The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  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 tha
t 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.”

  “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.”
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  “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.”