The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (33 page)

Turning in his arms, through the shadows Mary studied his face; from the tension in the big body pressed against hers, she knew she’d guessed his intentions aright. “I’m not quitting your side. We’re married, and in case you’ve forgotten, I vowed ‘to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish until death do us part.’ There’s nothing in that about leaving you to face unknown foes alone.”

Ryder heard the belligerence in her tone. “I haven’t forgotten.” He noticed she’d omitted the “obey” from her vows, but . . . he sighed. Admitted, “Keeping you safe is . . . critically important to me.”

She nodded. “And in the exact same way, keeping you hale and whole is vital to me. So we’ll simply have to accept that neither of us is going to back away from this—in fact, we should probably view it as a challenge.”

“A challenge.” His instincts flickered warily, but he had to ask, “How so?”

“Well, once we’ve learned to manage our way through this, we’ll know how to manage through anything that might come.”

Given what he was going through . . . she might well be right. The situation was starting to feel like a baptism by fire.

When he said nothing, she wriggled higher to look into his face, to in the poor light study his eyes. “Trust me,” she said. “I’m right. You’ll see. We’ll come through this stronger—more sure of ourselves together. I’m viewing this as a learning experience—and if you stop to think, you’ll realize you’re inclined to use it in the same way.”

He’d already realized that; as usual, she held the positive up like temptation. There was no real reply he wished to make, so he grunted, drew her down into his arms, and planted a kiss on her curls. “We’ll see.”

A
fter due discussion, Mary agreed to remain within the estate grounds over the following days.

The first two were enlivened by a succession of bride-visits from the surrounding gentry; the ladies had held off for the customary seven days, but now that Mary and Ryder had lived at the abbey as man and wife for a full week, the carriages rolled up the drive and the ladies, and some of their husbands, too, called to make her acquaintance.

Caught up in the whirl of navigating the shoals of county allegiances and social rank, less dangerous than those among the haut ton, perhaps, but nevertheless present, Mary almost forgot the incidents that had marred her first week as Ryder’s wife. The visits from their neighbors gave her and Ryder plenty to talk about, to discuss, and in her case to probe and learn; the days, evenings, and nights passed in exactly the sort of pleasant whirl she considered their due.

The following morning saw the last of what Ryder expected in the way of bride-visits, a visitation from Lady Hamberly; the nearest representative of the grande dame set, her ladyship stayed for just over half an hour and appeared to approve of all she saw.

Standing at Ryder’s side on the front porch as they waved her ladyship away, Mary murmured, “What will you wager she spends the entire afternoon writing missives to her peers around the country?”

“That,” Ryder said, casting her a jaundiced look as they turned inside, “is no wager at all—it’s a sure thing.”

Laughing, Mary looped her arm in his and they headed back to the library.

As the possessor of a massive estate and also a significant fortune, Ryder had a near endless stream of correspondence to deal with; Mary sat in the chair and read her book, and in between, when he paused to check on her—to give her at least a little of his time—she grasped the chance to question him about his various smaller estates scattered the length and breadth of the land.

Later in the afternoon, deciding it was time to establish a place of her own, somewhere comfortable where she could retire when he was out or she didn’t feel like sitting in the library, she went on a solo tour of the house, going into the various reception rooms on the ground floor, sitting in this chair and that, but none felt right.

In the end, she tried her sitting room upstairs—and discovered that suited her perfectly. There was something about the way the light flooded in from the windows flanking the writing desk. An armchair sat in the corner to the left of the writing desk and simply beckoned.

Sinking into the chair, she looked back down the room; she hadn’t immediately chosen this room because it was so distant from the rest of the reception rooms, yet it felt so uniquely hers, thanks in large part to Ryder’s decorating. He’d envisaged the place as a sort of temple for her, and it felt like she belonged.

Smiling, she relaxed; turning her head, she admired the views, then wondered if she should go downstairs and retrieve her book.

She was debating doing so when her eye fell on her wicker embroidery box. She hadn’t done any embroidering for some time, but Aggie had left the box alongside the armchair, which, indeed, offered the best light for the purpose. Smiling, deciding that it probably was time she got back to the cushion cover she’d started, she leaned down, flipped open the lid, and reached in—

A scorpion skittered about, turning toward her hand, tail arching high.

On a scream, she pulled back her hand just as the scorpion struck.

Leaping to her feet, with the toe of her shoe she flipped the lid of the box closed.

