The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (12 page)

At last all was done, the wound rebandaged and the covers tucked around Ryder again. While washing his hands, Sanderson gave orders for the fire to be lit and the room to be allowed to warm. “But not to the point of being a hothouse. Just normal, reasonable warmth.” He glanced at the assembled staff. “Do not allow him to overheat. That won’t help.”

“Yes, Doctor,” the three chorused.

Finally, Sanderson returned to the bed. He checked Ryder’s pulse, then looked across the bed at Mary, once again seated in the straight-backed chair on the bed’s other side. “His heartbeat’s still steady, but barely the right side of thready, much too weak. His pulse is unusually slow. I wish I could give us all better hope, but the truth is it’s still touch and go.” He drew a tight breath, then said, “I expect we’ll know by morning, when he wakes.”

Her gaze on Ryder’s face, Mary nodded, understanding that Sanderson meant
if
he wakes. Without looking up, she said, “I’ll stay. Until he wakes.”

If Ryder was going to die, she couldn’t let him die alone.

Sanderson studied her silently for several moments; she could feel his gaze but didn’t meet it, then from the corner of her eye she saw him incline his head. “I have an accouchement to attend—the boy has already come to call me. I’ll return as soon as I can, but that will most likely be late morning. Regardless, if there’s any change for the worse, send word—I’ll leave my direction with Pemberly.”

She nodded in farewell. Thanking Sanderson wasn’t her place, and more, thanking him would be an insult to the devotion he so clearly felt toward Ryder.

With murmurs to the others, Sanderson left.

His mention of the wider world had reminded Mary that it was still there; John and Peter would be waiting downstairs, and Hudson and the staff in Upper Brook Street would soon start worrying about where they all were. Looking up, she said, “Pemberly—if you would fetch paper, pen, and ink, I should like to write a note for my coachman to take to my home.”

“Of course, miss. Right away.”

Before Pemberly could depart, Collier volunteered, “His lordship’s traveling writing case is in the dressing room next door, miss—if that would do?”

“Thank you—that would be perfect.”

By the time Collier fetched the writing case and laid it on the bed before her, she’d realized she had two notes to write. One to Hudson, to relieve any anxiety as to her safety, and a second to her parents, to be handed to them the instant they crossed the threshold that morning, in case she had not by then returned home.

Both notes were straightforward and to the point, the first simply telling Hudson that all was well and not to worry, the second explaining her absence in more detail and asking her parents to come to Ryder’s house as soon as they could.

Their arrival would lend her all the countenance she required and, if Ryder had not yet woken, the support she suspected she would need.

Mrs. Perkins fussed about the room, tidying things away, then, with a last look at the bed, she left. Still keeping station by the door, in hushed tones Pemberly discussed keeping watch with Collier.

Mary folded the note to her parents, wrote their names and the instructions for delivery on the outside, then enclosed that note inside her missive to Hudson, and inscribed the resulting package with his name.

Waving the packet to dry the ink, she turned to Pemberly. “Please give this to John, my coachman, and tell him he and Peter are to return to Upper Brook Street and deliver it to Hudson, my parents’ butler.”

Accepting the packet, Pemberly bowed. “At once, miss.” Straightening, he waited while Collier cleared the traveling writing case away, then said, “If there’s anything we can do for you, miss—anything at all—please let us know.”

Collier softly added his agreement.

Finding a faint smile, Mary trained it on the pair; their gratitude for her help, for her rescue of Ryder and even more for her staying and holding them together, shone plainly in their faces. “Thank you. Should I need anything, I’ll ring—or ask Collier.” She had no doubt the little man intended to remain at least figuratively by his master’s side.

Pemberly cleared his throat. “Ah . . . in light of Doctor Sanderson’s verdict, do you think we should send for Lord Randolph, miss?”

Mary considered, then shook her head. “Not at this point.” Swiveling so that she was once again gazing at Ryder, she forced herself to say, “If his lordship hasn’t woken by midmorning, perhaps then.”

Openly relieved, Pemberly bowed and departed, taking her note to pass on to John Coachman. Collier straightened the covers, then retreated to the chair in the corner.

Silence gradually sank, enfolding the room in a hush tinged with expectation, broken only by the very faint sound of Ryder’s breathing. The scent of antiseptic hung in the still air. The small fire had already reduced to glowing coals, the room warm, but, as instructed, not too much so.

Softly exhaling, trying to ease the grim tension locking her muscles, Mary settled on the chair to wait. To hope, and pray, and see.

Her gaze fixed on Ryder’s still face, she allowed her mind to open, to broaden the scope she’d held so tightly focused over the last hours.

It was long after midnight; glancing fleetingly at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was, indeed, past two o’clock.

