The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (11 page)

“His half sister, Lady Eustacia?”

“Lives with her mama.”

“His half brothers?”

“Lord Randolph and Lord Christopher have separate lodgings, and Lord Godfrey still lives in Chapel Street.”

After a moment, Collier cleared his throat and carefully, somewhat diffidently, said, “I suppose, if you thought it necessary, we could send for Lord Randolph.”

Ryder’s heir. If she had Randolph summoned now . . .

Quite aside from the likelihood that Randolph would still be out on the town and wouldn’t return to his lodgings until dawn, sending for Randolph—who could in no way assist with Ryder’s survival—would be like taking the first step in acknowledging . . . something she wasn’t prepared to give credence to at all.

She drew in a breath, held it until she was sure her voice wouldn’t waver and her tone would be as authoritative as she wished. “As his lordship’s not about to die, I doubt summoning Lord Randolph will help at this point.”

Collier eased out the breath he’d been holding. “Indeed, miss. And when it comes to one helping the other, it’s usually the other way about.”

Lips lifting cynically—she could well imagine that—Mary settled on the chair.

After several minutes, Collier asked, “Will you stay, miss?” As if to excuse what was clearly a request rather than a question, he hurriedly added, “Yours was the last face he saw. Might be helpful if you’re here when he wakes.”

It was as good an excuse as any. She inclined her head. “Yes, I’ll stay. At least until the doctor arrives and gives his verdict.”

She would stay until she was convinced beyond doubt that Ryder would survive. She didn’t need to think, to consult any part of her rational mind to know that was her decision, and one from which she would not be moved.

Just the thought of him dying . . .

Quite how she imagined her presence might prevent Death from taking him wasn’t the issue; if she left and he died, she would never forgive herself.

Sounds in the corridor had her glancing around. She hadn’t truly noticed the room itself—until then she’d registered little beyond Ryder—but in instinctively surveying it in light of what she assumed was the doctor’s imminent arrival, she wasn’t surprised to discover that, while the overall decor was unquestionably masculine, it was equally undeniably sumptuous.

The velvet hangings draping the massive four-poster bed, with its elegantly turned oak posts and restrainedly carved headboard, were heavy and plush, in a shade of old gold that complemented the rich patina of the oak, both of the bed and the tallboys and chests arranged about the room. On either side of the bed, long windows were presently screened by curtains of the same gold velvet; the same fabric had been used to upholster the two straight-backed chairs and two oak-framed wing chairs.

A silk counterpane in a tapestry of golds was spread over the bed; the ivory sheets and pillowcases were of the finest linen, stark in their simplicity, yet in perfect counterpoint to the richness, the haven of sensual lushness, within which they lay.

The door opened; Mary turned her head and watched as a man—a gentleman by his dress, long, lean, with an angular face and kind, if weary, brown eyes—strode in. The black bag he carried confirmed he was the doctor. What name had Pemberly given?

The man’s eyes had instantly fixed on Ryder, so silent and still in the big bed; his steps slowing, he paused at the foot of the bed—almost as if expecting Ryder to open his eyes and make some joke—then he appeared to shake free of whatever held him and, frowning, walked swiftly around the bed to the side opposite Mary.

Setting his black bag on the bed, he met her eyes. “Good . . . ah, I believe it’s morning. I’m David Sanderson. And you are?”

“Mary Cynster.” She’d been correct in her judgment; physician he might be, but Sanderson was also a gentleman. “I saw Ryder collapse on the street outside. I went to his aid and had my people summon his.”

Sanderson blinked. Several times. But all he said was, “I see.”

He reached for the coverlet. Mary rose and helped him turn the covers down to Ryder’s waist.

Taking Ryder’s wrist between his fingers, Sanderson closed his eyes. After a moment, he murmured, “His pulse is steady, but weak.” He opened his eyes.

Mary pointed to the pad they’d bound over Ryder’s wound. “He was stabbed there. He lost a huge amount of blood.”

Sanderson humphed. Reaching up, he raised one of Ryder’s lids, examined his eye. “Has he been out to it since you found him?”

“He regained consciousness for a short time—very briefly—while we were still outside.”

Sanderson glanced at her. “Did he speak?”

She nodded. “To me.”

“And he knew you?”

