The princes bride, p.17
The Prince's Bride, page 17
“I’ll need to set things to rights at my camp before I commit,” Gabriel finally said. “I’ve grooms in my employ who’ll need instructions for my absence. Allow me to think on it. But I am grateful to you. Truly.”
“Excellent,” said Killian. “I’ll tell my stablemaster. But let us face off with Elise together. She’ll want you in the house. If you decide to stay with us, and if you prefer the stable, my advice to you is to stand your ground.”
Gabriel nodded, thinking again of the potential of leaving Savernake Forest long enough to sort out Ryan’s problem. He’d not envisioned one night out of the forest, let alone a week or a fortnight.
“I like what you’ve said of ruling families and royal courts,” Killian said. “I worked in St. James’s for years and saw almost no value to their machinations. What a lot of vultures and vipers. And I feel terribly for this poor woman—Lady Ryan. But just to be clear, I would do anything for my wife. Her search for you has chewed a small hole through her heart, and—if possible—I would see it filled. There is no rush on this, but I cannot disguise the fact that her happiness is my top priority. In all things.”
“I am grateful for your devotion to her. I will do what I can.”
“As to Lady Ryan,” continued Killian, “just a thought, but would you consider marrying the girl?”
Gabriel made a choking sound and covered it with a cough. “Ah—no. She’ll not want to leave her sisters or her estate in Guernsey. And my life is in Savernake Forest. I’ve found some measure of peace that feels very precious, but it’s specific to my camp.”
Killian nodded thoughtfully. “Elise has told me what she suffered, fleeing France. She was fifteen at the time, but you were just a boy. I can only imagine what you’ve been through.”
“It’s not simply life in the forest. I’m unsuited to carry on as a gentleman in society. I’ve not been a prince since I was a child. If I’m being honest, it will be a struggle to survive your garden tea—how am I to go about as a prince? Not only am I unfit, making the effort feels destructive to my very soul. Lady Ryan is generous and versatile but she’s also the daughter of an earl. She lives on a grand estate. No, I cannot marry her. Nor do I believe she wishes to marry me—or anyone. She and her sisters are settled and happy in Guernsey. She enjoys agency over her household and appears wholly self-reliant. Their family is respected by locals and their sheep earn a living. Except for this odd legal conundrum, she does not require a husband.”
“Hmmm,” said Killian, rubbing his jaw. “But you’re fond of her?”
“Pardon?” asked Gabriel, the word came out on a choke.
“Lady Ryan—you enjoy her company? You’re not ambivalent to her?”
“She is . . .” Gabriel began, searching for the correct word. “. . . I am not ambivalent. To her.”
“Indeed,” Killian mused. “Well, my first bit of advice—assuming you’re open to my advice—is to keep your hands off. Of her. As you sort out all of this betrothal business.”
Gabriel felt his cheeks burn red but he said nothing.
“Forgive my bluntness,” said Killian, “I simply mean you’ve been very much thrown together, haven’t you? An unresolved betrothal, but also new allies working against a common enemy. You’ve rescued her from highwaymen and have examined her various animal attacks and abrasions, et cetera, et cetera. And good for you; the world needs more knights gallant in my view. However, if you’ve no intention of marrying the girl, keep your distance, lest an already complicated situation become a total quagmire.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “I understand. There is no worry on this score. She is not at risk from me.”
“Well, ‘risk’ may be overstating anyone’s intentions—all I’m saying is, treat her like a chaste friend if you can. See if that doesn’t make things easier for both of you?”
The memories of last night rose like a fog in Gabriel’s mind.
“Thank you,” he ground out, looking away, “for everything.”
“Say nothing of it. Now, what of tea in the garden? Will my nephew eat everything before I’ve had so much as a crumb? Yes he will. Will his dogs be permitted on furniture and eat from the table? Also, yes. Can the London nanny my wife hired keep the children occupied before the tea goes cold? Doubtful.”
