The Prince's Bride

Chapter Twenty-Eight

If absence makes the heart go fonder, Ryan thought, cresting the hill that would put Winscombe into view, what does vengeance do?

And wasn’t this a robbed moment? To see her beloved Winscombe for the first time in weeks and not feel heart-swelling love and joy... but instead to gird herself for battle. There hadn’t been time to show Gabriel local landmarks or points of interest. He’d not been here since he was a boy and—tiniest hope in that relentless corner of her heart—she wanted him to love it as she loved it.

But Ryan had veritably sprinted from the boat, hired two horses, and pushed the animals up the road toward Winscombe at a punishing pace. She managed to tell him that the island was lovely in September, that the freesia were blooming, that the water was warm enough for bathing, but it was a rushed sort of overview, shouted over her shoulder. And her heart was not in it; she thought only of what crisis awaited her at home.

“There it is,” she breathed, pointing to the estate, the pastureland, the cliff that overlooked the sea. “Do you remember it?”

“I think so,” Gabriel said.

He’d been quiet since they’d disembarked in St. Peter. On the boat across the Channel, she’d done as he’d suggested and repaired to a belowdecks berth to wash and rest. An hour later, he knocked on her door, waking her from a half-sleep state. He’d said nothing, just stepped into the small space and closed the door behind him. Ryan had taken him in, wind-whipped, wet from the mist, his face grim. When he flipped the lock on the door, she’d launched herself at him.

He’d caught her up, embracing her for the first time since that night in the stables. They’d lain together in the coaching inn along the road to Portsmouth, but he’d not touched her like this. His hands were voracious, possessive, wild. Ryan answered with her own anxious, pent-up need. They didn’t speak; he barely looked her in the eye. He walked her backward onto the small platform cot, kissing her hungrily, and reached a hand for her skirts. She raked them up, pushed her drawers to the side, and welcomed him. He released the ties on his buckskins with one hand and tilted her in position with the other.

He sank into her with no preamble, just a grunt and a sigh. Ryan had cried out at the pleasure of it, the possession, the consuming. They’d rocked together, using the sway of the boat to heighten their pleasure; a pulsing, throbbing tangle of knees, and hair, and breath.

“Please,” she’d cried when the climax hit her; an invitation and a plea. She wanted him to find release inside her; she wanted him to claim her. But he repeated his withdrawal from the first time, pulling out just in time to spill his seed on the bench. Tears had swamped Ryan’s eyes—the convergence of love, and want, and frustration, and fear.

Maurice, she’d vowed, wouldnot ruin this. Gabriel could consider a life together that suited them both. This couldn’t be the end.

After they were spent, they’d fallen asleep, burrowed in each other’s arms. She woke to the sound of sailors, shouting their arrival. She’d sat up, listening for the familiar call of an osprey or island scrub jay; the salty, briny smell of home. Then they heard the anchor drop, and she hustled Gabriel out the door. An hour later, they’d been on horseback, pressing to Winscombe.

“I want you to have something,” he said to her now, reining his horse to the side of the road.

“What is it?”

Her mare plodded to his gelding and Ryan reined her around, not wanting to lose sight of the house.

“You’ll need a wedding ring,” he said, pulling a velvet pouch from his coat. “Let us try this.”

He turned the pouch upside down over his gloved palm, and a heavy gold ring, twinkling with stones and intricately carved with ebony recesses, dropped into his hand. He picked it up between his fingers and held it out.

Kneeing the mare forward, Ryan reached for it. “What is it?” she whispered. The gold was dense and heavy in her hand. It was a signet ring with jeweled crest.

“Will it fit?” he asked.

Ryan bit off her glove and tested it on the ring finger of her left hand. “It’s a bit big, but—yes, it fits. What is it, Gabriel?”

“It was my father’s signet ring. It’s a pinky ring for men, but I hoped it would fit your ring finger.”

Ryan looked closer, turning the mare so she could see the ring in the last rays of the setting sun. Tiny script spelled out some Latin motto. Another arc of text said, d’Orleans. She looked up.

“Gabriel?” she breathed.

“Wear it. We’ll see what happens. If it’s necessary for us to declare my true identity, it’s another layer of truth. If it’s not necessary, keep it as a token of my—well, as a token.”

“Thank you,” she said, sliding her glove over the ring. “Yes. We’ll see what happens.”

