The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (10 page)

It didn’t take long to decide that in the affirmative; Ryder’s title, family, wealth, estates, social standing—all were the pinnacle of what a lady such as she, the youngest daughter of a major house, might think to claim.

“Society and the grandes dames would definitely approve.” She thought, then added, “But I don’t really care about them. And the family will agree with whoever pleases me, so what do I truly want?”

Would filling the position of the Marchioness of Raventhorne please her? Satisfy her?

Be to her liking?

“That’s not so easy to answer.” She glanced out of the carriage window, but they were still on the south side of Berkley Square. Deciding it was nice to be able to think aloud without risking anyone overhearing, she continued her ruminations.

“Being Ryder’s wife. That’s the issue here. Whether as his wife I’ll be able to be as I wish to be . . .”

She grimaced into the dark. “And although that’s not at all easy to decide, deciding one way or another is not something I’m going to be able to avoid. I’m going to have to accept him or refuse him . . . and refusing him is going to be a battle, because he won’t accept that readily.” Denying Ryder would demand a degree of strength and a wealth of conviction. “A lot of certainty, which at present I’m not sure I have.”

Could she trust in what he’d said? “I’m sure he meant every word—that he would
try
to find ways to accommodate my wishes—but what if he fails? He might be willing enough to attempt it, but will he actually be able to”—she gestured in the dark—“make the necessary adjustments?” Even if he wanted to, could the lion change?

No matter how she viewed it, accepting his proposal would be a massive risk—for her. Not for him.

“If I accept him, regardless of how matters play out, he will have got what he wants.”

Her. As his bride. She frowned. “Why has he settled on me?”

A highly pertinent question, but he’d told her at least one reason. She was the last Cynster girl unwed; given his age, for him she was the only possible chance of forming an alliance with her family.

Added to that, she had to admit that, somewhat to her surprise, they rubbed along fairly well together. Their similar backgrounds made it easy for her to stand alongside him socially, and her far-more-extensive-than-was-customary acquaintance with and experience of men like him—namely all the men in her family—was also undoubtedly a boon in terms of her understanding him.

And, to some extent, making allowances for certain behavior that other ladies might find trying.

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t find the same traits annoying but more that she would understand that, in some situations, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. “For instance, with Francome.”

She dwelled on all she’d sensed in the incident, then shook aside the distraction. “Where was I? Ah, yes. He clearly finds me amusing, and I have to admit he’s more than passably entertaining, and he can certainly waltz. As for the rest . . .” The way he made her feel, the effect he had on her that she habitually ignored, given she’d never been able to suppress it.

“Hmm . . . I’d wager Grandmama’s pearls that he has the same effect on every woman with functioning senses, so I don’t think I can deduce anything from that.”

The carriage had been inching forward; now it rocked and canted on its springs as the coachman turned the horses north along the west side of the square. Gradually, the carriage’s speed increased to a steady walking pace.

Refocusing on the dimly lit seat opposite, Mary replayed her thoughts. By all the customary social and familial measures, she and Ryder were well suited. “But none of that says anything about love.”

And that was her biggest question, her stumbling block, her highest hurdle. Not by any stretch of the imagination could she believe that Ryder was in love with her. Not now. But the big question was: Could he be?

If she gave him—them—the chance, could he fall in love with her, and she with him?

Could he, Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, possibly be her true hero, the man who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss?

She gnawed on the question as the carriage gradually picked up pace. As the coachman slowed the horses to negotiate the entry to Davies Street, Mary reached up, found the necklace about her throat, and drew the rose quartz pendant from between her breasts.

In the faint light cast by a streetlamp, she studied the pendant, turning it between her fingers. She’d thought it would be so easy. That finding her one, her true hero, would simply be a matter of wearing the necklace, and he would promptly present himself and bow before her. . . .

She blinked, her mind reeling back to the night she’d first worn the necklace. The first gentleman she’d had any real interaction with . . . had been Ryder.

She’d dismissed him, walked around him and away.

If he gets under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .

Angelica’s description of how her hero might appear to her.

Under such a definition, Ryder qualified.

She stared at the rose quartz pendant, then, lips tightening, tucked it back under her bodice. She believed in the powers of The Lady’s talisman—she truly did—but she hadn’t expected her quest for love and her true hero to require her to court the sort of risks that walking into the den of an acknowledged lion of the ton would entail.