Six hours later, in the master bedchamber of Mayapple’s family wing, Killian Crewes lay in bed beside his wife. He let out a tired sigh and drew her into the crook of his shoulder, absorbing the warm glow of her happiness. He’d spoken the truth when he’d named her as his chief priority. A side benefit of Elise’s happiness was his own happiness; and a side benefit of their mutual happiness generally occurred right here in this bed.
“Is he anything like what you expected?” Killian asked, speaking into her hair. “After all this time?”
“My brother?” she clarified.
“Are there any other unaccounted ‘hes’ running about Mayapple at the moment?”
She chuckled. “Well, he looks like I thought he would; but he’s far quieter, isn’t he? Stiller? And he has such a humility about him. He looks like our father, but Papa was in no way humble. It’s disorienting. I suppose I didn’t know what to expect.”
“He’s not been jaded by the pretense of other men. He lives simply. I understand his unwillingness to invite vanity and covet and greed into his existence. That’s civilization for you; it’s comfortable, but there is a pecking order.”
“I love him, however he is,” she said, snuggling more tightly into Killian. “Even if I must share him with your horses. Really, Killian, could the arrangements be more self-serving? I’d rather bring the pregnant horse into the house than relegate my brother to the stables.”
“Trust me, Highness, I presented him with the only arrangement he would accept. In fact, I was a little shocked he said yes, even to the stables.”
“He knows that our family should be reunited,” she said. “Deep down, he knows.”
“Well, there’s that, but I also suspect him to be very fond of this earl’s daughter he followed to our doorstep.”
“Fond?” she asked, craning her head.
“Hmmm. To put it mildly. Think on it: We’d never clapped eyes on the man—despite scouring the countryside, despite years of correspondence, despite buying property on the edge of Savernake Forest for the sole purpose of drawing him out. And when do we finally encounter him in the flesh? On the heels of this young woman.”
Elise sat up in bed. “But could you be right? Was this the impression he gave you about Lady Ryan? That is, do you think he—? But is it possible he has some romantic feelings for her?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” Killian said idly. “I cannot say what went on between them in the forest, but I’d bet ten quid she did not complain about the bugs.”
“Honestly,” whispered Elise, folding herself back into his arm, “it occurred to me, too. That is—not about the bugs, but there is something between them. I saw it when we took tea. And she’s very protective of him, isn’t she? Oh Killian, if he formed some attachment to her, and she could see beyond his beard and his horses—if they would be open to the possibilities of a friendship . . .”
Killian made a snorting sound. “‘Open?’ ‘Possibilities?’ ‘Friendship?’ Try marriage, Highness. That’s where my brain has gone.”
Elise sat up again. “What?”
Killian linked his hands behind his head and stared up. “He cannot remain in the forest forever. Or, if he does, he should have a companion. I’m hardly a matchmaker, as you know, but you should’ve seen the way he reacted when I asked him about her.”
“How? How did he react?”
“He reacted like they got on very well—like they’d gotten on, and on, and he would consider himself the luckiest man in the world if they could get on again very soon.”
“No,” Elise breathed dreamily, gazing into the distance.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. He’d evaded us for years; and the first sniff of Lady Ryan of Guernsey and he’s suddenly knocking on our door? He fancies her. Mark my words. And she is good for him; she’s unpretentious and unfussy and natural. She has a sort of evenness that suits him. And she’s obviously infatuated.”
“Is she?” asked Elise. “But how can you know? And how have I missed all of this?”
“Perhaps you’re reeling from the shock of seeing him—and seeing him so transformed. Also, please don’t forget that I formerly worked as King George’s royal fixer. Before marrying you, I was constantly routing illicit lovers and or facilitating preferred matches in St. James’s Palace. I can identify the spark of attraction at ten paces.”
“Unless it’s your own,” she teased.
“Never say it. My own spark was painfully obvious.”
“And yet you ignored it.”
“Ignored? More like fled from it. Or endeavored to flee. My attraction to you, Highness, wasn’t simply obvious, it was unthinkable. It was doomed.”
She giggled. “And see how that turned out. I willed it into fruition.”
“Thank God.” He hitched his knee so their legs tangled beneath the covers.
