly, “is to save myself from another encounter where I feel unwanted.”

“Ha,” he guffawed bitterly; the sound was out before he could stop it. “Unwanted. You feel unwanted. Oh the irony.”

“What does that mean?”

It means that I’ve never wanted anyone or anything like I want you.The sentence took shape in his brain—the absolute truth—but he bit down, refusing to allow the words to leave his mouth. Declaring this—declaring himself—served no purpose but to hasten heartbreak.

Even so, he couldn’t not respond. She was unhappy, and the very last thing he wanted to do was to make her unhappy. The point of keeping away was to leave her no worse than when he’d first encountered her.

He would answer her question with his own question. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think...” she sighed “...that you have been alone for many years, that you are—if you’ll excuse my dramatic phrasing—‘starved for a woman’s touch.’ I think you are, in a way, primed to seize upon any woman who happens along. I’ve been that woman, both conveniently available and enthusiastically willing. Also, we have this odd history between us. So. Do you want me, in particular; or would any woman do? Unclear, really, but I’ve learned not to hold my breath.

“Furthermore,” she continued, “I think you’re plunged into guilt by our encounters, and so you vow to yourself that you’ll not indulge again, that you deserve better than passages and libraries—better than me, when it comes right down to it—and you won’t allow yourself to succumb. That’s what I think.”

“I’m no virgin,” he said.

“Noted,” she replied.

A stalk of hay stuck from her hair and he wanted to pluck it away. The muted blue of her eyes was almost gray in this light, the color of a stone on the bottom of a stream. He’d known her as an adult for such a short time, he was still learning her face. Also, it was the most familiar face in the world.

“The one thing you gleaned from all I just said,” she asked, “is that I need reminding that you’re no virgin? When I said ‘starved for a woman’s touch,’ I did not mean starved to the point of death. Just to be clear.”

“I never claimed to be gracious or well-versed in the art of conversation.”

“I know, Gabriel,” she said tiredly, “your manners are not courtly—I know. Forgive me, I simply—”

“Allow me to tell you something about life in seclusion.”

She sighed, the sound of someone bracing to be lectured on an obvious topic.

Gabriel pressed on. “I am deeply, painstakingly discerning about when I leave seclusion, and why, and with whom. Certainly almost no one enters my sanctuary.”

“I remember,” she said.

“Not,” he corrected, “the physical sanctuary.”

“Oh? I seem to recall being asked to shield my eyes when I was hauled into your camp.”

“Fine,” he ground out, “I’m also particular about the physical sanctuary. My point is, I also guard the sanctuary of my soul. But I allowed you in. I’m preparing to marry you, Ryan.”

“Well, you’re preparing to pretend to marry me. Let us not award anyone with medals for emotional courage just yet.”

“I’ve revealed things to you. I’ve bared my soul.”

“Right. And still, you resist our attraction because—”

“I cannot resist you,” he bit out. “Don’t you see? This is the point I’m trying to make.”

“Alright—fine. Why? Why ‘bare your soul,’ engender this great intimacy between us, and then work tirelessly to keep away from me? Why avoid me and glower at me as if I’m a seductress, trying to lure you into wicked temptation beneath wagons? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve already said I’ve no wish to feel unwanted again.”

Of its own accord, Gabriel’s hand reached out. He dropped it onto her hip, fastened hold, and tugged. He rolled her to face him like he was spinning a log in the water. Ryan let out a small sound of distress, but she allowed it, turning until they faced each other. Their eyes met. Her expression was sad and cautious and something else. Wary? Reticent? She looked like she had grim news that she hoped someone else would deliver. But they were alone, and she must be the one to say it.

Outside the carriage house, rain began to fall. The drops fell suddenly and evenly, like someone tipped a watering can in the sky. Marie and Sofie could be heard shrieking and fleeing for the house.

“I’ve never thought of you as a temptress,” he said.

“Obviously.”

“Forgive my lack of eloquence,” he ground out. “Everything I do is to protect you, Ryan—not heap on more offenses. You know that I will return to the forest and you will return to the English Channel and it will be easier if we’ve not...”

He stared at her mouth. He edged sideways, crowding her in. His knees bumped her shins. His boots tangled in her skirts. He was close enough to feel her breath on his cheek.

“Easier for who?” she asked softly. “Not for me. If I’m being honest. Gabriel, if the notion of ‘sanctuary’ means that you may never indulge in mutual desire, then I feel sorry for you. More sorrow than I’ve felt for your boyhood, and that is saying quite a lot, because we can all agree you’ve had a wretched go. Why survive all of that, reach adulthood, control your own destiny—only to choose... scarcity? Scarcity of affection, even for a fortnight. Even with me.”