Sitting back as the carriage rolled around the corner into Mount Street, she grimaced. “I suppose it comes down to whether or not I’m convinced that there’s no other true hero out there for me—that Ryder is truly my one.”

Sudden movement outside the carriage had her glancing out. As if her use of his name had conjured him, Ryder stepped out of the mouth of an alley just ahead . . .

No, not stepped—reeled.

As the carriage drew level, she watched as he staggered, slowly pivoted, then collapsed facedown on the pavement.

He might have been drunk, but she knew he hadn’t been, that he couldn’t be.

Leaping to her feet, she thumped her fist on the trapdoor in the ceiling. “John! Stop!
Stop!
”

Chapter Five

S
he leapt out of the carriage while it was still rocking. Her heart in her mouth, she raced back along the pavement. The shouts from John and Peter for her to wait seemed distant, far away.

Even before she reached Ryder, she knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Blood glinted, fresh, ruby red, by his side.

She fell on her knees beside him. “Oh, God!” One glance at his face confirmed he was unconscious. An unsheathed rapier, the blade stained with blood, lay weakly clasped in one hand.

Frantic, she tried to push him onto his back, to find where he was wounded. There was too much blood . . . but he was too heavy for her to shift.

Peter reached her. She didn’t even glance up. “Quickly! Help me!”

With Peter’s assistance, she managed to heave Ryder onto his back.

An ugly gash on his left side, near his waist, was steadily pumping blood.

Her heart stopped. “No.” She pressed a hand over the wound, then as blood immediately seeped through her fingers, she slapped her other hand over the first, trying desperately to staunch the flow.

Glancing up and about, she realized Peter had circled around; he stepped cautiously into the alley. He came out almost immediately, his face ashen. “Two ruffians in there, miss. Reckon as they’re dead. Must’ve set on him.” Dragging in a breath, he nodded at Ryder. “Gave a good account of hisself, but they’d already stuck him.”

“Yes, well, don’t just stand there!” When Peter did just that, looking mournful, she snapped, “He’s not dead yet!”

The warmth flooding under her hands assured her that was true, but for how long? “For God’s
sake
!” Wild panic gripped her. Looking around, she saw John Coachman, who had had to brake the coach and find some urchin to hold his horses, running toward them. “Thank heaven.” She raised her voice. “John—it’s the Marquess of Raventhorne. He’s been badly wounded, but his house is just there.” Without taking her hands from Ryder’s side—was it her imagination, or was the steady stream slowing, and was that good or bad?—she hauled in a breath, swallowed her fear, and nodded to the houses on the opposite side of the street. “It’s the one with the iron railings—go and summon his staff immediately!”

“Yes, miss!” Skidding to a halt, John turned and raced across the street.

Despite the traffic about Berkley Square, and a conglomeration of carriages some way down the street, there was no traffic passing along that stretch just then. Mary didn’t know whether to be thankful for the lack of distraction or annoyed not to have had more help.

She looked down and attempted to take stock. The closest source of light was the streetlamp several yards beyond Ryder’s feet. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure the gash she was pressing on was his only wound. “Peter, can you see any other cut? Is he bleeding from anywhere else?”

“Not that I can see, miss.” Peter had retrieved Ryder’s hat and his cane—the empty outer sheath of the rapier—from the alley. Coming to stand opposite her again, he shifted, clearly nervous. “Is there anything else you want me to do, miss?”

Her mind seemed to be operating on two levels simultaneously. One was a tumult of emotions; the other was surprisingly clear. Just as well; this was no time for panic—Ryder couldn’t afford it. Holding her emotions at bay, she clung to what needed to be done—to what she was good at. Taking charge. “Yes. Go across the road and tell his lordship’s people that he’s unconscious and they’ll need a door, or a gate, or a stretcher of some sort to move him. And they must send for his physician immediately.”

“Ah—I don’t think I should leave you—”

“There’s no one about. Just go!” She used the tone of voice with which few argued.

Peter wasn’t proof against it; he ducked his head and went.

She refused to think about how much blood lay on the pavement beside Ryder, let alone had soaked into his clothes and was turning sticky around her hands. As she registered the cloying warmth about her fingers, instinct shrieked at her to draw her hands away; ruthlessly she quashed it. Her senses drew in; her gaze locked on the rise and fall of Ryder’s chest, she followed the rhythm until it became her own heartbeat. . . .

His heart was higher than where she was pressing; she could sense the faint thump through her fingers.

