Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

  Then it dawned that she was actually considering accepting his offer. Perhaps she had lost her mind. He was a stranger. Besides that, he wanted her to cross the ocean and live in America. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said uneasily.

  “Well, you don’t have much time. I’m scheduled to leave in two weeks, and I still haven’t found the horses I came to buy. I went to Touraine, but”—he waved a hand of dismissal—“never mind. I’ll find the Anglo-Arabs I want if I have to search night and day.”

  “You won’t find them in Touraine.”

  “And where would you suggest?” he asked, obviously amused.

  “You need to go to Blois. There’s a man there by the name of Francois DeNeux. He raises the finest breeding stock of Anglo-Arabs in all of France.”

  “And how would you know?”

  She was tempted to tell him that her own horse, Vertus, came from there. Her father had been an expert about such things. Vertus was the most high-blooded horse available in the country at that time, and he had been determined to buy the best.

  “I hear things,” she hedged. “People talk.”

  “And that’s probably all it is—talk. Now we really need to get going. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “You seem to forget I haven’t said I would.”

  “I don’t know what else I can do to convince you.”

  She thought how, if it were a trick and she signed the paper, she would be at his mercy. But if she refused, she would be returned to The Grave. And no matter how strong her resolve to survive, she would probably die there. She would never be taken before a judge. No one knew she existed on the outside. No one cared what happened to her.

  Except for the stranger.

  “What’s your decision?” he prodded. “I can understand your reluctance, but I promise I’m serious about wanting to marry you.”

  She suddenly felt the need to ask, “Would you have let me go if the gendarme hadn’t come when he did?”

  There was the slightest twist of a smile on his lips. “You know, to be honest, I’ve thought about that myself. I like to think I would’ve, because I don’t mind telling you it’s worried the hell out of me thinking about you in jail. You’re too young, and I think you steal because you’re desperate—like you said.”

  “It’s worse than jail,” she snapped. “It’s a living hell.”

  “Then come with me. What do you have to lose? What reason do you have to stay? You said you have no family.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You have no home.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Then why—”

  She cut him off. “Because I don’t know that I can trust you.”

  “So what do you think is going to become of you if you stay here?”

  Just then the door opened, and Captain Duclos walked in. Having heard Ryan’s question, he smirked at Angele and said, “She knows what will happen to her. She’s going back to her grave.”

  Ryan was staggered. “Her what?”

  Angele locked unflinching eyes with Captain Duclos. “Just what he said, Monsieur Tremayne. My grave. It’s a coffin, buried in the ground. He buried me in it to try and make me sign his damned paper.”

  Ryan’s eyes were like ice as he turned on Duclos. “You did that? You actually buried her alive?”

  Duclos retreated to behind his desk before explaining, “It’s nothing to concern yourself. It’s just a place where we put uncooperative prisoners.”

  “That’s barbaric!” Ryan cried.

  Duclos shrugged. “We do what we have to do. The jails are crowded. If a prisoner isn’t willing to work in order to be freed, then they must face the consequences.”

  Ryan whirled on Angele. “Sign the paper, and let’s get you out of here. If you don’t want to accept my offer, so be it. I’ll set you free and give you some money to live on till you find work. I can’t leave you in a place like this.”

  Angele had quickly thought it over. She had always yearned to taste everything life had to offer and decided that the idea of going to America was exciting. As for becoming a stranger’s wife, well, that would take some getting used to, and she could only hope he would be patient. But what finally convinced her was facing the reality that she had no options. She would get hungry again, steal again, and sooner or later be arrested. Next time, the commandant would see she was sold into a bordello—or worse.

  “All right. I’ll sign.”

  Duclos shoved the paper and a pen across the desk. “Do it and then get out. I’m sick of you.”

  Quickly, she scrawled her name, then angrily threw the pen down. It bounced off the desk, spattering ink on the front of Duclos’s uniform. He leaped up, but Ryan held out a hand in warning. “It’s over. Let’s not have any trouble.” He took Angele’s arm and rushed her out of the office.

  Once they were on the street, he said, eyes twinkling, “If I were you, I’d try real hard not to get arrested around here again.”

  She smiled up at him. “I won’t. And if I get arrested in America, they won’t send me back to Paris to jail, anyway.”

  He looked at her uncertainly.

  She didn’t keep him in suspense, her eyes also sparkling. “I really doubt I’ll have to steal to keep from starving over there. You did say you were rich, didn’t you? And if I’m your wife, I shouldn’t have to go hungry, should I?”

  They had stopped walking, and when he did not immediately respond, she shifted her feet nervously and wondered if this was it—the time when he admitted it really was a trick to get her to sign, after all. She thought about trying to run away and began darting quick glances around.

  Finally, he spoke, and it was as though he’d had to come to some kind of final resolution within himself. “Yes, I am wealthy, and, no, you won’t be hungry ever again.”

  He held out his hand to her, and she took it, praying all the while she had not made a mistake and wondering if he was doing the same.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan took Angele to the nearest restaurant. When she realized where he was going, she resisted. “I can’t go in there like this.”

  “Nonsense. You look like you’re ready to collapse. You’ve got to eat.”

