Chapter Six
Ryan tried to keep up—truly. She’d engaged all remaining strength, ignoring the pain in her leg, her fatigue, her unsteadiness on dark, slick, unfamiliar ground. But his strides were longer, and he knew the way. He’d pulled her behind him for only a few yards before he turned back, swept her off her feet, and tossed her over his shoulder again.
Ryan made a yelping noise but honestly, she was relieved. Given the choice between being dragged through the mud or carried, she preferred to be carried. Little known fact: it wasn’t terrible to be foisted up by a tall, broad-shouldered man and carried about. After the night she’d had. And in the rain. And by this tall, broad-shouldered man.
For the second time that night, she found her head dangling down his back and her legs pinned to his chest. Her bottom stuck up to the sky, and he held her securely in place with an arm to the back of her knees. The contact just missed the wound in her leg. She was getting better at holding on. She clasped both hands around his middle and pressed her cheek into his spine.
Her eyes were closed, but she felt the rise and fall of the terrain, heard the thud of his boots, smelled wet leaves. He splashed through a puddle and cold water splattered her face. She’d gathered up her hair with a hand, trying to keep it from trailing through the mud.
He said something over his shoulder—some growled request that she couldn’t understand.
“What?” she asked.
“Close your eyes,” he repeated.
“They’re closed!” she called back.
But now she blinked them open and added, “Why?”
“My camp is ahead,” he said, “and it’s... it’s very private. I prefer it to stay hidden.”
Hidden?she repeated in her head. As if she would return to this terrifying forest on purpose and intentionally seek out this man’s camp.
“They are closed,” she assured him—although now she felt compelled to open her right eye, just a crack. Not that it mattered; the world was a blur of wet vegetation and the flapping corner of the man’s coat.
Five minutes later, he grunted “here” and fell sideways against something hard and unmoving.
The relentless peck of raindrops had stopped, and she heard them tapping against an overhang above. A barrier protected them on one side from the wind. Ryan opened both eyes and looked around. He was leaning against a wall made of rough-hewn timbers, the gaps between the wood sealed with plaster.
“Can you stand?” he asked, sliding her toward the ground.
“Probably,” she managed. She left his body in a controlled fall. Her feet were numb and the wound on her leg ached. She staggered when she landed. Large hands caught her around the waist, shoring her up. Ryan’s sodden hair clumped in her face, and she smoothed it back, trying to see.
“Put a hand to the wall,” he said.
“Thank you.” She reached out, trying to look around without seeming to look around.
“You can look,” he said. “It’s a camp—nothing more. There’s no time for a tour and honestly, nothing to—”
He exhaled deeply but didn’t finish.
“Go,” she said. “Your horse—please go. I’m perfectly happy to wait”—she looked around trying to identify where he’d propped her—“here.”
With no warning, two large dogs emerged from the mist, plodding to them. Ryan reacted without thinking, gasping and shrinking against the wall.
“Careful,” he said, frowning at her wariness. He made a clicking noise and held out his hand. In unison, the dogs stopped walking and sat, tails wagging. “Have you a fear of dogs?”
“No,” Ryan managed, turning her face to the wall. “That is, I haven’t been until recently. Sorry. I’m not—” She took a deep breath, trying to control her racing heart. “They are not aggressive—your dogs?”
“No. They help with the horses and are companions to me.”
Ryan nodded to the wall, trying to regain composure. She loved dogs. Winscombe had been home to many dogs over the years, and several of them had slept nudged against her in her bed. One incident should not destroy a lifelong affection.
“Hugo,” the man said gruffly, “Tatin—bed.”
The dogs made a whining noise but retreated, padding into the night.
Ryan let out a slow exhale. “Thank you.”
“I’ll set you up inside,” he said. “The dogs will be too curious not to return. And I assume you want in out of the rain.”
“Well, only if it can be quickly managed. I would not detain you...” She glanced around but saw only a wash of dark greens and blues and grays. Somewhere nearby, horses whinnied and stamped. She smelled wet hay and manure.
“I would ask you not to...” he exhaled “... touch anything.”
Ryan laughed in spite of herself. “Understood. But I’ve not come here to rob you, please be assured. Or if I have, I’ve been very inefficient about it, have I?”
“Don’t touch anything,” he repeated. He stomped away; she heard a door open and close. When he returned, he held a glowing torch. She peeked around the corner and watched him light lanterns on posts, illuminating the rainy night at intervals.
“Does this mean that I’ll be left alone here? You live alone, sir?” She wanted to confirm this.
“It is only the animals and me.” When four lanterns were aglow, he mounted the torch on a stake.
“No staff?” she pressed, just to be certain.
“No.”
“No one at all to help you mind your horses?”
“I’ve two grooms, but they’ve gone for the night.”
“Of course.” Ryan looked at the sky. The rain was slowing and silver clouds parted to reveal a bright moon. “Honestly, it’s not necessary for me to wait in your... dwelling if you prefer me outside. You’ve been so very kind and...”
