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 toclaimher. But he repeated his withdrawal from the first time, pulling out just in time to spill his seed on the bench. Tears hadswamped Ryan’s eyes—the convergence of love, and want, and frustration, and fear.
Maurice, she’d vowed,wouldnotruin this. Gabrielcouldconsider 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 housethere...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 hermost immediate goal was to catch Diana when she left the barn and before she entered the house.