Dragging in a ragged breath, she raised her gaze to his face, that unbelievably beautiful sculpted face, now pale in the moonlight and so still, devoid of its customary animation—the glint in his hazel eyes, the inherently wicked curve of his chiseled lips, the languidly suggestive arch of his brows.

Something in her chest shifted; her vision blurred. “Don’t you
dare
die on me, Ryder,” she whispered, fierce and low. “Not now.”

Ryder sensed hard pavement beneath him. He felt cold all over, chilled; he wasn’t sure he could actually feel much of his body. Everything seemed far away.

But he sensed warmth beside him. He would have liked to get closer.

He remembered getting stabbed, and wondered why fate, who had never been fickle to him before, had suddenly deserted him.

He tried to lift his lids—and was surprised when they rose a fraction.

An angel with lustrous dark hair was leaning over him. His vision swam into focus and he recognized Mary. Not an angel then, but for him even better.

Her normal skin tone was alabaster, but she looked even paler. Her brows were drawn. She looked worried, anxious . . .

Why? His lips were oddly dry, his tongue leaden. “What . . . ?” More breath than speech.

She looked at him, startled, but she didn’t move her arms, her hands. Then her expression grew fierce and her blue eyes burned. “Stay with me!”

He blinked—would have told her he had no intention of doing anything else, but then his lids wouldn’t rise again, and everything grew dim, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.

Mary stared at Ryder’s face, willing him to open his eyes again, to give her that much hope, but his features had slackened; he was unconscious again.

A clatter of feet, a rush of people, and she was surrounded by a bevy of men all exuding unbridled concern but with no idea what to do, and she was forced to focus and organize them. “No, I’m not stepping back. I can’t take my hands away, not yet.” She glanced around. “Good—there’s enough of you. One at his head, one at each shoulder, one at each hip, and one man to lift his feet. The other three of you can slide that door under him when the rest of us ease him up.”

They shuffled, and under her continued direction, acting in concert they managed to ease Ryder onto the door, then six of them lifted the panel while Ryder’s butler—he’d introduced himself as Pemberly—helped Mary to her feet so she didn’t have to shift her hands.

But the pressure she’d exerted necessarily eased a trifle before she could press down again; blood welled, but much less, and more sluggishly.

Sending up a swift prayer, she grimly nodded and they started off, John and Peter holding back the traffic so they could ferry their burden across the cobbled street and up the steps into Raventhorne House.

As, slowly and awkwardly, they negotiated the steep steps, Mary said, “He regained consciousness just before and spoke—it was only one word, but . . .” She paused to steady her voice. “He’s not dead yet.”

Whether she was speaking to reassure them or herself she didn’t know, but the butler audibly drew in a breath; quickening his pace, he crossed the narrow porch to hold open the double doors. As he did, he spoke to others within, “He’s still alive.”

“Oh, thank
heaven
!”

Crossing the threshold, Mary realized the feminine exclamation hadn’t come from any female member of Ryder’s family but from a woman she took to be his housekeeper.

The staff were all gathered, all trapped by concern and an eager, almost desperate desire to help, but with no notion of what needed to be done. Mary didn’t hesitate—this was no time for social niceties, and if she was treading on some lady’s toes by assuming command, then that lady ought to have been there to take charge. “Pemberly—some names, please. We need to get his lordship upstairs.”

Snapped into action by the whip of her voice, Pemberly shut the double doors and introduced the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and a man Mary took to be Ryder’s gentleman’s gentleman, Collier.

“Good. Mrs. Perkins, perhaps you might go up and ensure his lordship’s bed is ready to receive him, but please don’t start any fire in his room, not until the doctor has seen him.”

“Yes, miss.” Eyes round, Mrs. Perkins curtsied and hurried for the stairs.

Mary turned her sights on Collier; the man was all but dithering in his helplessness. “Fetch scissors to cut his lordship out of his clothes—we won’t be able to ease him out of them. And round up bandages and a basin. You might also take charge of his lordship’s swordstick.” She glanced around. “My footman has it.”

Collier gulped in a breath and straightened. “I’ll find it, miss. And the rest.”

Keeping her hands pressed to Ryder’s side, she turned to Pemberly. “Have you sent for his lordship’s physician?”

“Yes, miss. A boy’s already gone.”

“Excellent.” Mary eyed the long first flight of stairs. “In that case, let’s take his lordship to his room.”

“Indeed, miss . . .” Pemberly tried to catch her eye.