Her heart in her throat, she stared at the box, unable—unwilling—to shift her gaze in case the scorpion might somehow push the lid up and escape.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor, then the door crashed open and Ryder was there, wrapping her protectively in his arms, one hand cradling her head. “What is it?” He scanned the room as two footmen, followed by Forsythe, all looking alarmed and pugnacious, rushed into the room. “Where?”

Still shaking, Mary pulled out of Ryder’s hold enough to point at her embroidery box. “Scorpion. In there.”

“Scorpion?” Not scorn but puzzlement.

Mary nodded, gulped, then said, “I’m not frightened of rodents, but I hate creepy crawlies, and there’s definitely a scorpion in there, a red one. It was on top of everything and it tried to sting me.”

Ryder cursed; jaw clenching, he set Mary gently aside, then crossed to the box, bent, and, clamping the lid shut, picked it up.

“Be careful.” Despite her fear, Mary hovered. “It’s already aroused and you don’t have gloves on.”

Ryder didn’t reply. He carried the box to the door, then, with Mary hurrying alongside and the footmen and Forsythe following, he marched through the house, down the stairs, and, after waiting for Forsythe to open the front door, out onto the porch. There, he bent and set down the box. He glanced at Mary. “Stay well back.”

She nodded uncertainly but, for once obedient, hovered in the open doorway. Forsythe obligingly stationed himself in front of her, a little to one side so she could view the proceedings.

Satisfied, Ryder glanced up at the footmen, who had come to stand to either side of him. “Ready?”

When both grimly nodded, he used the toe of his boot to flip the lid of the box open. Sure enough, a scorpion, a remarkably brightly colored specimen, skittered on top of the folded linens inside. When the scorpion, somewhat wisely, showed no inclination to climb out, Ryder circled to the other side of the box, bent, and, grasping the rear side and bottom of the box, partially upended it, shaking it as he did.

Several pieces of embroidery fell out—along with the scorpion. Clicking and skittering, the beast shot out to Ryder’s right.

He crushed it under his boot.

Leaving the footmen to examine the remains—they’d never seen a scorpion before—he looked into the box. No further sounds came from it; carefully lifting aside each piece of cloth, each skein of silk, he searched it thoroughly. Finding nothing, he bent, picked up the two pieces of embroidery that had fallen out, shook them vigorously, then tucked them back in the box. Finally closing the box, he carried it to Mary and handed it to her. “All clear.”

She accepted the box, nodded. “Thank you.” She looked up, and he could still see the shock in her face.

He put an arm around her shoulders, tucked her against him. “Forsythe?”

“Aye, my lord—we’ll do a sweep of the room and all your apartments. In fact, I rather think we’ll do the whole wing.”

Ryder nodded. “Do.” He turned Mary, unresisting, inside. “Come and sit with me in the library.”

Some brandy would do them both good.

H
alf an hour later, Mary had progressed from shock to outright anger. “This has got to stop!”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Sprawled in the armchair opposite hers, Ryder sipped his second glass of brandy. The first he’d downed in a single gulp; Mary was still nursing hers.

After a moment, she said, “I’ve never seen a scorpion before, only in books.”

“I have.” He paused, then added, “I’ve a friend whose house lies outside Rye. He sees them occasionally, but they’re quite different—larger and dark brown. They’re not poisonous, although I’ve heard the sting is painful.”

“Hmm. That one was red.”

“I noticed.”

After a long moment, Mary drew in a breath, then said, “I’ve been wondering if we’ve leapt to the wrong conclusion.”

Ryder’s gaze shifted to fix on her. “How so?”

“We assumed that whoever tried to have you killed in London is also behind these incidents aimed at me, but when you look at what’s happened here—an adder in my bed, gorse under my saddle, caltrops in the road when I went out driving, and now the scorpion—while each of those incidents might have been fatal, the chances of them being so aren’t all that high.” She met his gaze. “Against that, getting stabbed almost in your heart is far more likely to be lethal.”

He frowned. After a moment said, “I can’t argue, but I’m not sure I follow where you’re leading.”

“What if the incidents here weren’t intended to do me harm so much as send me scurrying off, and potentially disrupting our marriage?”

His frown darkened. “That’s possible, I suppose.”

“It does bear considering, and also casts the incidents here in a somewhat less fraught light.”

Ryder humphed.

Mary watched him sip his brandy and hoped he was imbibing her obliquely reassuring words as completely. The principal reason for her increasing ire at whoever was behind the recent incidents was that the outcome of said incidents was feeding and stoking and insistently escalating Ryder’s protectiveness. He’d several times verged on the dictatorial and was becoming less and less pliable with every successive incident—and really, who could blame him?