She went to nod, then hesitated, replaying the short exchange in her mind. She grimaced. “I believe so, but he didn’t say enough for me to be sure.”

“But he interacted—he reacted to something you said?”

She forced herself to say, “I think so, but I can’t be certain.”

Sanderson was busy untying their makeshift bandage; he shot her a curious look. “All right.” As he lifted the pad, then eased the gauze away, he murmured, “It doesn’t matter that he’s unconscious now—it’s probably for the best if he lost a lot of blood.” He paused, then went on, “And judging by the coolness of his flesh and his pallor, he’s lost far more than I’d like.”

Frowning, Mary said, “I would have thought, as his doctor, you’d rather he didn’t lose any blood at all.”

Finally lifting the gauze away, Sanderson gave a short laugh. “I’ve known Ryder since Eton. Trust me, his losing blood was a common enough occurrence.” Looking down at the wound, Sanderson sobered. A moment passed, then, lips thinning, he said, “He usually had the sense never to lose this much.”

Bending close, Sanderson very gently probed the wound, then he glanced at Collier. “I’m going to need hot water to clean this. Have them boil it now, and bring it here in the kettle in which it boiled, along with a metal basin and a smaller bowl, metal if you have one, porcelain if you haven’t.”

Collier had risen when the doctor had entered and had silently hovered, waiting for such orders. He nodded crisply. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Pemberly had followed the doctor in, closing the door and standing with his back to it; he now opened it for Collier, then closed it again.

Mary kept her gaze on Sanderson, who had gone back to examining the wound. After a moment more, unable to help herself, she asked, “How bad is it?”

Pausing in his probing, Sanderson glanced up at her. “I’m not yet sure. How exactly did this happen, do you know?”

“As far as we can tell, he was set on in the alley”—she waved in the direction of the street—“while walking home. All we know is that two ruffians are there, dead now, and Ryder had his rapier in his hand when he fell.”

“Two dead?” Sanderson glanced at Pemberly.

“Indeed, sir,” Pemberly intoned.

“They’re still out there?”

Pemberly looked faintly offended to have been asked. “I would presume so, sir.”

Lips compressing, Sanderson straightened, his gaze fixed on Pemberly as he clearly weighed . . . something; Mary realized what when he spoke. “I suggest we get both bodies in—your master will want to find out who attacked him when he wakes and can think.”

“Ah.” Pemberly looked struck. Slowly, he nodded. “Indeed, sir. I take your point. I’ll send some footmen to retrieve the corpses and—”

“I don’t want to know, Pemberly.”

A faint smile touched Pemberly’s lips. “Naturally not, sir. The disappearance of any bodies from an alley is in no way connected with you.”

Sanderson’s lips twisted wryly. “Just so.” Bending again, he returned to his examination as Pemberly quietly let himself out.

Mary considered Sanderson’s dark head. “As I understand it, you just took quite a risk.”

Without looking up, Sanderson shrugged. “In the matter of taking risks, Ryder’s taken more than his fair share for me.” With a sigh, he straightened.

Catching sight of Mary’s openly inquisitive look, he pointed at Ryder. “Eldest son of a marquess—a viscount as he then was.” He pointed at himself. “Youngest son of an entirely undistinguished family attending Eton on a scholarship.” His gaze returning to Ryder, Sanderson more quietly said, “I was the brains. He was the brawn. That worked for us both, surprisingly well.”

Mary glanced at Sanderson, then looked back at Ryder. Sanderson wasn’t giving either of them sufficient credit. Although distinctly on the long, tall, and lean side, Sanderson did not appear weak in the least, and everyone knew that the life of a doctor was physically demanding. As for Ryder, he used his obvious brawn to deflect attention from his intelligence; she, at least, had never been fooled.

While she’d been looking at Ryder, Sanderson had been studying her. When she looked up and caught his gaze, he drew a deep breath, then said, “Rather than ask you what the hell you’re doing here, in Ryder’s house, by his bed . . .” Again she got the impression Sanderson fought some inner battle with his scruples—and, as before, his common sense won. “I will instead inquire whether you can stand the sight of blood without fainting.”

Mary held his gaze. “When Ryder was carried in here, my palms were where that wad of gauze and cloth was. My hands were coated in his blood. It had clotted between my fingers and was horribly sticky.” She paused, then added, “If you must know, it didn’t occur to me to even feel queasy.”