Now Ryan stopped. In fact, she wanted very much to wait in his dwelling. She was soaked to the bone and shivering, and, oh—to sit down for ten minutes. If there was water and a crust of bread, all the better.
“It’s through here,” he said, summoning her with a jerk of his head. She followed him around the corner of the structure. Was it a house? If so, the roof was very low, almost sunken, and—
—underground?
Ryan blinked at the domicile illuminated by flickering lantern light. It was less of a house and more of a... bunker? It protruded from beneath the gentle rise of a small, grassy hill. A wide, low doorway had been cut into the hillside like a human-sized mousehole. On either side of the door, the earth was held back by stone ledges.
It was half house, half hill; part bunker, part cottage. It was sunken and settled and clearly very old. A stout chimney poked from the side of the hill like a cork; a small window beside the door was one open eye. It was the type of abode that children in a storybook might stumble upon in the forest; a magical dwelling for fairies or wood nymphs or a witch. It looked far too small to accommodate the man who’d abducted/rescued her. It hardly looked large enough for Ryan.
“Shall I—?” she began, trying not to stare. She glanced behind her. She heard the horses milling in the darkness.
“I’ll not be gone long,” the man said.
He stepped to the door and Ryan had the errant worry that she was about to be led inside, knocked in the head, and baked into a pie. She never learned the name of this man.
“I beg your pardon?” She cleared her throat. “I’ve been remiss in not learning your name, sir. I should hate to impose on your hospitality without knowing to whom I’m indebted.”
He wrenched open the heavy door with a creak and disappeared inside. She held back, hovering between the stone ledges.
“Sir?” she tried again, her mind conjuring terrible names, the names of madmen and murderers.
He didn’t answer. She heard the scrape of iron on stone and saw orange flames flicker in a corner grate. Light tumbled from the fireplace, and she could see his silhouette amid the outlines of crude furniture. A chair. A table. A shelf.
“Come in out of the rain,” he said.
Ryan swallowed. “Forgive me. I’m... I find myself grasping for the social constructs that usually govern these sorts of situations.”
“You’re grasping for what?” He was annoyed.
“Introductions, servants, an umbrella...”
“Sorry,” he said, “you’re out of luck.”
“The great irony is that I typically care very little about these sorts of things. Social constructs saw me betrothed as an infant and would now see me married to a petty tyrant. Forgive me, I’m rambling, the point is, I really must insist upon learning your name, sir. Please.”
“It’s Rein,” he said, emerging from the dwelling.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m called ‘Rein.’”
“Rain?” She looked up at the weeping sky.
“Not ‘rain,’ as in a deluge, I mean ‘Rein’ like for a horse.”
“Oh, ‘Rein,’” she repeated agreeably, as if this made all the sense in the world rather than lacking in subtlety for a man who described himself as “alone except for my horses.”
“Thank you very much, Mr., er, Rein. Do go and see to your stallion. I’ll make myself at home. Whilst touching nothing—just to be clear.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, cramming his hat on his head. “Close the door and turn the lock.”
And then he was gone, striding into the wet mist, his coat whirling behind him.
Ryan turned to the open door and braced herself. Swallowing hard, she stepped gingerly over the threshold.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the fire. She looked around. The house had a wet, earthy smell but was neat and tidy. She was gratified to see the floor was made of wooden beams rather than dirt; and the ceiling was—she looked up, squinted, and then stood on her toes to stretch an arm above her head and touch—rock. The ceiling was rock. Oh. She touched the ceiling again. And now she understood. Mr. Rein lived in a cave. Well, one side was a cave; the other side was built out like a house, with proper walls connected at proper angles. The seam where the rock met the timber was a ribbon-like crevice, packed with a quarry of stones. The cave part of the house and the... well, the house part of the house came together into a whole that was very cottage-like, with a door and a window, furniture and rugs; a hearth and—she looked around—a small kitchen. Unless she was mistaken, other rooms lay beyond the circle of light provided by the fire.
But how incredible, she thought, slowly spinning. There were candles, an old leather chair by the fire, a stack of books—actually there was an entire shelf of books—a desk and another chair.
Working quickly, Ryan disentangled herself from the dripping cloak and hung it on a peg by the fire. She laid her sodden gloves on the mantle and removed her wet shoes and stockings. She checked the wound on her leg—no worse for the wear, two arcs of teeth marks, nearly healed.
In the kitchen, she located a cloth and used it to dry her hair and pat down her dress. There was a barrel of fresh water and she scooped ladle after ladle, gulping it down.
For ten minutes, she stood before the fire, allowing the heat to lick the wetness from her skirts, warming herself. Only when sweat formed on the back of her neck did she light a candle and return to the kitchen. She poked around, looking for a stray apple or walnut or turnip—anything she might eat. She found a kettle and coffee and made the calculated gamble that Mr. Rein would value hot coffee more than his desire to have untouched possessions. She set about making a pot. While the water boiled, she perused the books on his shelf.