Said incidents were prodding at a spot that—if all was as she hoped—would be terribly sensitive.

In fact, that he was reacting as he was was proof that what she’d hoped from the first would evolve between them was developing exactly as she wished. Yet she knew from experience with the males in her family just how entrenched such overprotective feelings in men like him could grow to be, and he was, indeed, a classic example of that type of male.

“I suggest,” she said before he could suggest something else, “that I remain within the house or the immediate grounds for the next few days, and with everyone on alert, let’s see what comes. With luck, we might catch whoever it is next time they try to creep inside.”

Ryder grunted, but he didn’t disagree, and she was content enough with that.

“Meanwhile,” she continued, “perhaps we can consult with Barnaby and Penelope, and also widen our search for someone in the ton who might wish you ill.”

“Hmm.” Ryder drained his glass, then rose. “I’ll draft a letter to Adair now.” He glanced down at her. “I trust you’ll want to add a note to Penelope?”

She nodded. “Yes—you write, and I’ll add it at the end.” After she’d read what he’d written.

While he crossed to the desk, she viewed her current strategy; keeping them both busy doing whatever they could to identify whoever was behind the spate of attacks while simultaneously doing everything she could to avoid further incidents seemed indubitably wise.

He and she had come so far; she was not of a mind to allow some villain to pull apart all they’d achieved.

“S
o she’s still alive?”

“Yes. Caught sight of her this morning strolling on the terrace.”

“This isn’t good enough. You told me you could manage it.”

“I can, easily enough, but you insisted it had to look like an accident. There’s only so many ways that can possibly be done, and in every case—as she and his lordship have proved—there’s always a chance death won’t be the result.”

“Damn him! He’s always had the devil’s own luck, and now she, it seems, is just as favored.”

“That may be so, but if you want my advice, if you truly want them removed, you’re going to have to allow us to try something more direct and definite. Something certain of working, once and for all.”

A long silence ensued, then, “What do you have in mind?”

Chapter Fourteen

A
week passed in untrammeled peace.

“Finally.” Strolling into the gallery on the way to the drawing room prior to dinner, Mary paused to draw in a deep breath, then let it out on a happy sigh. She listened; letting her senses expand, she detected the expected scurrying of footmen in the dining room and Forsythe’s majestic tread. Everything seemed calm, nothing out of place.

Ryder would already be waiting in the drawing room; they’d fallen into the habit of starting the exchange of their day’s activities there, then continuing through dinner, before retiring to the library, where she would read and he would finish any outstanding business or correspondence before joining her, either in reading or heading up the stairs to his bed.

Expectation welling, she started down the stairs.

They’d been at the abbey for nearly three weeks and at last the regulated serenity she considered the norm for any well-run noble house had been established and now prevailed. Running such a household was all but second nature to her; she’d been bred to fill such a position, and it accorded well with her personality. She liked to run things and have them run well—and the abbey household was hers.

Its master was hers, too, although in a significantly different sense.

Initially, she’d viewed the attacks on her as an unmitigated negative, but over the last fortnight her attitude had changed. She now considered not the attacks but the demands they had forced on her and Ryder to quite possibly have been the making of them as a couple.

She couldn’t imagine any situation that could have so rapidly compelled them to deal with the most fraught aspects of love. The nuances and outcomes of his feelings for her, and hers for him.

Over the last weeks, she’d learned a lot, and not all of it about him.

He’d been learning, too, and his deeper understanding now colored every interaction between them.

Stepping off the last stair, lips curving, she headed for the drawing room. Regally inclining her head to the footman who opened the door, she sailed through—and saw Ryder waiting as he usually was, one foot propped on the brass hearth surround, one arm resting on the mantelpiece.

Even in the country, he was always impeccably dressed; she smiled at the confirmation of her mental image of him as a lion of the ton. He’d been riding about the estate over the past days, and strands in his hair had lightened, brightened, the tawny contrast more pronounced; the sight still made her palms itch even though she now knew very well what his mane felt like. Heaven knew she’d clutched it often enough.

He’d smiled at the sight of her; still smiling, he straightened as she neared.

There was a light in his eyes, a softening in the sharp hazel as they met hers that touched her in ways that had nothing to do with the sensual, and everything to do with the connection they now shared. The villain behind the attacks had hurried them down the path, but they’d been willing and, to her mind, were almost there.

Reaching for her hand, Ryder carried it to his lips and brushed a light kiss to the backs of her fingers. Smiling into her eyes, he retained her hand, his fingers idly stroking hers. “Did Mrs. Hubert bore you with talk of the church bazaar?”