“Absent your strong will,” he went on, “or, perhaps working in conjunction with it, we can do our part to nudge them in the correct direction. When I worked as royal fixer, my job was to determine the most expedient solution to any given problem, with the fewest extenuating circumstances, the fewest players—or, I should say witnesses—and the most binding results. They didn’t hire me for long, measured coercions that spanned years; I delivered results in a fortnight. This problem wants the same efficiency in my view. We’ve a tortured, exiled prince living like a lonely wild man in the forest and a spinster fiancée being stalked by an entitled coward. Their attraction is not only obvious, thus far it’s proven to be very motivating. He’s out of the forest. He’s consented to stay on at Mayapple. We must strike while the iron is hot.”
“How useful you are, Killian,” Elise breathed, delving her fingers into the whirl of hair on his chest.
“And you thought my only function was sex.” He closed his eyes, pressing his head into his linked hands. He could bask in her touch for eternity.
“Not your only function. Although I do seem to find myself constantly pregnant.”
“You love being pregnant.”
“I love becoming pregnant,” she corrected, “and I love my girls, but I do not relish being pregnant. No woman does.”
“I’ll bet Lady Ryan will. She has that look about her.”
“How could you possibly know this about her.”
“I’m trying to be clever and failing. Let me just say, she desires a family.”
“Fine. Has your fixer’s brain determined how we might facilitate their attraction?”
“The shortest, simplest route is to keep them close in proximity and working toward a common goal. This is the real reason I offered him a room in the stables. If I hadn’t, he would’ve returned to his camp and called once or twice more, monitoring Lady Ryan’s problem from afar. He’s been hunted and haunted and—understandably—he’s very easily spooked. Think of how long you allowed the British royal family to, for all practical purposes, hide you away? He’s still hiding; he’s not yet had a motivating event to embolden him. He’s getting very close, I’d say, but not yet.”
“She is the motivating event?”
“He seems very motivated to me.”
“And taking on our wretched cousin Maurice is their common goal?”
“Now you’re thinking like a fixer,” Killian said. “I have some additional ideas to encourage them; but I need to make some inquiries in London. I’ll send a messenger tomorrow. If you can summon your friend Sister Marie, she’ll be needed before this is all said and done—if nothing else, to find a priest to marry them.”
She looked up to him. “You’re that certain? We’re to the point of finding a priest?”
“Forgive me, I’ve yet to mention my secret weapon.”
She rolled against him. “Do tell.”
“Before I say it, I must secure a promise of gratitude from you. Because it’s a very potent and effective secret weapon. It’s practically guaranteed.”
She chuckled and pulled herself on top of him, sliding onto his chest and hips with a delicious little murmur. “And what, specifically, am I to be grateful for?”
“I’ve advised him to keep his hands off. Off of her.”
“You what?” She pushed up on his chest.
“Trust me on this, Highness. Time-honored method of pushing lovers together: telling them they must, must, must—above all else—keep apart. It’s what I told myself when I fell in love with you. And see where that got me?”
But Elise was shaking her head. “I don’t know, Killian. Gabriel seems very earnest and cautious. What if he restricts himself based on this terrible advice; advice that you don’t even mean?”
“He won’t restrict himself,” breathed Killian. He unlinked his hands and slid them to her knees, tugging her legs on either side of him. “I’ve seen the way he looks at her. He’ll not be able to resist. And if he abides by my suggestion—if he’s perfectly able to keep his hands off of her—then we’ll know I’ve misjudged their situation. And we’ll leave it. An experienced solicitor can send your cousin packing with no harm done. Lady Ryan and your brother will go their separate ways. But I haven’t misjudged; I’d put money on it. Be patient. Pretend you don’t notice. Let’s keep them close and working together.
“In the meantime,” he rumbled, rising up to capture her mouth in a kiss, “about that gratitude . . .”
Chapter Eighteen
Ryan was told at breakfast that Gabriel would remain at Mayapple while they sorted out some solution to the imposter prince.