True to form, there were many titles about animal husbandry, horses, racing, and breeding. But there were also books about history and philosophy; mathematics and natural science; and novels—both classics and the popular literature of the day. Mr. Rein, it seemed, was an avid reader with diverse tastes and access to a bookseller.
She moved to the next shelf, running her finger along the spines of religious texts, books about geography and economics and—
When she stooped to the third shelf, her finger stopped. She held the candle closer. The titles on the spines of these books were written in French. Ryan was fluent in French—her home was only sixty nautical miles from mainland France—so it took no effort to read titles on French history, French geography, French philosophers. There was a book of French artists and an illustrated guide to Paris. And Bordeaux. This collection went on and on—books about cities and provinces throughout France.
When Ryan had read every title twice, she stepped away and considered the shelves. In total, there were more French books than English. But how had a cave-dwelling horseman who called himself Mr. Rein manage to collect a small library in two languages?
Without thinking, she crossed to the small desk in the corner. The surface was bare, but the desktop concealed a drawer. Ryan bit her lip. Something, some unnamed curiosity, nudged her to test the handle. Glancing at the door and then back, she carefully slid open the drawer. It contained... nothing in particular. Parchment. Quills. Loose candles. Tucked deep in one corner, she saw a bundle of folded parchment tied with a string, the paper thin and flaking, bleached by age. She was just about to move on—she was not, by nature, a snooper, and she’d promised not to touch anything—when she noticed a trio of tiny shapes on the corner of the parchment. Ryan blinked, pushed the candle closer, and leaned down to examine the small scribbles.
The shapes had been formed by hand, not printed, and crudely so. They’d been drawn in the shape of a triangle, a pair of them above with one centered below.
Ryan straightened. She stared at the wall above the desk. She took a deep breath and looked again. She knew this upside-down triangle formed by three little symbols. It was familiar to her. In fact, she knew the three little symbols.
Glancing at the doorway and then back at the drawer, Ryan carefully, gingerly nudged the bundle of parchment, sliding it into plain view. It was a stack of envelopes. They’d been placed in the drawer, inscription down—so she couldn’t see the address. A greasy stain marked the old seal, the wax long since flaked away. The crudely drawn trio of symbols was in the corner of the topmost envelope.
It can’t be, Ryan marveled, her heart beginning to pound.
Checking the door once more, biting her lip, she used the tip of one finger to touch the trio of doodles on the envelope. They looked like fat, squat daggers with a short blade pointed upward and a scabbard crossing horizontally just above the hilt. While the shapes were dagger-like, the lines were curved like petals. A fleur-de-lis; or rather, three fleurs-de-lis. The symbols worked together to form a reverse triangle.
Ryan knew this, because it represented the crest of the Family d’Orleans—and because she had drawn the crest on every single letter she’d ever written to her former fiancé, Prince Gabriel d’Orleans.
These were her drawings, on her letters, bundled and stored in the drawer of a reclusive man living in the last known location of the Prince d’Orleans.
Fumbling for the candle, nearly dropping it, burning herself with wax, Ryan snatched up the bundle of letters and studied them at close range.
The name inscribed on the front, written in her precise, childlike hand, was His Serene Highness, Gabriel Phillipe d’Orleans. The address was the Palais Royale in Paris, France.
“These are my letters to him,” whispered Ryan. “Mine. I wrote these. When we were children, I wrote these letters to him.”
Ryan looked up and around, gaping at the small cottage-cave-dwelling-wherever-she-was. She heard a low whoosh, the rising tide of shock and hope. Her mouth literally fell open.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It’s him. I’ve found him. I’ve actually found him.”
Just then the door pushed open, letting in a burst of cool air, rainwater, and scowling man in a dripping overcoat.
Ryan closed the drawer with her hip and slid the bundle of letters into the pocket of her skirts. Her hands felt bloodless, her heart felt like a bucket of coins being shaken in her chest. She spun to face the door.
Mr. Rein looked around, taking in the brewing coffee, the discarded stockings, her position by his books. His eyes narrowed on her face.
“What’s happened?” he rasped.
“I’ve found you,” Ryan said, the words spilling out in a breathless gush. “That’s what’s happened. It’s you, I know it, it’s you.”
Almost too late, she remembered to bow. She dipped into a wobbly curtsy. She wasn’t required to bow—he was French royalty, and she was English—but on the two occasions she’d met him in childhood, her father had bade her to curtsy. It felt foolish and unfitting for two people in sodden clothes, standing in a cave, but she’d told herself that if she found him, she would do it.
She looked up. He gaped at her like a man with a rifle pointed at his face.
Ryan pressed on. “I’ve come to seek your help,” she whispered. “Prince Gabriel. Please. I need your help.”