“Yes, and no. She’s very opinionated, but then so am I.” Mary smiled back, a touch more intently. “But as she’s accustomed to being in charge, I decided that I would simply be the figurehead, which is really all she wanted. I have enough on my plate with the household here, and I do want to push ahead with my idea for an estate picnic.”

Standing hand in hand, they discussed that prospect for the few minutes before Forsythe appeared to summon them to dine.

As she allowed Ryder to lead her into the family dining room and seat her, Mary registered that all the staff, too, seemed to be smiling more these days.

The meal passed in their customary vein—an exchange of the wider issues they’d encountered through the day. Today it was gypsies, and the locals’ distrust of the travelers who had set up on Axford common, then they embarked on a political discussion sparked by a controversy each had noted in that day’s news sheets. As always, the back-and-forth exchanges were entertaining, stimulating. Without the slightest effort, they filled the time and took the last subject with them to the library.

Walking alongside Mary and listening to her opinion on the latest development in gas lighting, Ryder was once again amazed—by himself, by her; never had he imagined interacting with his wife in such a way. Prior to deciding on Mary, he hadn’t had any clear view of that female, but if he’d stopped to think . . . he’d never have dreamt of a lady with whom he discussed such matters, let alone one whose opinions he’d learned to seriously consider, and to which he now gave weight. More weight than those of anyone else he knew.

They entered the library on the conclusion of her argument.

“I agree.” He followed her to her chair, paused while she sat, then when she looked up at him, brows rising, he nodded. “We should bear it in mind when next the question arises—most likely with the London house.”

She smiled and reached for her book. He trailed his fingertips lightly across her shoulder and continued to his desk.

He still had several letters to deal with, but they were mundane matters requiring little thought.

While he wrote, his mind, largely disengaged, drifted to more appealing vistas. Such as Mary and him, and the connection—the true partnership—evolving between them.

He didn’t know how it had happened—hadn’t even known that it could—but somehow, through the events that had brought them together, through the dramas and demands of the last weeks, they’d reached for and found a togetherness, a direct, deeply personal link that connected them each to the other. A connection that could manifest in a look, a private smile, a kiss brushed over her fingers, or the pressure of his hand about hers. In the trailing of his fingertips over her shoulder.

The other side of that link showed in her openness, in the eagerness for his company she allowed to shine so clearly, in the softer light in her cornflower-blue eyes whenever she looked at him.

He hadn’t expected any of it. He hadn’t anticipated any emotional connection because he hadn’t known he possessed the potential for such feelings. Now he knew—now she’d proved it beyond doubt—he . . . wanted it.

More, his instincts urged him to seize it, to secure it and the promise it held. In that connection, through it, lay the surest, most certain route to all he’d ever wanted—of his marriage, of his life.

He’d always listened to his instincts, and in this, his instincts knew. They were unshakably, unwaveringly sure.

They’d fixed on Mary from the start and were now even more fixated, more devoted and possessively locked on her. She was the foundation stone for his future; for him, all that was to come would be built around her.

Which made the letter he’d received from Barnaby Adair unsettling.

He hadn’t shown it to Mary; the letter had been written for him alone, Barnaby’s words had made that plain. Barnaby had argued that, despite the apparent cessation of attacks on Mary, despite the possibility that those incidents had never been intended as anything more than nasty attempts to scare her and disrupt their marriage, in Barnaby’s and Stokes’s experienced view the less favorable possibility that the attacks on them both were all part of one strategy remained. And if that were so, then the chances were good the perpetrator wouldn’t stop, although he might well pause to regroup and redeploy.

Stay on guard
. That had been Barnaby and Stokes’s warning, clearly spelled out in words impossible to misconstrue.

Further compounding the uncertainties, despite considerable investigation by all the Cynsters, as well as those gentlemen connected by marriage like Jeremy Carling, Breckenridge, Meredith, and the others, all of whom Ryder knew, no one had been able to unearth any clue as to any gentleman wanting him dead.

Ryder’s own investigation into who had hired the two thugs he’d killed in the alley had returned no further result; that trail was now beyond cold.

As Barnaby had stated in his closing remark, that left them facing an unknown threat, one that could strike from any direction at any time.

Not a situation designed to soothe his inner beast, but . . . finishing the last of his letters, he glanced down the room at Mary’s bent head, and—again—gave thanks for her understanding, and her intelligence. She continued to accept the need to remain within the house and the surrounding gardens without so much as a quibble, much less a complaint.

