The Prince's Bride

Chapter Twenty-Three

“But you cannot leave so soon, Lady Ryan,” said little Marie Crewes. “You’ve married Uncle Gabriel and he must stay with the horses. Oyster will have her baby soon.”

Ryan stood over her open trunk, packing with Agnes. Although the wedding had been this morning and the Crewes’s dinner party was tonight, Mr. Soames could come at any time. He could come tomorrow. She would depart as soon as she’d met with him, no stalling to pack. Marie and Sofie Crewes sat on the foot of her bed, fingering the lace and crystals on the three dresses splayed out for her perusal. After she packed, Ryan would choose a dress to wear to dinner.

“I am loathe to leave you all,” Ryan said, smiling sadly at the little girl, “but I’ve sisters and a very sick father back at my home in Guernsey, and they need me. If your sisters and father needed you, you would go to them, wouldn’t you?”

“Well, my mother and Nanny look after my sisters and our father,” reported Marie thoughtfully.

Ryan smiled at this. She’d had a mother who looked after things once upon a time, too. In hindsight, it was reckless to put all the caregiving into the lap of one person; not only did it restrict that person, but what if she died? What then?

“What’s happened to Nanny?” Ryan asked, trying to change the subject.

“She has leaned too close to the fire and singed her eyebrows,” reported Marie.

“Ah yes. Well, there is no Nanny and no mother at Winscombe, so I must go, I’m afraid.”

“But when will you come back?” Marie asked.

“I’m not leaving tonight, so never you fear,” Ryan told the girls. “You’re selecting my dress, remember? When I do go, I’ve suggested to your parents that you might visit me. I live on an island, as I’ve said. How would you like to travel across the English Channel to a little island, to swim in the sea or stand on a cliff and watch ships come and go? We can awaken while it’s still dark and see the sun rise from the water like a creature emerging from the depths. What do you say to that?”

Ryan tried to make it sound as magical as possible, hoping to compel the Creweses to visit. She’d grown so very fond of this family; and now that the wedding had come and gone, she couldn’t envision herself returning to Mayapple. Gabriel had broken her heart with the beauty of the ceremony, with vows and the heartfelt look on his face. Wiltshire was simply too close to him. Ryan wasn’t certain she could survive her current broken heart; certainly she’d not survive having it broken again and again.

Her sole consolation was this: life as she knew it—her home, the independence, the lives of her sisters—was being restored. She’d achieved her goal in coming to mainland England. The only new piece would be her newly broken heart. It was better, she supposed, than not achieving her goal and also having a broken heart.

“But have your parents said you may meet Bartholomew’s classmate?” Ryan asked. “This dinner for him and his family is meant to be quite the affair, I believe.”

“We may not meet him,” Marie recited. “We must remain with Nanny from supper until bedtime and there are no exceptions to this rule. Even if Nanny dies.”

“Well, I should hope we aren’t called to test this rule. But never you fear, I’ll come and tell you good-night so you may see my gown. Can I rely upon you to give me your honest opinion about which dress to wear? I wouldn’t want Bartholomew’s friends to think of me as a bumpkin.”

“We will help you, Lady Ryan!” declared little Sofie. “You will not look like a pumpkin.”

Ryan was less concerned about her appearance and more concerned about keeping away from the stables. Chatting over a formal dinner with strangers was hardly how she’d wanted to pass her wedding night, but it was as good an excuse as any. She would not, could not, see Gabriel—not an accidental encounter and certainly not (God forbid) a moment of weakness where she sought him out. Gabriel had rejected her for the last time. He’d married her in a beautiful show of natural splendor, and when Elise had suggested that the family return to Mayapple and Ryan remain in the forest for the night, he had refused. He’d gotten a strange look on his face, and said he didn’t think that would be prudent. He said he would help dismantle the wedding arch and put away chairs and return to Mayapple after dark.

The answer had doused the warm and festive glow of the ceremony in colors of gray. What choice had she but to attend the dinner? With strangers? On her wedding night? When a few hours alone with her new husband was imprudent.

“Careful not to partake of anything too rich at the meal, my lady,” Agnes warned her a half hour later. The maid was helping her with the dress chosen by the Crewes girls. “Or undercooked. Or that hasn’t been properly deboned.”