  He drew the horrified maître d’ aside. “I know the lady isn’t properly dressed, but I’m not asking that you seat us in the dining room. A corner of the kitchen will be fine. But she has to have something to eat. She’s been ill.” He hoped that might help, but the maître d’ continued to stare, aghast, from him to Angele. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Ryan added, reaching in his pocket.

  The maître d’ sighed. “Very well. Come with me. I’ll take you to the back where the workers eat.”

  He led them to a room behind the kitchen. The smell of cooking food made Angele sway, and Ryan quickly slipped his arm around her, afraid she would faint.

  The maître d’ explained he would have to find a waiter, because that area was not staffed.

  Ryan had spotted a pot of chicken soup cooking on the stove as they passed through the kitchen. “That won’t be necessary. If you can just bring her a bowl of soup, some bread and wine.” He looked at Angele. “Do you have a preference?”

  Actually, she did but remembered to let him think she had no knowledge of such things—not yet, anyway. “I’m afraid the only difference I know in wine is white from red,” she fibbed.

  He ordered Chablis, and when they were alone, asked if she were feeling any better.

  “Much, thank you. I’m just so relieved to be out of that place.”

  “You’ll feel stronger after you’ve eaten. Then we’ll buy you some clothes and have you fitted for a complete wardrobe. You’ll be the envy of every woman in Richmond.”

  “You really intend to take me home with you, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “There’s still a chance it was a trick, so you can take me to your bordello.”

&nb
sp; He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m going to start thinking that’s what you actually want—”

  She gasped. “Oh, no, monsieur. Please don’t think that. I only meant—”

  He quickly reached across the table to cover her trembling hands, then, seeing how it startled her, drew back as he apologized. “I’m sorry. I was only teasing. I just have a lot to learn about you, Angele. And please, call me Ryan.”

  “Anything you wish.”

  “I am going to take you home, and I am going to marry you. But are you sure there’s no one you need to contact to let them know you’re leaving France? Family? Friends?”

  “No one.”

  “All right, then. I’ll make the arrangements. First, we’ll see to your wardrobe. I saw a dressmaker’s sign in a window across the street. I have some business I need to tend to, but I’ll give you some money and come back for you later. You can choose anything you like.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll take your money and run away?”

  He had thought about the possibility but knew he could not watch her every minute. Besides, he might not know anything about her past but could tell she wasn’t stupid. He was giving her the opportunity of a lifetime, and she knew it. “I can’t stop you if that’s what you want to do, so I’m not going to worry about it. I hope you won’t, though. I think we can have a good life together.”

  A waiter brought the soup. Seeing how she ate so ravenously, he asked how long since she’d had anything.

  She swallowed a mouthful of buttered bread and sipped her wine before admitting, “I’m not sure. And what I did have wasn’t fit for pigs. I can’t even remember how long I was there. I tried to keep up with the days, but I’m afraid I lost track.”

  “A week and a day. Yesterday I managed to find the lady you robbed. She was coming out of the abbey after mass and was able to give me the name of the officer who arrested you,” he explained. “Otherwise, I’d never have been able to find you.”

  “I thank God that you did.”

  “So do I.”

  She had just bitten down on another piece of bread but paused. “You know, I’m still shocked by all of this. It’s happening so quickly and doesn’t seem real. I mean, a man of your wealth and position shouldn’t have any trouble finding a wife.”

  He unbuttoned the front of his carrick and shook it from his shoulders.

  Angele’s gaze dropped to his chest. His ruffled shirt had come open, and she could see a mat of dark-blond hair. She glanced away, hoping he didn’t notice how her breath had caught in her throat.

  He leaned back to hook one arm over the side of his chair. “There aren’t that many Frenchwomen where I live, and I rarely travel. I prefer to stay home and work with my horses.” He remembered what she’d said earlier and asked, “By the way, how is it you know so much about Anglo-Arabs? And I believe you said I should look for them in Blois.”

  “That’s right. Francois DeNeux is one of France’s best horse breeders.”

  He persisted, “And how do you know that?”

  “I told you. I hear things.”

  “Do you ride?”

  “Me? Why, no.” She laughed loudly, remembering it was to her advantage to seem unrefined. Otherwise, he would never stop asking questions, and it might come out who she was. After all, she and her mother had been further humiliated when word had spread to Paris from England about the downfall of Cecil Mooring. And if Ryan found out, he might want nothing to do with her. Then what was to become of her? She’d been given a miracle and was not about to lose it.

  “Tell me something about yourself. Where were you born? How did your father earn his living?”

  Just then she smelled fish cooking and blurted, “He was a fisherman, and I was born in a little fishing village near Brittany, to the south of France.” She had never been there but knew her geography.

  “And that was where you heard about Francois DeNeux? In Brittany? That’s a long way from Blois.”

  “As I keep telling you—people talk. I listen.”

  “And you also heard them talking about Anglo-Arabs? What did they say?”

  “Only that they are nice horses,” she lied again. Actually, she probably knew as much about the breed as he did, but it would seem far too bizarre that a fisherman’s daughter would be knowledgeable about such expensive horses. Only the wealthiest could afford them, and they were not found around fishing villages.