“Cynster. Miss Mary Cynster.” Shuffling alongside the door-cum-stretcher bearing Ryder’s still form, Mary cautioned the men, “Very carefully, now. No need to rush.”

Taking due note of her tone, the six burly men—footmen and grooms—climbed the stairs one slow step at a time.

Mary largely lost track of the following hour. With a great deal of organizing, they managed to lift Ryder off the door and onto the wide expanse of his bed without her shifting her hands; she ended up perched on her knees alongside him, keeping steady pressure on his wound. Collier and Mrs. Perkins worked around her to strip the clothes from Ryder’s upper body, then Mrs. Perkins washed the worst of the blood from his too-pale skin.

Her gaze drawn to the wide expanse of his chest, the broad, heavy muscles garlanded with crisp golden brown hair, the skin, more olive than her own, smooth and taut over the sculpted hardness, Mary found herself fascinated, but in a distant, detached way.

Some currently submerged part of her noted the immense weight of his shoulder bones, the heavy muscles of his upper arms, the impressive width of his chest that tapered down past his lower ribs and ridged abdomen to his waist, and then further to his still narrower hips. Her hands were pressed to his side, just a touch above his waist. Theoretically, she supposed, her palms were—shockingly—pressed to his skin, but the blood between nullified any true tactile contact.

The first time she’d seen him half naked shouldn’t have been like this.

The first time she had her hands, skin to skin, on his torso, she would have hoped to feel more than the sticky slickness of blood.

She registered the oddity of the thoughts but didn’t have time to dwell on them.

“There now, miss.” Mrs. Perkins ducked her head to catch Mary’s gaze. “I think it’s time we had a closer look at that wound. There doesn’t seem to be much more coming from it.”

Seeing that the housekeeper was holding a clean, damp cloth in her hand, Mary drew breath, nodded, and slowly—ready to slap them back if need be—she peeled first one, then the other hand from the wound.

Collier appeared beside her with damp rags; without shifting her gaze from the wound, she let him wipe her hands. Revealed, the tear in Ryder’s skin was less than two inches long, a stab wound obviously deeper than it was wide.

Eyes locked on it, breathing suspended, they watched, waited, but no more blood flowed from the gash.

“Shall I wash it, miss?” Mrs. Perkins brandished her cloth.

“No.” Frowning, Mary turned as Collier brought a bowl of water for her to wash her hands. “I think we should wait for the doctor.” She looked at Pemberly, who had observed all from the foot of the bed. “How long will he be, do you think?”

“Dr. Sanderson’s rooms are in Harley Street, miss, so he should be here soon.”

Mary glanced at the bloody patch marring Ryder’s otherwise perfect form; to her it looked obscene. “In that case, I suggest we place a pad of clean cloth over the wound—gauze first, if you have it—and then lightly bind it in place.” She glanced at Ryder’s face. “Just in case he regains consciousness and moves.”

Between them, they managed it, then she and Mrs. Perkins withdrew, allowing Collier, with Pemberly’s help, to divest Ryder of the rest of his clothes.

When Mary returned, the room was softly lit by shaded lamps. Ryder lay still, the covers drawn to his neck, his golden-brown hair bright against the pristine ivory of the pillows. But beneath his mane, his face was shockingly pallid, his lips faintly blue, his features leached of all animation.

He might have been an effigy except his chest discernibly rose and fell, his breathing shallow, but still regular.

Pemberly had left, going downstairs to wait for the doctor. Mrs. Perkins had departed, carrying all the bloodied rags away.

Collier remained, sitting quietly in a corner, his hands between his knees, his gaze fixed on the figure in the bed.

Inwardly acknowledging her dashed hopes that Ryder might have regained consciousness, Mary fetched a straight-backed chair from the side of the room. Collier started to rise to help her, but she waved him to remain where he was, then set the chair beside the bed, sat, and, like Collier, prepared to keep vigil. Leaning her elbows on the side of the high mattress, she folded her hands and fixed her gaze on Ryder’s face.

Now the first rush of activity was past and they’d done all they could to that point, she took a moment to reach for calm, to reconnect with the wider present.

After a few minutes, she murmured, “Collier—am I correct in assuming there’s no lady of the house?”

“Yes, miss.” Collier shifted on his chair. “Meaning to say there isn’t.” After an instant’s hesitation, he went on, “The marchioness and his lordship don’t get on. He bought her a house in Chapel Street, and she lives there.”