“Goodness, Agnes, you’ve begun to sound like the children’s nanny.” Ryan stood beside the maid as she mended the short sleeves on her borrowed gown. The silk was thick and difficult to sew, and Ryan held out her arm like a bird with a broken wing.

“I honestly don’t care what I eat, Agnes.” Ryan sighed. “I’d bow out of the dinner altogether if I could think of anything else to do.”

Meanwhile, Gabriel could do... whatever it was he did in the stables, or in the forest, or—

What difference did it make? She would ride away from him—possibly as soon as tomorrow, depending on the solicitor—and this bizarre chapter of her life would end.

Perhaps, she thought, Gabriel had known what was best all along. Perhaps it was less complicated and easier to survive if there was no passionate wedding night or emotional final goodbyes. Her heart had already been broken, why lash it back together for one night only to have it painfully pulled apart another time?

“Your choice of the aquamarine came as a surprise, my lady,” Agnes said, whisking her hands down the fabric, brushing away lint and smoothing the line of the skirt.

Elise Crewes had given Ryan ten of her former day dresses and evening gowns—an abundance of riches that Ryan couldn’t wait to share with her sisters. Agnes had altered most of them, and she could work her magic again, adjusting them for Diana’s curves or Charlotte’s slightness.

“It was Marie and Sofie’s choice you’ll recall,” Ryan said of the dress. “I’d never choose something so bold, but it will please them, I think.”

“I believe the bright colors suit you, my lady,” Agnes said. “How pretty you look.”

“It will do,” Ryan said simply, glancing in the mirror only long enough to see a blue-green blur, then hurrying to tell the Crewes children good-night.

An hour later, Ryan stood in the drawing room of Mayapple, nodding along to introductions of dinner party guests. Bartholomew’s classmate was a chatty, bookish boy called Dennis Stanhope. His father was Sir James Stanhope of Marlborough; thankfully the family lived close enough to pack into their own carriage at the end of the night and ride for home. Ryan could barely manage a dinner party; overnight guests would be a stretch.

Sir James was accompanied by his wife, a woman Ryan suspected was already drunk when she arrived; and his aging mother, Lady Glennis. Mrs. Stanhope trembled and twinkled in feathers and gemstones and the grandmother was relegated to a dark corner and covered in wool blankets.

There were also two unexpected guests to the party: an older brother to Dennis Stanhope and that man’s friend. Both young men were also on school holiday—but not from Eton, these gentlemen were in their final year at Oxford. The addition of these two men forced a slight delay as the kitchen plated more of the first course and the seating was rearranged.

The Oxford men were introduced as Mr. Nevil Stanhope and Mr. Charles Fielding, and they exuded the sort of slick and cynical arrogance that Ryan associated with London dandies. They took in the furnishings and fittings of Mayapple’s entry hall and scrutinized Elise and Killian with thinly veiled judgment. It was appallingly rude, Ryan thought; not to mention misplaced for men so young. They were the most formally dressed of the night; upright and tight-necked in sculptural cravats, gleaming shoes, intricately woven waistcoats, and walking sticks.

As far as Ryan knew, Gabriel remained in the forest. Elise had not set a place for him. Together, Ryan and Elise had decided not to mention her marriage when she was introduced. None of them would ever meet again. It was simpler to identify her as an old family friend visiting from Guernsey and to use her former title of Lady Ryan. In truth, Ryan struggled to think of herself as Gabriel’s wife. And here was another way he’d done her the favor of guarding her heart. The wedding had almost seemed like a game of make-believe; too dreamlike to become part of her identity. She was as she’d always been. Among allies but without a companion, together but alone, Lady Ryan Daventry.

In the mad scramble to accommodate last-minute guests, Ryan found herself seated directly beside the two Oxford men. An effort to separate couples put Mr. Stanhope on her left; and her rank as the daughter of an earl saw the elderly Lady Glynnis on her right. Oh the irony; if she’d acknowledged her marriage to Gabriel, she would’ve been a princess and seated at the head of the table with Elise. If only.

When it was time to promenade to the dining room, Ryan told Mr. Stanhope, “Hello again,” and reached for his arm. Their position as tablemates meant he would escort her.

The young man made no reply. He was stiff and twitchy and made a sort of snickering noise—a half mumble, half snort—and refused to look at her. He held her arm like someone had balanced dead vermin across his wrist.

