The Prince's Bride

Chapter Twenty-Seven

It took them two days and two nights to reach Portsmouth. The first night was spent in an inn, but the second night, they rode straight through—not Gabriel’s preference, but Ryan knew there was only one ship sailing to Guernsey every day, and it left at ten o’clock in the morning. If they spent a second night in an inn, they would miss the sailing and be stranded on the mainland for a third day.

Gabriel did not argue with her. He threw himself into the logistics—minding the horses, discovering where they could change them out for fresh mounts, studying the map. This left her to train her eyes on the horizon, say very little, and ride.

She was an excellent horsewoman; he’d noticed that she was comfortable on a horse when he’d escorted her out of Savernake Forest, but he’d not fully appreciated her natural ability until they’d left Mayapple the first day. Killian and Elise, along with her weeping maid, Agnes, had gathered in the drive at sunup to wish them well and worry over provisions. Ryan had apologized for her rudeness, spurred her mare forward, and left them. Gabriel had shaken Killian’s hand—he’d shaken Elise’s, too; they’d hadn’t yet worked up to an embrace—promised he’d write, and galloped after Ryan. He’d been galloping after her for two days since.

They’d shared the room at the coaching inn on the first night. Ryan had proclaimed herself too stricken by anxiety to sleep, but then she’d burrowed into his side and exhaustion had claimed her. He was glad. Her mindset was wrong for lovemaking—his, too, for that matter, considering the great reckoning into which he was flinging himself—and although he was never not aroused whenever she was near him, she needed sleep.

They’d traveled, largely, in silence. They spoke only of routes, and hours, and when they would eat, and whether the horses were fit and watered. Only when they were on the ferry to Guernsey, standing at the bow, staring across the churning waves of the English Channel, did they finally engaged in a real conversation.

“I’m hearing seven hours to cross,” he said to her. “Has that been your experience?”

“At least,” she said, blinking when the sea threw mist into her face.

“Will you sleep? There are berths. You can close your eyes; recover from riding through the night.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“You said that the first night and you slept like a rock. It would be useful, I think, to be rested when your family sees you.”

“I look so very wretched?”

You look beautiful to me, he thought. She was wind-whipped and sun-kissed, and her riding habit was black at the hem from days of hard travel. It was, he thought, precisely his idea of beauty. But he wasn’t prepared to compliment her. He felt stalked by impending heartbreak if he couldn’t cope with what came next. He was careful not to allow either of them to hope.

“No,” he said. “Not wretched at all. Me, on the other hand? I will appear—well, there’s no disguising my appearance, is there?” He ran a hand over his beard. “Your siege on the imposter will benefit from one of us looking civilized and not like a cave-dweller, surely.”

She looked down at her dusty cloak and muddy boots; at her cracked and peeling gloves. Her hair fell from beneath her hat in sticky clumps. Idly, she patted it with her hand.

“Is that what you intend?” she asked, studying his face. “We’ll besiege him together?”

“I—” Gabriel gripped the railing. “Probably? I’m sorry, Ryan. I’ve no idea what to expect—not from him, not from any of it. Mayapple was a revelation. A very sweet, very promising revelation. But taking on Winscombe is more than an indulgent sister and her besotted husband and daughters. If ever I intended to leave the forest—”

“—which you did not,” she provided softly.

“—the very best place to do it was Mayapple. I can see that now. Winscombe sounds lovely—truly it does—and I will endeavor to stand with you. I’m not afraid of Maurice, but I’m unwilling to commit to becoming the Prince d’Orleans.”

“Maurice is evicting three women and a sick old man because he is too weak and too lazy to take on anyone else. What could be more cowardly?” She tugged her mangled hat from her hair and rubbed her forehead. “Sorry. I know it’s far more complicated than that. Let us simply reach the island, get the lay of the land, and take it as it comes, shall we?”

Gabriel snorted. “Devoted these last three days to building this intricate strategy, did you?” He was struck by such love for her in that moment. Even chasing across England, riddled with anxiety for her sisters, she was careful not to overcommit him. She was thoughtful and resourceful and loyal.

She turned back to the railing, dangling her hat over the water. “Here is my intricate strategy. We’ll make landfall in St. Peter. We’ll hire horses to ride to Winscombe; this will be a journey of another hour. The sun will be setting then, and Diana will be locking up for the night. You may ride the property or walk the grounds—whatever you wish. We’ve stables, just like the Creweses. Not quite so lavish; and it’s teeming with bleating sheep, but there are horses, too. If it pleases you, you may...” she took a deep breath “...take refuge there while I locate my sisters, look in on my father, and discover the location of the imposter.”

The boat deck rose and fell in a stomach-dropping swoop. Ryan lost her hat overboard—one minute she held it, the next it was snatched by the sea—and she cried out. She turned back to him with the most adorable look of consternation.

“Go below deck,” he told her, speaking over the rough sea. “Wash, change, rest. I’ll be down shortly to check on you. I’ll bring you something to eat. I want to look at the sea.”

Ryan studied him. “You’ve not been on a boat since you fled France, have you?”

“No,” he said. “It’s safe to say I am awash in all the things I’ve done since I fled France.”