  She maneuvered to change the subject. “That’s all there is to tell about me. As I said before, I’m an orphan, and I have no family. So can we talk about the trip to America? What will it be like?”

  “We’ll be sailing on the Black Ball Line from Le Havre. It’s a steam packet called the Victory, the same one my cousin and I came over on.”

  “And what’s a packet?” She knew, but again wanted to appear ignorant of such things.

  “A packet carries mail, goods, and passengers. It’s comfortable. I think you’ll like it. I’ll go by the Black Ball office this afternoon to see if I can get a cabin for us. My cousin and I slept in berths in a dormitory coming over. Ladies had a separate room. I’ll see what other accommodations are available.”

  She felt her cheeks warm to think about sharing a room with him and ducked her head to eat her soup.

  “The crossing should take around three weeks, a bit faster than the trip over.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Owing to westerly winds, the eastward trip is usually made in shorter time than the westward. We should have good weather, too, so you probably won’t get sick.”

  She felt a twinge of worry. “Why would I?”

  “I thought you said you were raised in a fishing village. Surely you know how the roll of the sea can make you nauseated.”

  She took a gulp of wine, because she could feel herself tensing, afraid to say the wrong thing. “I never went out in a boat. I don’t like the water.”

  He grinned. “But as you keep reminding me, you hear people talk.”

  She shook her head and forced a smile, then gulped her wine again. “No. Sorry. I just hope I don’t get sick and become a nuisance to you.”

  “You should be fine. I didn’t have any trouble coming over, and neither did my cousin.”

  “Was he the man with you the day you caught me?”

  “Yes. His name is Corbett. I hope the two of you will get along. He and his wife live in the house with my father and me.”

  Angele wondered how big the house was. The manor where she had grown up had over a hundred rooms. She could never remember exactly.

  “They have a son,” Ryan went on. “He’s a bit spoiled, but then so is Clarice—that’s Corbett’s wife. But don’t worry, she’s also French, so the two of you should get along quite well.”

  Angele certainly hoped so. She didn’t want any problems.

  Ryan Tremayne was offering her a whole new life, and while she still couldn’t quite grasp the reality of it all, she knew she wanted it more than anything. He seemed kind and good and generous, and she dared believe they might be happy. She certainly intended to do her part to make it happen.

  Ryan nodded to the empty soup bowl, bread plate, and wineglass. “Would you like more?”

  “No, but it was all wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Well, we’ll see to it you get something more substantial for dinner. I just didn’t want to shock your stomach right now by letting you eat too much.”

  He left her to find the waiter and pay the bill, remembering his promise of generosity to the maître d’. When he returned, Angele was asleep, her head resting on the table. He gently touched her shoulder.

  She bolted upright, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I guess it was the wine.”

  “No need to apologize.” They went outside, and he suggested, “Maybe I should take you to my hotel and let you get some rest. I can have a boutique send over something suitable for you to wear for dinner. I think I can guess your size.”

  “I d
on’t know,” she said uncertainly. “I mean, to go to your hotel…”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get your own room for you. I do that for all the girls at my bordello.”

  Angele laughed, confident he was only teasing.

  They began walking, and she tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, carefully avoiding the curious stares from those they passed.

  The desk clerk’s brows crawled into his hairline when Ryan asked for a room. “Sir, I don’t think—”

  But Ryan cut him off. He hadn’t liked the stares, either, and was tired of all the scrutiny. “The young lady needs accommodation, and since I’m staying in one of your most expensive rooms, I would appreciate your taking care of her.”

  The clerk pursed his lips. Ryan had made his point. As one of the house’s best-paying guests, his demands were not to be questioned. “As you wish, sir, but at the moment I have nothing. However, I do have a couple checking out of a room just down the hall from you, but they’ve asked to be allowed to stay until six o’clock.”

  “Fine. I won’t be back before then. She can stay in my room. Have someone take her there. I’m in a bit of a hurry.” He turned to Angele. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more tonight…get to know each other better.”

  He turned to go, but Angele called to him. “I just want to say thank you…for everything. You won’t regret any of this.”

  He smiled and kept on going.

  The afternoon was passing quickly and Ryan had much to do. First, he went to the nearest boutique and told the proprietor what he wanted—a gown fit for a princess to be sent to Mademoiselle Angele Benet at the Le Pierre Hotel. He didn’t care what it cost. He left a large deposit and said he would pay the balance the next day.

  His next stop was the office of the Black Ball Line, where he was told there were no cabins available. The agent asked if there was any reason he was dissatisfied with his accommodations on the voyage over.

  “No. But circumstances have changed,” he revealed. “I’m getting married, and my bride will be traveling with me.”

  “I understand, but let me explain the situation.” The agent took out a diagram of the ship and unrolled it on the counter. “As you can see, the Victory only has dormitories. No cabins. Now I can put you on the James Munroe. It’s about four hundred tons, one hundred feet in length. It has six cabins that will hold two passengers each and room for a dozen men and women in steerage dormitories. There’s also a smoking salon for cabin passengers—which we consider first class, a sewing room for the ladies, and a nice dining room. I think you and your bride would be quite comfortable.