Confused by this overt rudeness, Ryan began to second-guess herself. Had she inadvertently offended him in some way? She looked about her, checking the progress of Elise on the arm of Sir James; of old Lady Glennis on Killian’s arm; of Bartholomew’s friend Dennis escorting his mother. There was no lapse in manners; the group was simply making their way to the dining table. Bartholomew led the way and the second Oxford man walked behind Ryan and her escort, muttering what sounded like a joke under his breath. Ryan couldn’t hear what he’d said, but he and her escort smothered a laugh, snorting to keep their merriment contained. Ryan glanced at the two young men, and that’s when it occurred to her: they were making fun.

With no warning, tears shot to her eyes. These young men—boys, really, who’d only just made her introduction—would hardly acknowledge her. They recoiled at the thought of walking beside her for the length of ten yards, and now they made jokes at her expense? It wasn’t worth her tears, she was a grown woman, for God’s sake. And yet...

And yet the anticipation of leaving Mayapple, combined with Gabriel’s refusal to be alone with her after their wedding, meant she must navigate this evening with sharp pieces of her heart jostling around inside her chest.

Why, she wondered, blinking rapidly, could they not simply overlook her? Why must they also poke fun? Ryan knew herself to be well beneath the interest of men. She’d made peace with this long ago. Even Gabriel, who’d both chosen her and not chosen her, would never ridicule her. Ryan was aware of her plainness and forgettability; but she’d not thought of herself as unseemly or unsightly or worthy of ridicule. Where was there humor in this? Save cruelty?

She didn’t know. In fact, the only thing she knew for sure was that she’d been mistaken about attending this dinner. It wasn’t a feasible distraction or a way to avoid her new husband. And she didn’t want to touch this brittle, acrid-smelling young man. Or make conversation with him. She also didn’t want to crawl alone into her bed at the end of the night, knowing Gabriel was alone in his bed but that he wouldn’t come to her—not tonight and not ever.

And now her mind was running mad. And she didn’t care. She blinked back tears. She’d fallen in love with Gabriel d’Orleans Rein. She’d actually managed to locate him in a deep, dark wood and then fallen in love with him. But he would not have her. He would leave her to these immature, hateful young men instead.

By the time they reached the dining room, Ryan’s eyes were, to her mortification, swimming in tears. Her escort took her to her chair and retracted his arm. If he spoke a civil word, she did not hear it. If he pulled out her chair, she didn’t see it. A footman stepped up to cover the rudeness, and Ryan dropped into the seat, head bent over her bowl of steaming soup. She breathed in and out, trying to compose herself; willing the tears away, determined to see the meal through. She was being ridiculous. Nothing had been done to her—she was unharmed and, in fact, not even addressed. It was silly to cry. It was silly to have any reaction at all save boredom and endurance.

Thankfully, Killian Crewes stood to pronounce a toast, congratulating his nephew for making at least one friend at school. The distraction allowed Ryan to regain control. She glanced at her escort. He was seated beside her, oblivious to her descent into tears. Perhaps, she thought, she should give the young man the benefit of the doubt.

She cleared her throat. She smiled at his shoulder. In an effort to catch his eye, she leaned, and leaned, and leaned so far over, a lock of her hair nearly dropped into her soup. She strained to hear the conversation he was having with his friend. Finally, she simply interjected.

“Mr. Stanhope? Did you attend Eton like Lord Bartholomew and your brother?”

Nevil Stanhope paused in his eating, the gesture of someone stunned that he’d been addressed. He did not answer. He glanced at his friend who blew out a laugh.

“But have you ever traveled to any of the Channel Islands, Mr. Stanhope?” she tried again. “We’re not so cosmopolitan as London or even Oxford, but the view of the sunset will take your breath away.”

Again, he blinked straight ahead. He regarded her like a small dog who had escaped its owner and nipped and barked at his heels, as if he couldn’t believe the affront.

And now, as the fragrant courses of dinner were served, one by one, Ryan’s reaction became laughter, not tears. The audacity of these men to be inconvenienced by her simple bid for dinner conversation. She could, she realized, do this all night.

“Is there particular coursework at Oxford that interests you most?” she asked, speaking as if they were having a real conversation instead of a one-sided list of questions.

“But have you had the opportunity to attend the opera in London?” she wondered.

