Her hair was darker, she’d grown obviously, but herlarge bluish eyes were unchanged. She’d had a general air of quietness, and this was also the same. Her request to see the house came out like a gentle suggestion. Her voice was soft and her mannerisms were calm. He couldn’t have borne brashness, he thought. He was accustomed to the quiet rustles and snaps of the forest. She fit nicely inside the small cave. She fit even more nicely in his arms.
“I’ve not prowled about, no matter what you think,” she was saying. “I would hate to leave a proper cave without a tour. Do you mean to restore me to Pewsey tonight?”
“My intention was to take you to the edge of the village in the morning.”
“Tomorrow, then. Thank you for harboring me. And rescuing me. Thank you for everything.”
“I regret it,” he said, the words out before he’d realized it.
“You regret rescuing me?” she asked on a chuckle. “That is a terrible thing to say.”
“I am terrible.”
“Your value, sir, is still in question. At least where I am concerned. It depends on what you’re willing to do for me.”
“I’m not willing to do anything for you.” He forced himself to release her. He took a step back. “We’ll ride to Pewsey and part ways.”
“I don’t believe you,” she declared softly. “You rescued me from the highwayman. You’ve taken me in. You saved my letters these great many years. You’ve been very gracious about—” A pause. “About the collision of our lives. All things considered.”
Gabriel stooped to collect the fallen cups andclunked them, one by one, on the tabletop. Should he contradict her? Tell her she’d beenextracted, not rescued? That he’d not taken her in, but stashed her out of the rain? That he was a rustic, primitive beast of a man who gaped at her like he’d never seen a woman? That he’d hauled her through the forest on his shoulder because that was what primitive, beastly men did?
What of the rest of it? Should he tell her that the freedom of his forest life was something he would never give up?
Being a prince was not an honor, it was a type of servitude. Princes existed at the pleasure of their families, and loyalists, and history, and money. Every aspect of royal life was controlled. And Gabriel would rather be primitive and free than to ever go back.
He was a man forgotten by civilization—or who’d forgotten how to be civilized. He’d allowed it all to slip away in order to survive. But there wasn’t space in his life to also manage the survival of Lady Marianne Daventry. Regrettably. Selfishly.
And it made no difference that she seemed unfazed and accommodating, and that she hadn’t challenged him about keeping her letters. And it made no difference that he’d managed to touch her ten different ways since he’d scooped her from the road and she hadn’t seemed to mind.
If only he’d nottouchedher, he thought. If he’d not touched her, he probablywouldbe stomping through the rain, hauling her to Pewsey tonight.
He’d not meant to put his hands on her, but Meade’s men were too numerous. Against the rock, they’d needed to hide. In the road, he’d needed the elementof surprise. On the trail, the rain was too heavy to drag her. He’d had no choice but to scoop her up. Her position over his shoulder had been a practical matter, logistical; but then her hip had settled against his cheek and her thighs rested against his chest and his body had awakened at each point of contact. Muscles twitched, groin tightened, hairs stood on end. Gabriel’s skin was like a thick, leathery husk; long detached from the sensations of softness. He rarely encountered female parts, or fragrant cloaks or wet curls, or lips against his throat. The husk had dissolved when he held her; every nerve ending tingled and throbbed andsought.
Physically, his body had climbed up that hill; mentally, he’d cataloged the contour of her breasts against his back; her hip against his cheek. It had taken all of his control to carry her away instead of dropping to the ground and touching and touching and touching every part of her until there was no earlobe or shoulder blade or the inside of a knee unknown to his hands. He’d wanted to gobble her up.
He hadn’t gobbled her, he’d removed her from the road—and then he’d held her against his chest and slowly expired while she nestled into him.
And now he’d touched her again. In his own kitchen. And declared that she should stay the night.
“Mr. Rein?” she was saying, trying to get his attention.
“Tell me your name again?”
“You know my name.”
“Tell me.”
“Alright. I’m called Ryan. Lady Ryan Daventry. When we were children, you knew me as Lady Marianne.”
“I do not know you, Lady MarianneRyanDaventry.” He would say it, and say it, and say it.
“You do.”
“I do not.”
She exhaled, closed her eyes, opened them again. “You wish to speak in circles? Fine. Let us circle back to this: Will you show me your home?”
“Why?”