Two days earlier, back at Mayapple, Elise Crewes stood in the center of Bartholomew’s bedchamber and whistled. Loudly. Her two daughters paused in their raucous marching and clapped their hands over their ears. Her old friend Sister Marie looked up from the map she was studying in the window seat. Bartholomew peeked from his open wardrobe, a stack of neckcloths in one hand and a pair of boots in the other. Various dogs ignored her, as did Baby Noelle, who sat in a sunny spot on the rug and gummed a cricket ball.

“Quiet, everyone,” Elise called, “I must think. Bart, you’ve packed too much. How is one horse to bear the burden of a case so very large? Remember you and Sister Marie are riding to Portsmouth, not bouncing along in the carriage. Your goal is to be only a day behind them.”

“Killian told me we’re taking the carriage,” complained Bartholomew. “The maid cannot ride on horseback for two days to Portsmouth. Besides, why am I going if not to bring the trunk of clothes to kit him out?”

“Oh that’s right,” said Elise with a sigh, resting a hand on her forehead. The plan had changed so many times. Even now, she wasn’t certain they were doing the correct thing. In the correct order. With the correct friends and family as uninvited conspirators.

“Fine, the carriage,” Elise amended, “but hurry, will you? The sooner you’re packed the sooner you may leave.”

“What if we hire a private boat to make the Channel crossing?” said Bartholomew. “Then we won’t have to wait for the ferry.”

“He’s right,” said Marie.

“Fine, good—yes. Do that. Just remember, Bartholomew, when you encounter Gabriel, your interference calls for a very light touch. Private boats and carriages are not my brother’s style. You’re there to offer Killian’s suits—and only if Gabriel seems open to transforming his appearance. Chances are, he’ll wish to remain exactly as he is. Which is fine. Don’t make the offer if he seems annoyed you’ve followed him. The maid should stand ready to tailor everything—but again, only if he will allow it. Gabriel is larger than Killian, but Agnes is a genius with needle and thread. She’s afraid of her own shadow, but she can be bribed with chocolate.”

Killian strode into the room, carrying a traveling case and boot bag. He stepped over two dogs and tossed both items onto the bed. “I never thought marrying royalty would be such a drain on our wardrobes. How many dresses did you give Ryan? And now this.”

“Ah, the magic weapon,” Bartholomew called to the traveling case.

“You are the magic weapon, Bart,” corrected Killian. “You. Not my suits. It’s a delicate thing—playing valet to a long-lost prince, returned from the dead—but I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think you could do it. You’ll need to be observant and discreet and prepared for anything. Or nothing. Whatever Gabriel may need. Or doesn’t need. We cannot send Elise, because she’s too overbearing and like a mother hen. I would go myself except, I don’t want to go.”

“You would go yourself,” corrected Elise, “except Gabriel must direct this on his own, as he sees fit. It’s not our place. We’ve done enough—we’ve done too much. Me, overbearing? As if you’ve not manipulated them from the start.” She shook her head at her husband.

“Perhaps I have done.” Killian sighed. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. Which is why Bart is the perfect man to finish the job. He’s never worked as a palace fixer. He’s not too old, not too young; sweet and helpful and quick with chocolate.”

“Sweet?” groused Bartholomew. “I am not sweet.”

“You’re very sweet,” Elise said, sailing past him and plucking Sofie from his leg. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

“I’ve only agreed to this because it’s a chance to see Guernsey. And it’s so very close to the start of my school term. If I’m detained, I’ll miss the first week of classes.”

“You will not miss the start of the school term,” lectured Killian. “You will deliver the maid Agnes, you will support Gabriel as needed, and vanish when you are not needed. We’re sending you to be a nonintrusive, nonthreatening, friendly face—and to deliver a fresh set of clothes and the maid who can make them fit. Follow Marie’s lead, she’ll strike the correct balance.”

“Follow my lead, Bartholomew!” called little Marie, climbing inside his traveling case.

“Not you, darling,” said Elise, pulling her out. “Sister Marie, your namesake. You must stay here with Maman and Papa and your sisters and Nanny.”

“But Nanny is—”

“Wait,” said Killian, “don’t tell me. Let me guess.”

“Suffering from a toothache,” suggested Bartholomew.

“Has a papercut,” said Killian.

“A spider bite,” said Bart.

The girls began to laugh. Elise crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “Stop.”

“Has gotten her bun caught in the headboard,” said Killian.

“Has seen a ghost,” said Bart.

“Is plagued by a nosebleed,” said Killian.

“I mean it,” threatened Elise.

“One more,” hooted Bartholomew. He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Has discovered she’s really a French princess.”

“Careful,” said Killian, “that one could actually happen.”

“They could all actually happen,” said Bart. “Poor Nanny.”

“Ready?” asked Sister Marie, folding the map.

“If someone will fetch Agnes,” Bart said, buckling his case.

“I’ll get her,” said Elise. “She’s cowering in the servants’ kitchens. She’s confused and frightened, so be gentle with her. I think she would refuse to go along if she weren’t so desperate to get home.”

“We can go without her,” said Bart. “You think I can’t wrestle Gabriel into Killian’s clothes? Let her come by mail coach at her own pace.”

“No,” said Elise. “He must look as fine and tailored and fitted as he possibly can. If he’ll consent to a transformation. Being royal is ninety-five percent wardrobe.”

“Ninety-five percent,” said Bartholomew on a whistle. He glanced at his uncle.

Killian shrugged. “She’s not wrong.”