The announcement came from Mr. Crewes; an off-hand comment as he’d salted his eggs. It was clear to Ryan that Elise Crewes already knew, but she launched into an odd battery of questions—“Did you invite him to stay or did he ask to stay?” “How long will he remain?” “Where is he now?” “Will he join us for breakfast in future; will he come to any meal at all?”—but her husband deflected them all.
“I’ve told you everything I know on the matter,” Killian said. “He means to stay and get Lady Ryan sorted.”
Ryan stared into her plate, riding out the galloping hooves that had replaced her heart. Gabriel would leave the forest. Gabriel would be here, with her—or at the very least, near her. Gabriel had arranged for this with Mr. Crewes but not discussed it with Ryan. She’d come all this way, she’d drummed him from his seclusion, she’d caused him to admit his real identity, she was his bloody fiancée—and she was the last to know.
Even Gabriel’s nieces seemed to know more about his intentions. The girls trundled through the breakfast room to pilfer scones and little Marie announced: “When Uncle Gabriel returns from checking on his horses in the forest, he will live with Papa’s horses in the stable. And every day he will teach us something new about being horsewomen.” She ticked off future skills on her fingers. “How to tie actual knots in actual ropes. How to braid the tails of the horses without danger from their powerful hind legs. How to examine their teeth.”
“We mustn’t overwhelm Uncle Gabriel, girls,” said Mr. Crewes. “But will you eat your scone at the table? With a proper plate and napkin in your lap? Where is Nanny?”
“Nanny has eaten undercooked fish,” reported Marie, walking out the door, a scone in each hand. Sofie hurried behind her.
“I worry Nanny has a weak constitution,” tsked Elise, watching them go.
“That’s the problem, is it?” drawled Killian from behind his newspaper.
Ryan smiled, in spite of herself. The Creweses were generous hosts, warm and accommodating; and their obvious affection and mutual respect made Elise feel safe and inexplicably hopeful. They talked openly about the work of running Mayapple and of raising their girls. If Ryan felt a trickle of homesickness for her sisters and her busy life at Winscombe, she reminded herself that she’d come to England to restore that busy life and protect those sisters. If she also felt a stab of longing for a family of her own, a husband and children, she pushed it away. Her life was so very full. She was under attack at the moment, but things were looking up. And Gabriel would (apparently) be nearby. Whether he’d simply observe Ryan from the safe distance of the stables or actually interact with her—she couldn’t say. But she left breakfast feeling bolstered, and eager, and ever so slightly annoyed.
She made a silent vow to expect nothing from Gabriel Rein. She needed less disappointment and anxiety in her life, not more; and Gabriel was unpredictable and uncommunicative. And he would never leave Mayapple with her, he would not share any part of his life with her, regardless of what happened in their shared time on the estate. The fewer expectations meant less heartbreak in the end.
And then, just after breakfast, she saw him.
He stepped into a passageway in the servants’ corridor and they came face-to-face. Agnes had been working her magic on Ryan’s gown, a new-to-her frock given to her by Elise. The fit was good except for the sleeves, which needed lengthening, and the hem, which should be let out.
“Hello,” Gabriel clipped, taking in the sight of her with a long, hard look. He stopped five feet from her.
Ryan wouldn’t have been more surprised if the Prince Regent had appeared in the corridor. He wore buckskins and a jacket; both of which had seen considerable wear but were clean, unlike the rumpled, dusty clothes of the day before. He held his hat in his hand, exposing his hair, which was less uneven than she remembered. His beard had also been trimmed. He looked . . . if not, gentlemanly (or even civilized), then neat and respectable. He looked like a very large, very fit woodsman. Which she supposed he was. Was it wrong that she also found him devastatingly handsome? Ryan couldn’t say; she knew only that the sight of Gabriel in tan buckskin and chocolate leather put her off of brocade waistcoats or linen cravats for life.
Beside her, Agnes gasped. Agnes hadn’t liked the look of Gabriel when she’d seen him from the distance of the carriage the day before, and a closer view was unlikely to improve her opinion.