Sanderson grinned. “Good. Very good, as it happens.” His grin swiftly faded as he looked again at the wound in Ryder’s side. “I’m going to need another pair of steady hands for what I think I must do.”

Mary tried to read Sanderson’s expression; he looked worried, but determined. “You don’t seem all that certain about what you intend to do.”

He briefly met her eyes. Again he swiftly debated, then said, “It’s like this. Ryder has the constitution of an ox and the heart of a lion. With an injury like this, the former is a great help, but the latter . . . might not be such a boon.”

She frowned. “How so?”

“His heart would have been beating hard in the alley—in reaction to being attacked, in anger and in defense, in fighting for his life. And his heart is very strong. That’s why he lost so much blood so quickly.” Sanderson glanced at her and this time held her gaze. “Frankly, if you hadn’t reached him and done what you did—pressed your hands there and kept them there—he would almost certainly have died, have bled out, within minutes.”

She took a moment to absorb that, then let her frown deepen. “But he didn’t die, so—”

“He didn’t die because the pressure from your hands slowed the blood enough for the worst internal cuts to clot.” Sanderson glanced down at Ryder. “That’s good—but until I see what it was that was cut, and whether it requires sewing to stay closed permanently or not, we won’t know if, when he wakes and moves, some bad cut won’t open up again. If I sew him up without checking and some major internal cut opens again, he could very easily bleed to death before he or anyone else realizes what’s happening.”

“Because the bleeding will then be on the inside?”

“Exactly.” Sanderson glanced at the corridor; multiple pairs of footsteps were heading their way. He looked at her again, again caught her eyes. “Washing away the clotted blood enough to see what was cut carries its own dangers—he might start bleeding heavily again. But I can’t risk not checking, and if you’re willing to help me by holding the wound open—I’ll show you how—then I’ll have a better chance of doing the job without starting a fresh round of bleeding.” He glanced at Ryder’s face. “Which, truth be told, he really can’t afford.”

“Of course I’ll help.” Mary added for good measure, “I wasn’t about to leave him to your tender mercies, anyway.”

Sanderson smiled; the expression lifted the weariness from his face, revealing a rakishly handsome man beneath. “Looks like Ryder has at least the two of us on his side.”

As the door opened to admit Mrs. Perkins, Pemberly, and Collier, between them bearing two steaming kettles and an assortment of metal basins, bowls, and a pile of clean cloths, Mary murmured, “If it counts in any way, from all I can see he has everyone in this house on his side.”

Sanderson dipped his head in acknowledgment, then set about organizing his surgery.

Mary had never assisted in any medical procedure before. It was painstaking, back-breaking work. In addition to her, all three of Ryder’s staff remained in the room throughout, holding lamps as required, replenishing hot water, handing Sanderson fresh cloths.

Eventually Sanderson, his bent head blocking Mary’s view of the wound, murmured, “He always had the devil’s own luck.” He briefly shifted to glance up at Mary, then went back to his task. “I’d hardly dared hope, but the only cut I can see is to his liver, and while that’s more than enough to account for all the blood he lost, it will heal and take care of itself—I don’t need to disturb it by trying to stitch it.”

Mary had no idea how to interpret that. “Does that mean he’ll be all right once he wakes?”

“As not one of the major vessels has even been nicked, then . . . yes.” Slowly Sanderson straightened, eyes closing as he eased his back, which had to be aching even more than Mary’s. Opening his eyes, he met her gaze and smiled faintly, albeit tiredly. “Once I sew him back up, the skin and inner layers will eventually seal, and that will be it—at least as far as more bleeding goes.
However,
” he continued, sobering significantly, “before we get too relieved, let me hasten to add that he still has to survive the shock of losing so much blood.”

Mary narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean? Specifically, what does that mean for someone with the constitution of an ox?”

“It means,” Sanderson said, bending to dab again, “that I sew him up, and then we wait.
If
he wakes, we can proceed from there with more confidence, but whether he wakes . . . I regret to inform you that that is still in question.”

The relief in the room abruptly faded.

Sanderson finished his inspection, cleansed the wound’s surrounds, then plied his needle. Mary watched, quite literally unable not to.