“You’re not ‘a mutual desire I want very much,’ Ryan,” he said. Of its own accord, his hand slid from her hip to the curve of her bottom. He palmed it and scooted her against him. “You will soon be my wife. We have a history together. And there are consequences to touching a woman we both agreed would live hundreds of miles away. It’s reckless and cavalier and cruel of me. It’s not the behavior of a prince, or a gentleman, or any man of honor and decency. Even I know this. You’re not just some woman, Ryan.”

“Ah, yes, back to the great many women who’ve made your virginity a faint memory, I see.”

That did it.

He kissed her.

He lowered his mouth, silencing every forthcoming challenge or accusation or joke. He’d tried to explain and he’d failed. She was the most clever, most beautiful woman he’d ever encountered, and she could win any debate. Her body had an allure that drew him like the earth drew the tides. She was soft and responsive and smooth. She was also reasonable, and patient, and calm, and level. He wanted to devour all of it. He wanted to absorb every trait, every nuance, every compassionate leaning and glimmer of grace—including the multitude of subtle, unnamed qualities that followed her around like a cool, serene mist, so many that he couldn’t count. He wanted them all.

But of course she was not consumable or absorbable, and there was probably something broken inside him that caused his desire to be so very all-encompassing. But he wouldn’t think of his brokenness now. When he kissed her, he did not feel broken, he felt whole.

He used his right hand to scoop her bottom, pressing her into his hardness; with this left, he cupped her face. Canting her chin, he deepened the kiss. He kissed her like a man who’d come upon a beautiful woman under a wagon; playful and erotic. When their side-by-side positions became insufficient, he hiked a knee over her and rolled them, pressing her into the hay.

“Are you...” he panted, sliding on top of her “...are you—? How did you describe yourself? ‘Enthusiastic and willing?’ Still?”

Her hands were at the collar of his shirt, unfastening buttons. His boots were tangled in her skirts, his knees digging into the straw. She kicked a little, spreading her legs until he rested between her thighs.

“Ryan?” he prompted, kissing her hard.

She took the sides of his collar in two hands and yanked, popping buttons into the straw. When his throat was exposed, she nuzzled and smelled and tasted his skin.

“Ryan?” he rasped, rapidly losing the ability to ask permission. “Have you heard what I’ve said?”

“I’ve a problem,” she admitted. “I don’t listen to what you say so much as interpret the things that you do.”

“Oh God no—don’t do that.” He buried his face in her hair. He found her ear and traced it with his lips. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

The thing about almost making love to his not-really fiancée was it only felt like a mistake before he’d touched her and after they’d been together. During? During felt like the most natural, most correct thing he’d ever done. Previous women had felt totally necessary before and wholly forgettable afterward. In the middle, the encounters were anonymous and lonely. Holding Ryan was as different from other sexual encounters as a bed was from the ground. Ryan was soft and familiar and unforgettable.

“Will you remove your shirt?” she breathed. “That night in your bedchamber, you wore all of your clothes. I wasn’t able to touch your skin. I want to feel you.”

“You’re killing me, Ryan,” he said. But tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it into the hay.

She gazed up and made a little gasping noise. “Just look at you,” she marveled. “You’re perfectly formed.” She walked her fingers over the muscles of his chest, feeling her way from his waist to his collarbone like a sculptor, putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece. Every point of contact was a worshipful caress.

He’d thought he couldn’t get any harder, but he was wrong. He’d thought holding her and kissing her had been the most intense pleasure on earth, but he was wrong. There was more.

It was impossible not to answer the scintillating pleasure of her touch and he collapsed on top of her, recapturing her mouth in a desperate kiss.

“Do you think the girls will return?” she breathed against his jaw.

“It’s still raining,” he huffed. “And I don’t regret it. I hope it rains for hours. Are you alright?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed, “I am alright.” He kissed her ear again and came up on his elbows. He eyed the bodice of her gown, wondering how he might free her breasts without taking the time to unfasten it or (what he really wanted) destroy the neckline.

“But Gabriel...” she said, massaging her hands over his shoulder “...the girls? Their nanny will keep them inside while it’s raining—she wears a corrective shoe that must be kept dry—but if the rain stops...”

“I’ll close the carriage-house door. I’ll lock it,” he breathed. Was it still raining? He didn’t know. The world was on fire and he didn’t care. He wanted the world to burn. He slid a hand beneath her neckline to fan across her nipple.

Ryan let out a moan and closed her eyes. He pumped his hips against her and the moan turned into a breathless cry.

“If we made some arrangement to meet,” Ryan said, eyes closed, body arched, “after everyone has gone to bed perhaps, we could do whatever we wished. With no interruptions. We could have all night.”