“There is a spice in these vegetables that I cannot name, but do you taste it?” she inquired.

“Is there some sentimental value attached to the jeweled pin on your lapel?” she ventured.

After the fourth course, Ryan gave up. The men were determined to ignore her, and Elise was staring down the table with real concern. Ryan had no wish to distress her. Soon, pudding had come and gone, and the ladies were invited to retire to the drawing room for sherry and hot chocolate. The gentlemen would linger around the table with the port. By the time they joined the women, Ryan would have made her excuses and gone.

Mayapple’s formal drawing room was lined with windowed doors that opened to a stone terrace. The terrace was bordered by a wide railing that overlooked the garden. When the weather was fair, the doors were opened so ladies might enjoy the breeze or drift outside to view the night sky. Tonight, the servants had opened the doors to a gorgeous September moonrise. Ryan had never been so grateful to flee into the darkness. She’d passed her wedding night enduring the rudeness of arrogant dandies. She wanted nothing more than to pass ten minutes alone in the cool, cleansing air, then bid Elise and Killian Crewes good-night.

Unfortunately, her defection inspired a terrace migration. Soon the other ladies were spilling onto the flagstones. Lady Glynnis tottered to the railing, squinting into the dark garden. Elise Crewes led Mrs. Stanhope, now almost too drunk to walk, to the iron table and chairs. Five minutes later, the gentlemen meandered onto the terrace with glasses of port and pungent cheroots.

Ryan smothered a groan. She’d not expected the men to descend before she’d made her excuses and retreated to her bedroom. Moving quickly, she turned the corner where the terrace wrapped around the side of the house. Here the flagstones ended, but there was a door to the solarium or—even better—steps that led to a garden path that would take her to the kitchen entrance. It would be rude to slip away without saying good-night to Elise, but—

“Look at you, hovering in the shadows like a creature of the night.”

Ryan spun around. Remarkably, unbelievably, Nevil Stanhope and his friend had come upon her in the secluded corner. They hovered, drinks in one hand, smoky cheroots in the other.

“I beg your pardon?” she said. The words came out on a bitter little laugh. Now they deigned to address her? Now?

“Lady Ryan,” drawled Mr. Fielding, as if he were testing the sound of it in his mouth.

Ryan recovered her composure and raised her chin. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I was bound for—”

“Come, come, come now, my lady,” entreated Nevil Stanhope, his voice a slurred singsong. He pivoted to the right, effectively blocking her exit.

Ryan was so shocked at the aggressive move, she skittered two steps back. The chill of the night felt suddenly ten degrees colder.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving us,” he cajoled. “We haven’t had the opportunity to answer your great many questions. We’ve finally had time to think of clever answers. You’d not want me to be a bore, would you, Lady Ryan? You’d not want me to venture answers to your questions before I’d given them proper thought?”

Ryan wanted to tell him that she doubted he was capable of proper thought. She wanted to tell him that there wasn’t enough time in the world. She wanted to inform him that “quality” did not directly correlate to money or fashion or even an Oxford degree; decency and manners were what set people apart. More than any of these, however, she wanted to go; but they were hemming her in.

“Help me out here, Fielding,” mused Nevil Stanhope, “what did she ask? Did we attend the same school as Dennis and Bartholomew? Well, I did. Charlie here was too much of a degenerate and was asked to leave after the first year. Luckless bastard finished at—where was it, Fielding?”

“Sod off, Stanhope,” his friend said, laughing. “Degenerate, my arse. Takes one to know one, I always say.”

“Answer me this, Lady Ryan,” inquired Mr. Stanhope, turning back to her. It was too dark for her to clearly see his face, but his tone was mocking. Ryan pivoted, hoping to shove between them and flee.

“Tut, tut, tut,” discouraged Mr. Stanhope, stepping closer. “Let’s not retreat into shyness now. We’re just getting to know each other. Why the rush?”

He stepped up in the same moment Ryan moved sideways, and she collided with his chest. He reached out with cold, clammy fingers, steadying her with a hand to her arm. His fingers felt like wet rope. She jerked back.

“Where’s the enthusiasm we endured over dinner?” asked Mr. Fielding, boxing her in on the other side.

And now Ryan felt the first stirrings of real alarm. They endeavored to... to what? Ridicule her? Menace her? Trap her here and openly shame her while she gasped like a fish on dry land? She had too little experience with men to understand their motives, but she knew that drunkenness and boredom could rapidly lead to a situation that was unsafe.