She was well aware of the impropriety of her remaining by Ryder’s bed—in his house, in his bedroom, with him present. But he was unconscious, and Collier was there, and . . . she really didn’t care what society thought. Her parents, her family, would understand; they wouldn’t expect her to do anything else.

Anything but wait, and keep vigil, in case Ryder died.

Someone had to bear witness to the passing of a life such as his. He was the head of a house much like her own, ancient, wealthy, endowed with title, estates, and proud heritage.

All of that was unquestionably true; she could use it as an excuse, but she was quite clear in her own mind that such considerations weren’t what was holding her there.

Binding her, above all else anchoring her there.

She couldn’t let him die alone purely because of him being him.

Because of the sort of man he was, the fascinating male he’d allowed her to glimpse over the past several nights.

Because he’d revealed to her the true magic in a waltz.

Because of the challenge he’d so arrogantly, forcefully, and with calculated enticement laid at her feet mere hours ago.

Because he might be her one.

And she hadn’t yet given him a chance to convince her.

Hadn’t yet had a chance to decide if he truly was.

She wanted to be there when he awoke, to tell him he could have his chance—that she was prepared to explore the possibility.

But she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything if he didn’t wake.

Her entire future, the one she’d longed for and had finally set out so determinedly to secure—them having the deity-ordained future they might have been fated to have—rested on Ryder’s innate strength, on his ability to recover from a wound that had already come within a whisker of being fatal.

So she sat by his bed and willed him to keep breathing, to keep on living as the night hours rolled on.

And sometime in the dark watches of the night, she vowed to The Lady that if he survived, if come the morning he woke and looked at her with his glinting hazel eyes, she would, indeed, give him the chance he’d asked for—the chance to convince her that he was “her one.”

Chapter Six

R
yder drifted in and out of consciousness, or was it sleep? Some part of his mind wondered if he could tell the difference.

Relevant yet not very important thoughts like that wreathed through his mind and trapped his wits, distracting him. Leading him astray, away from more critical observations.

Such as Mary, and what she was doing there, seated by his bed, and what that meant.

Stay with me!

He could still hear her words echoing in his head, even through the dimness shrouding his recent past. Could still hear her voice make that demand—her command.

But it appeared she’d ensured the outcome she’d desired by staying with him . . . which, given their setting, seemed wrong.

Not as things should be.

But he wasn’t going to complain. Her presence soothed him, literally comforted on some level he didn’t truly comprehend.

Sometime later, the pain in his side reminded him of what had happened, of the pair of thugs he’d left dead in the alley. The ambush had been well planned; they’d waited, hidden, at either end of the stretch where the alley, his habitual route home from the south, narrowed. Absorbed with thoughts of Mary and the question of what next, he’d stridden past one of the pair—who must have been concealed in a doorway—then the other had come charging toward him from the Mount Street end, and before he’d had time to realize the danger, the other man had sneaked up behind him and under cover of his partner’s charge had stabbed him.

If he’d been of average height, he’d be dead.

Instead . . . he was so damn weak, weaker than he could remember ever being, even as a sickly child. He couldn’t summon the strength to move a muscle, not even to lift his lids properly and look about. The best he could manage was to catch a glimpse through his lashes, and even that only for a few seconds.

He must have drifted off, but when he swam up to the world again, he didn’t bother trying to open his eyes but concentrated on his wound. . . .

By taking a fractionally deeper breath, he could sense the constriction of a bandage around his waist. So Sanderson must have come and gone at some point. A fleeting flare of possessiveness gave him the strength to force his lashes up—but Mary was still there.

Despite the hour—it had to be very late—she was awake. She was staring at him, in the low light unable to discern that he was awake and studying her; he would have smiled, but even that was presently beyond him.

Her expression remained serious, concerned; one hand at her bodice, she was—absentmindedly, it seemed—fingering whatever it was that hung from the end of the curious old necklace she wore.

The sight reassured him; the weight of her gaze soothed him.

His lashes lowered and he sank back into the deeps.

A
ccepting as inevitable that she would eventually nod off, Mary had exchanged the straight-backed chair for one of the wing chairs, and had persuaded Collier to do the same by pointing out that either of them falling asleep and consequently off their chairs wouldn’t help anyone.

So when she woke, she was curled in the wing chair, her legs tucked beneath her skirts, one hand beneath her cheek. Opening her eyes, even before she moved her head she looked over at the bed—and fell into Ryder’s hazel eyes.

She blinked, looked again—saw the sharp mind she’d grown accustomed to glimpsing behind the medley of bright greens and golds looking back at her, his expression as usual lazily amused—and felt inexpressible relief swamp her. “You’re awake!
Thank God
!”

Uncurling her legs, she stretched, then straightened.