“And not in a bed of hay,” he added, “not beneath the wagon.”

Ryan’s eyes flew open. “Yes,” she said. She propped up on her elbows. “That’s right. In a proper bed. Like in your camp.”

Gabriel slid his gaze away. He’d not meant to agree to her suggestion. The words had just come out.

Of course she deserved a proper bed. She deserved privacy. He’d only agreed to the theory of these, not to a plan to make them happen. It was dangerous and reckless to arrange an actual rendezvous. Kissing was one thing, touching, his shirt off, her bodice disrupted; but to risk her virginity? As much as he hated to think of it, she might wish to share her life with another man in Guernsey. Perhaps they could later annul their marriage and she could marry again in earnest. He would not take this bit of it from her. He couldn’t.

“Gabriel?” she prompted. He’d cradled her head in his hands and massaged his thumbs down her jaw. Slowly, he rocked back and forth against her, bumping his hardness into the apex of her thighs. Their clothes were a barrier, but not much. The erotic sensation was blinding.

“Don’t tell me,” she whispered, “we’re back to noble resistance again? Avoiding complication?”

“You’re mad if you think I’m bedding you and then sending you back to Guernsey.” He kissed her. “Mad. I am a recluse and a rustic, not a blaggard.”

Ryan broke away and turned her head to the side. “I’m leaving Gabriel.”

“Leaving... the underside of this wagon?” Gabriel’s heart stopped.

“Leaving Mayapple,” she corrected. “Not today, but sooner than we thought. The solicitor is arriving from London next week.”

“What?”

“Killian had a letter at breakfast,” she said. “The post had been delayed and several days’ worth of letters came at once. Including a note from Mr. Soames. He is expected to arrive Monday or Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.”

Gabriel frowned. The fire beneath his skin extinguished. He went cold all over.

“Killian didn’t mention it to me,” he said.

“Have you seen him since breakfast?”

“No.”

“Well, when you do, he’ll tell you. You can read the letter. It’s happening. Next week, Mr. Soames will come and our time together will be over.”

“Unless the man is detained,” Gabriel offered, an unhelpful comment if ever there was one.

“I would not depend upon it,” she said. “We must have Sister Marie bring the priest and perform the wedding right away—in the next day or so. Next week, we’ll meet Mr. Soames as husband and wife and convince him of our great love story. When that’s done, I’ll have everything I need to return to Winscombe. And then I will return.”

“Is it precipitous,” he asked, “to believe a single meeting with this man will give us ‘everything you need’? Should we not first speak to the man? He may interview us for days. He may require case files or clerks brought from London. We’ll want him to—”

“He may do any number of things,” she cut in quietly, “but he’ll not require me for these. My story is unorthodox, but it can be explained in an hour or less. We’ll have a marriage license; it will take very little to convince him of the fake story of our relationship. We can easily demonstrate affection. I needn’t linger after next week. And in fact I can’t justify lingering—no matter how much I’ve enjoyed my time here.”

“You’re so anxious to get back?” The question was out before Gabriel could stop it.

She chuckled and reached up. Gently, she flattened her palm on his chest above his heartbeat. She spread her fingers. A star-shaped imprint radiated from her handprint, burning away the chill. “My responsibilities have been abandoned for far too long. Diana and Charlotte cannot manage everything alone. And I miss them. I can’t stay here forever. Neither can you. I know you miss your camp and your animals. You have commitments to clients.

“I do not mean to manipulate you with this news, Gabriel,” she continued. “Truly. I’ve no misguided notions that you’ll volunteer suddenly to commit to anything more than we’ve already— Well, to anything more. I know I’ll never see you, ever again.”

“I believe it’s too early to say Mr. Soames won’t interview you for days—for a week or more. If we knew what the solicitor required, we would not need to hire the man.”

She shrugged and teased a hand through his hair. “I disagree, but we’ll find out when he comes, won’t we?”

Gabriel dropped his face to her shoulder, pressing his lips to the bare skin beside her sleeve. “When were you going to tell me?”

“When I saw you? After I played hide-and-seek with the girls? How can I tell you if I cannot find you? You can be difficult to locate, Gabriel.”

“I’m sorry,” he said—and it was true. He felt sorrow so very deep, all the way to his bones, to the soft center of his heart. She couldn’t leave him yet. How could he let her go?

“I found you once, but I grow weary of seeking you out. Really I do. With the solicitor in place, I’ll have what I came for. If, also, I found what I did not come for, I will leave that behind. That has been our arrangement from the start, hasn’t it?”

He slid his arms beneath her and bundled her against him. He buried his head in her hair and squeezed with all of his might.

I’ve fallen in love with you, he thought, tears stinging his eyes.

“We have no arrangement,” is what he whispered into her ear.