Blocked from pressing forward, Ryan backed away. She bumped against the terrace railing and began to strategize how she might lower herself down the side and climb into the garden. Or perhaps she could try again to push past them. Would they actively restrain her? She could also cry out.

“Did you know,” Mr. Stanhope was saying, “I actually have visited the Channel Islands. Jersey, I think it was. And you know what I found unforgettable? Not the ocean views, I assure you.” His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “It was the girls. There’s something about being confined to an island, I think, that makes Channel Islands girls so very accommodating—”

“Step away from the lady.”

A new voice broke into the night. It was low, and calm, and lethal.

Gabriel.

Ryan spun toward his voice, eyes wildly searching the darkness.

“Who’s there?” clipped Mr. Stanhope, head snapping around.

“Step away,” Gabriel repeated.

Ryan saw him now—or she saw half of him. He came up the steps from the garden path in a slow, heavy ascent. With every step, more of his broad shoulders and muscled arms came into view. He wore no jacket or waistcoat, simply his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his thick arms. His hands were balled into fists.

“But is it the gardener coming to your aid, Lady Ryan?” scoffed Mr. Stanhope. To Gabriel he said, “Sod off. This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’ll not ask you again,” said Gabriel. He’d reached the top step and his full height towered four inches above the heads of the Oxford men. He wore buckskins and tall boots and looked to Ryan like a giant, bearded avenging angel.

“There’s a true statement if ever I’ve heard one,” mocked Stanhope. “Last I knew, servants don’t make requests of gentlemen. Nor do they concern themselves with ladies. If you value your job, man, piss off.”

Stanhope glanced at Ryan, looked away, and then looked back again. “Hold on,” he drawled. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps Lady Ryan is your concern. My lady—you little minx. Is it possible we’ve disrupted some hidden arrangement you have with this... this... What are you, mate? Gardener? Groom? Stable boy?”

Stanhope looked back and forth between Ryan and Gabriel.

His friend Mr. Fielding had begun to back away. “Leave it, Stanhope. It’s not worth upsetting your father.”

Stanhope held up a hand to his friend and leered at Ryan. “Please, my lady, I beg you, do the first interesting thing anyone has done all night: Tell me you’ve some understanding with the gardener?”

“He is no servant,” Ryan whispered, her voice unheard over the pounding of her own heart. And here was another challenge of their sham marriage. She wanted to proclaim to everyone that he was her husband. She wanted to tell skinny-necked Nevil Stanhope that she was a married woman—in fact, she was a princess—that she belonged to someone, and he belonged to her, and he should not address her if he couldn’t show the most base modicum of respect. But of course she’d asked the Creweses to keep introductions simple, to not complicate the night by explaining her absent husband. In this, Nevil Stanhope had been correct. She and Gabriel did have a “hidden arrangement.”

She looked to Gabriel. He did not meet her gaze. He stared at Stanhope with a narrow-eyed expression of simmering fury.

“I beg your pardon?” Stanhope asked her. He leaned and slid a hand to the small of her back. Ryan jumped. “You’ll have to speak u—”

Gabriel moved so quickly, Ryan felt the rush of air before she registered his lunge. One moment he was standing on the top step, watching Stanhope with a glacial stare, the next he had the man pinned against the side of the house with a forearm across his throat.

“You will apologize to the lady,” Gabriel said.

Stanhope made a gurgling noise. Mr. Fielding inched farther away, following the railing toward the larger terrace.

“Here is what will happen,” Gabriel told Stanhope. “I’ll release your neck, and you will apologize to my wife.”

Gabriel levered his arm to a slant.

“Who?” choked Stanhope, coughing and wheezing.

“Wrong answer,” said Gabriel. He removed his arm altogether, and Stanhope slid down the wall to the ground.

“Get up,” Gabriel said. “Apologize.”

“Your wife?” wheezed Stanhope, turning to the wall for support, climbing his way to standing.

With no warning, Stanhope shoved off the wall and threw himself at Gabriel. Ryan let out a little scream. Gabriel dodged left, easily avoiding the lunge. Half a second later, Gabriel swung, landing his right fist in Stanhope’s gut. The man grunted, doubled over, and fell to his knees.