Ryder’s lips curved, his expression wry. “I’m not sure God had all that much to do with it—if I’m remembering correctly, it’s you I have to thank.”

“Well, yes.” Pushing out of the chair, she nodded. “That, too.” She wasn’t foolish enough to refuse any advantage he might hand her.

The soft snoring that had been emanating from the corner of the room abruptly broke off in a series of snorty snuffles. Ignoring Collier, walking to the head of the bed, she leaned across and placed her palm on Ryder’s forehead.

The rose quartz pendant swung free of her bodice.

Raising the fingers of the hand lying on his chest, Ryder caught it. “So that’s what it is.” He turned the hexagonally cut crystal between his fingers. “I glimpsed you clutching it during the night and wondered what it was.” Fingers stroking the long, flat surfaces, he frowned faintly. “Odd—it seems quite hot.”

Considering where it had been resting, Mary wasn’t surprised. “Yes, well.” Tugging the pendant from his fingers—he allowed it to slip free without hindrance—she gripped it and, ignoring his interested gaze, tucked it back between her breasts, registering as she did that it was, indeed, very warm. “It seems to hold heat.”

Drawing her hand from his forehead, she stepped back. He quirked his brows questioningly.

“You’re warm, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“Given how cold I felt last night, feeling warm again is exceedingly welcome.” Still weak as a newborn kitten, Ryder barely managed a vague wave down his body. “I take it Sanderson was summoned.”

“Yes. He came and checked your wound, then sewed you up.” Mary hesitated, her eyes on his, then more quietly added, “He said if you woke up, all should be well.”

So until she’d woken and discovered him awake, she hadn’t known . . . if she’d wake to a living man or a corpse.

“Thank you for staying.” If he could have moved his arm, he would have taken her hand and kissed it. “If I could bow, I would. As it is, I’m not up to even nodding, but you may take my abject gratitude as read.”

Concern reappeared in her cornflower blue eyes. “How weak are you?”

He told himself admitting the truth wouldn’t hurt—not to her. “Extremely.”

“You lost a horrendous amount of blood, so that’s probably not surprising.” Her frown grew more definite. “Sanderson said he’d be back as soon as he delivered some lady of her baby, but until then I don’t even know if we should feed you.”

“At the moment, I’m not sure I can even swallow—not food, anyway.”

“Perhaps we can try some water, and if you can manage that I’m sure Mrs. Perkins will have some broth prepared.” Mary glanced at the mantelpiece clock, blinked, then stared. “Good Lord! It’s eleven o’clock already!”

Collier chose that moment to snort himself awake. He looked across the room—and came out of his chair on a highly unprofessional cry of delight. Immediately recollecting himself, he bowed and apologized profusely, although his beaming smile didn’t dim in the least. He concluded with, “I’m just so relieved to see you awake, my lord.”

“And compos mentis,” Mary dryly observed. She met Ryder’s eyes as he glanced up at her. “You appear to be in full possession of your faculties.”

He grinned; facial expressions, at least, were within his ambit. “You’ll be pleased to know that my mind is unimpaired.”

“Can I do anything for you, my lord? Can I fetch anything?” Collier fussed eagerly at the foot of the bed.

“Water,” Mary answered. She pointed at the pitcher on the table beside the bed. “Fresh water would be preferable.”

“Yes, of course.” Collier swooped on the pitcher and bore it off, delighted to have something to do.

“And let the others know I’m back from the dead,” Ryder called after him, “and tell Pemberly to send Sanderson up as soon as he appears.”

“Yes, my lord!’ Collier left with a spring in his step.

Ryder inwardly shook his head. “You’d never think he’d spent all night asleep in a chair.”

Looking up, he found Mary regarding him steadily. “They’re all very devoted to you.”

He managed the hint of a shrug. “They’ve been with me, as they say, boy and man.” But now Collier had gone, he could ask some of the questions banking up in his brain. “The two who attacked me—I left them in the alley.”

“Sanderson realized you’d want to investigate when you woke, and told Pemberly to take in the bodies and store them somewhere.”

“Good man.” Now for the trickier question. “What arrangements—”

The sound of the front doorbell pealing reached them; Collier had left the door ajar.

“Ah! That will be my parents.” Mary started for the door; glancing back she said, “They’ve been away for the last few days and were due home this morning. I sent them a note explaining where I was and why, and asked them to come as soon as they could and”—reaching the door, she gestured—“lend me countenance, so to speak.”

She whisked through the door even as, lids rising fully, he called, “No, wait!”

When she didn’t reappear, he swore, mostly at the weakness that prevented him from going after her and stopping her from doing something no lady ever should, namely rushing down the stairs of a single gentleman’s abode without being certain who was about to be admitted through the door.