Scrawling his title across the corner of the envelopes, he tossed them on a salver for Forsythe to collect and dispatch, then rose and headed for his wife.

She looked up as he neared.

He smiled and held out his hands. Laying aside her book, she put her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet.

Still holding her hands, he looked down at her. “Barnaby sends his regards—and warns that we should remain on guard.”

She tipped her head, studying his eyes, his face. “Luckily, at the moment, there’s no reason I need to venture further afield.”

“You’re content to remain within the house and grounds?”

She nodded. “For the moment.” Sliding her hands from his and taking his arm, she turned to the door. “Anyone who wishes to consult with me can come and visit me here. And I’ve discovered that peace becomes me.”

He chuckled and let her steer him out of the room, through the front hall, and up the stairs to their rooms, but the suggestion of uncertainty, that for today they had this, but that tomorrow it might be threatened, lingered.

He followed her into what used to be his bedroom but now showed signs of her occupation—a silk robe neatly laid over a chair, a brush on the lower of the tallboys, along with a shallow dish she used to set her pins and jewelry in. Collier and Aggie had come to some sort of agreement and now seemed to share territorial rights, over this room, at least.

With a happy little sigh, Mary went straight to the tallboy and started unpinning her hair.

Ryder pulled the pin from his cravat and started unraveling it. His cravat was the one item of his clothing Mary had most difficulty divesting him of; the intricate knots he favored defeated her and had on occasion sent her into fits of frustrated impatience, much to his amusement.

Tonight, however, he wasn’t in the mood to test her temper. He was impatient and eager enough on his own.

He wasn’t sure why, but the compulsive thud was already there, a slow, steady pounding through his veins. An outcome of that lingering uncertainty, perhaps. He didn’t question it but followed her across the room; his cravat finally loose, he reached for her.

Her hair tumbling down about her face and shoulders, Mary turned into his arms; hands splaying over his chest, fingers instinctively lightly gripping, she looked into his face and arched her brows. Sometimes they played games, but most often they opted for the direct and dramatic, their needs simple and complementary. Tonight . . . in the hardness of his hazel eyes, from the steely tension in the arm about her waist, she sensed there was something more he wanted, something he thought of to suggest, but, after an instant’s hesitation, he rejected all words and lowered his head, and she offered up her lips, his to claim.

He claimed them, and more. From that first touch of his lips, the first commanding kiss, she knew that tonight would be no simple repetition of anything that had gone before. Of anything they’d done before.

After his initial conquering foray, he supped and enticed, and she followed, into a long-drawn exchange of heated delight, of assured and unhurried savoring, not he of her or her of him but of them both relishing the moment, the confident presaging of the deeper, more enthralling intimacy to come.

From there, the engagement spun out; for once he openly brought to bear all his vaunted expertise and laid it at the feet of not her but what had grown between them. He deployed his undeniable prowess in its name, in its service.

She knew; she could taste that intent in his kiss, reveled in the passionate devotion that infused not just the melding of their mouths but every touch, every caress, every pressure.

Their clothes fell, shed by hands now well-accustomed to the ritual, to the worship of flesh and naked skin as it was bared to the night air, to the gilding of moonlight.

To the touch of a lover’s hands.

To the caress of fingertips that, as the primitive beat rose, trembled.

He drew her fully against him, her delicate frame and silken skin flush against his powerfully muscled, hair-dusted body, and they paused, both caught in the sensual succulence of the instant, enraptured.

The feel of him all around her, his heat, the hardness of his flesh, the tension investing his heavy muscles, the hot, rigid column pressed against her belly, all impinged and drove her on.

Her hands sweeping up over his shoulders, she sank her fingers into his hair and deepened the kiss even further.

Wantonly met his challenge and, shifting sinuously against him, issued her own.

She’d been right; there was more for them both in this deeper engagement as blindly they breached some level beyond and intensity abruptly flared, their senses expanding dizzyingly until the physical merged with passion, with feeling and driving need, was subsumed by that all-consuming desire and became a conduit, a means of pure expression—of honest, unscreened, irrefutable communication.

Breaking the kiss, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

As he laid her down, then joined her, she opened her senses to everything he said. Not in words but with his actions, both the caresses he swept over her quivering flesh, with the web of delight he wove to snare her awareness and hold it captive to the pleasure, the joy, the passion—and the overwhelming, near suffocating eruption of their desire.

She felt it as a pressure in her chest, a swelling, welling, geysering need to give, to open her heart and share, to let that unrelenting build of emotion out. To give it to him, share it with him. Openly.