“Try again,” Gabriel said, pivoting to make room for the sprawling Stanhope.

“Nevil?!” called a new voice.

Stanhope’s brother Dennis and Bartholomew Crewes skidded to the corner, gaping at the row.

“You’re joking, Nevil!” Dennis Stanhope exclaimed. “Not again. You ruin everything. I told Papa not to allow you to come.”

“Don’t make a fuss, Dennis, there’s a good lad,” cajoled Mr. Fielding, now halfway down the railing. “You didn’t see it but we were attacked by a member of staff.”

“This man? He’s not a member of staff,” said Bartholomew, “that is the brother of my aunt. He’s a bloody French prince.”

“Bart?” Ryan cut in, angling for control, “will you fetch Killian, please? Extract him quietly if you can. Don’t disrupt the others.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bartholomew, “if you can assure me you’re unharmed, Lady Ryan?”

“Oh yes. But about your uncle? Quickly, please Bart?”

Bartholomew nodded and darted away.

“I cannot enjoy one, solitary, decent friendship, Nevil!” Dennis railed at his brother. “Not one—without you mucking it up. Bartholomew’s family are nice people; I waited a month for this invitation. And you attack his relative like a common footpad?”

“What the devil is going on?” Killian Crewes strode around the corner with Bartholomew. He took in Ryan’s expression, Gabriel’s balled fists, and Mr. Stanhope doubled over on the ground.

“Lady Ryan, are you well?” Killian asked.

“Perfectly well, Mr. Crewes. Please do not worry. There was just—”

“Say no more,” breathed Killian.

For a moment, Ryan thought she’d made a mistake—that Killian would challenge or question Gabriel. One glance at Gabriel and she realized her husband thought the same. This sort of public reckoning was a primary reason Gabriel dreaded leaving the forest.

But Killian wanted no reckoning. He glanced over his shoulder, tightened his gloves, and then smiled coolly at the group.

“Bart, can you and Dennis escort Mr. Stanhope to his feet and then off the terrace? His friend, too. Nope, not another step, Fielding. Off you go. Take the garden path to my carriage. Tell Tom to convey them to the fountain in Marlborough—but not a mile farther. There Tom will deposit them and return home. This will leave the family carriage here for Sir James and the others when they depart. I’ll make excuses for Mr. Fielding and Mr. Stanhope so as to not upset Dennis’s parents and grandmother.”

“Right, Killian,” said Bartholomew. He and his friend each took one of Mr. Stanhope’s arms and began dragging him down the steps.

“Don’t just stand there, Charlie,” Dennis called to Mr. Fielding. “You’re no stranger to evictions from civilized company.”

“Let go, Denny,” growled Mr. Stanhope, staggering to stand between Dennis and Bartholomew. Dennis hissed something at him and kneed him in the hip.

“You’re certain you’re unharmed, Lady Ryan?” asked Killian, turning back to her. “I’ve worried over your wellness all night. I apologize for imposing these men on your end of the table. I should’ve asked them to leave an hour ago. I’d no idea they’d descended upon you here in the shadows.”

“Do not think of it again,” Ryan assured him. “No harm done. I’ll shed no tears over their departure, but I’m grateful the party has not been ruined for the others. Dennis seems like a nice boy.”

“Dennis and Bart are having the time of their lives, never you fear,” Mr. Crewes said. The sound of punching could be heard in the direction of the carriages.

He glanced at Gabriel. “Can you manage from here?”

Ryan swung her gaze to Gabriel. She had no prediction for what he would do.

Slowly, Gabriel nodded to his brother-in-law.

“Very good,” Mr. Crewes said. And then he yanked on his lapels, spun on his heel, and disappeared around the corner.

And now Ryan was alone on the dark terrace with her husband. Her breath was frozen in her chest. Gabriel was so handsome, and avenging, and here—when she’d really needed him, he’d been here. Her broken heart tried again to beat—all fifty pieces of it, scattered about her chest, thumping and lurching to life.

He locked eyes with her—that warm, hazel intensity focused entirely on her. Ryan’s inside dissolved into shimmers. Ducking his head, he held out one, tentative hand.

Ryan leaped, throwing herself into his arms. He swept her to him, burying his face in her neck. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he swept a hand beneath her bottom. Without another word, he carried her down the steps into the night.