Feeling drained by even that degree of exertion, falling back against his pillows, he mentally grimaced. “Pemberly will reach the door first. He’ll see her and order her back.” He tried to imagine it but couldn’t see anyone—much less his loyal, devoted, and in the current circumstances no doubt immensely grateful staff—ordering Mary to do anything. At least, not successfully.

But there was nothing he could do. Heaving a sigh of resignation, he sank deeper into his pillows, thinking words he’d never thought he would. “Pray God it is her parents.”

R
aventhorne House was every bit as large and impressive as St. Ives House, just a block north in Grosvenor Square. Mary hurried along the corridor that led to the massive gallery about the grand staircase, noting with approval the trappings of luxury she’d been too distracted to notice during the night. Thick Oriental carpets in jewel tones muffled her footsteps; the walls were richly paneled in dark wood and hung with paintings large and small in ornate gilded frames. The well of the front hall was lit by a circular skylight high above. Reaching the gallery, she glanced over the wooden balustrade and saw Pemberly pacing in stately fashion across the black-and-white tiles, heading for the tall front doors.

She would be glad to see her parents, her mother especially; a smile blooming, she grabbed up her skirts and hurried even faster to the head of the stairs.

As she started down, Pemberly opened the door. “Yes?”

“Good morning, Pemberly. We are here to see my stepson.”

Mary froze. Teetering on a tread just below the half-landing, she stared, increasingly aghast as the Marchioness of Raventhorne ignored Pemberly’s valiant attempt to deny her and with an irritated “Do stand aside, man!” pushed past him into the front hall.

Followed by two middle-aged ladies who, heads high, expressions set, reticules determinedly clasped before them, marched inside in the marchioness’s wake.

All three ladies instantly saw Mary. They slowed, then halted.

Their mouths fell open, expressions turning slack with astounded astonishment as they registered who she was . . . and where she was . . .

Breaking free of the shock, Mary swung around and hared back up the stairs.

Heedless of decorum, she raced around the gallery and down the corridor to Ryder’s room.

Flinging open the door, she burst in—startling Collier, at least, who had just finished helping Ryder, now semidecently clad in a nightshirt, sip from a glass of water—then she whirled and shut the door.

She stared at it for a second, then rushed to the bed. “Ryder—”

“I take it that wasn’t your parents.” His expression unflustered, but instead rather cynically resigned, he arched a brow at her.

“It’s your stepmother.” Mary pointed to the door. “She’s coming up here.” As she’d fled, she’d heard an exclamation; as she’d darted into the corridor, she’d heard determined footsteps start up the stairs.

With a put-upon sigh, Ryder looked at the ceiling. “Wonderful.”

“
No
—it’s even worse.” Mary resisted the urge to grab his arm and shake him. “She’s brought Lady Jerome and Mrs. Framlingham with her!”

Ryder’s gaze snapped to her face. “Ah.” All lazy humor flown, he stared at her for two seconds, then barked, “Collier, help me up.”

Mary would have argued but instead found herself kneeling on the bed, assisting Ryder to shift higher on his pillows. At his orders, Collier helped him raise his left arm, placing his hand behind his head. . . . She frowned. “Why are we doing this?”

“Staging.”

“But why?”

“Because Lavinia is one of those to whom you never show weakness.”

She didn’t understand, but she trusted that he knew what he was doing; he was unquestionably more experienced in this sort of situation than she.

“Help me raise my other arm,” Ryder said to Mary. “Collier—out of sight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ryder had intended, between him and Mary, to set his right arm in a similar position to his left, making it appear he was lounging back with his hands behind his head, but he was still so weak, and Mary struggled to push the nearly dead weight of his arm higher—and then he caught the sounds of many footsteps approaching, Pemberly’s protests overridden by Lavinia’s waspish dismissals, and readjusted. “No—leave my arm where it is along the pillows. Sit and face the door. Now!”

Mary threw him a stunned look, but then obeyed.

Leaving her, still clad in her watered silk evening gown from the night before, with her dark curls gently disarranged and becoming color in her cheeks, sitting on his bed within the curve of his arm as he lay apparently relaxed and at his ease.

At eleven o’clock in the morning.

With a last spurt of effort, he managed to shift his right hand enough to drape his fingers over the curve of her right shoulder.

Pemberly entered first, all but propelled through the doorway. “My lord! I tried . . .” He gestured helplessly at Lavinia, who, eyes lit with a conflagration of disbelief and mounting fury, swept into the room.

Lady Jerome and Mrs. Framlingham, arch-gossipmongers and two of the busiest bodies in the ton, hung back in the shadows of the corridor, apparently sensing rather better than his stepmother that barging into his bedchamber without an invitation might just be that one step too far.