“We’ve made it before sunset,” he said, urging his horse on. “Just as you planned.”

“Yes. We were fortunate. The horses must have been expensive to hire. Thank you.”

“You are an accomplished rider.”

“Winscombe is vast,” she said. “I’ve been riding the roads of this island since I was a child. You see that ridge there.” She pointed to the west. “Our lands stretch from that ridge, which overlooks the sea, to the other side of that hill. It runs from the house there... into the wooded parkland that goes on as far as the horizon. Does none of this seem familiar? From when you visited as a boy?”

“Perhaps,” he said, scanning the landscape. Ryan wanted to ask him if he thought it was beautiful, as she thought it was beautiful. She wanted to ask him if he could see himself living here, training horses here, abiding and existing here with a sense of well-being. But she would not press. She reminded herself that her most immediate goal was to catch Diana when she left the barn and before she entered the house.

They turned the last corner and the road descended a hill. The horses were forced to step carefully, and they slowed to a walk.

“But what are...” Ryan began, squinting at the long drive that led to the front gates of Winscombe. A chain of shiny vehicles lined the drive, their lacquer and gold trim shining in the setting sun.

“What is it?” Gabriel asked.

She exhaled. “Your cousin travels with an entourage and a retinue. These are his vehicles—all four of them, plus a wagon for his trunks and a curricle in which he zips about. He does not ride. I had forgotten the extent of his caravan.”

Gabriel studied the row of vehicles. Ryan eyed him, her heart climbing into her throat. This was only the beginning. She squinted to the front gates, looking for a sign of her sister Diana. She saw only the liveried grooms and coachmen that operated and staffed the imposter’s fleet of vehicles. They milled about the front gate in ridiculous powdered wigs and red velvet.

They had just passed the first coach when the grooms and drivers began to amble to the drive, looking out as Ryan and Gabriel rode by. Ryan glanced at them, neither smiling nor frowning, simply counting their number and wondering how the Winscombe kitchens were meant to feed so many servants. Again. She also tried to see them as Gabriel would see them. Each vehicle was lacquered black, painted with gold trim and a golden crest exactly like the crest on her new ring. Velvet curtains hung from the windows and silky pennants snapped at four corners.

She was just about to look back, to check Gabriel’s progress, when she saw two d’Orleans servants—old men both; a groom and driver, from the look of them—step from between carriages to the edge of the drive. Ryan tightened her hold on the reins, worried they meant to rush up and grab her mare’s bridle. When she looked again, she realized their attention wasn’t on her. They were gaping at Gabriel with eyes wide and mouths open.

Next she heard gasps and whispers; they called to each other in French. When her horse passed the two old men, she heard the whispered name of Gabriel’s late father, Prince Phillipe d’Orleans.

Ryan glanced at Gabriel, and then back to the grooms. The two old servants—and oh, now a third—had dropped to their knees in reverent bows. They called to him in French.

“Your Serene Highness,” they said.

“Prince Phillipe?”

“He has returned.”

“He lives.”

Up and down the line, servants in white wigs and crimson livery emerged to observe Gabriel ride by.

Oh God, thought Ryan, a wave of dread rising in her chest. How was this happening? Now? They’d not even reached the house. Must this be the first thing they encounter? His worst fears, coming to life?

Carefully, with as much nonchalance as she could muster, she stole a look at Gabriel. He’d gone ghostly; his tanned skin looked like the underside of a fish. He kept his eyes fixed ahead. His chest rose and fell. She could hear his breath.

“Carry on,” Ryan called in French to the bowing servants.

They did not move.

“On your feet,” she tried. This time, she didn’t look to see if they complied. She kneed the mare forward, rolling into a trot. Gabriel followed suit, and they sped through the front gates.

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel,” she called to him.

“Where is the stable?” he called back.

“There.” She pointed to the large, drooping structure surrounded by pens and paddocks. “It’s there.”

And then she saw her sister Diana. She was tromping from the stables to the manor house; skirts lifted to reveal muddy boots, hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Diana!” Ryan called, her voice breathy and tearful.

“Go to her,” Gabriel said. “I can find my way. Go.”

Ryan glanced at him, her heart in her throat. She saw the set of his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders. He wouldn’t look at her but gave a dismissive wave. He reined the horse toward the stables and did not look back. He seemed to want to be left alone.

And Ryan wanted her sister.

“Diana!” she called again, kicking the horse into a sprint.