The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  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, wrot
e 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

  Ryder 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.

  Accepting 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.