The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh

by Stephanie Laurens

  Mary smiled up at him. “Of course.”

  When he didn’t seem convinced, she laughed. “I’m a Cynster—I know how men like you behave.”

  And why. She omitted those two words, but that why was what most interested her, what commanded her attention. It might very well be everything she sought, the bedrock on which they might build their future life.

  Far from being disheartened by today, she now had solid hope.

  And, as always, she wanted to press on. Smiling, unable to hide her expectation, she raised her hands to his nape. “Let’s put today behind us and go on from here. From where we are now, in this room, in this moment.”

  She could see the wariness that crept into his eyes, that of a wild predator who scents not a trap but a hidden binding. But if she was right, the binding lay within him, and was one that, ultimately, he would willingly bear.

  Now, however, she suspected he wouldn’t see it—or if he did, would do his best to ignore it.

  Sure enough, after that momentary hesitation, he nodded.

  Agreed and bent his head as she stretched up.

  Their lips met, touched, brushed, then fused. She had no idea why it was so different every time, yet thus it seemed. And this time was all about reassurance.

  About exploring anew, connecting anew. Revisiting past experiences, but with a more acute understanding, one born of the day, of the emotions provoked and unleashed, then reined back.

  Until now. Now, when they could be unchained and allowed to run, when they could be given free rein to infuse and direct, to seek expression through the physical act he and she both sought to harness, to bend to their wills.

  As before, neither succeeded. That force that came to be when they joined, that together they seemed to create and bring to life, inevitably overcame them.

  Overwhelmed them.

  This time it transformed into a firestorm of passion, of heated touches, possessive caresses, his and hers, and a burning need to satisfy the hunger that had taken root and grown within them both, ravenous and demanding.

  Commanding.

  At the last they bent, bowed, and surrendered, and let the flames take them and fuse them, consume and reforge them, before flinging them, limp and ragged, into the cooling sea of satiation to drift to the distant shore . . . where bliss waited, heavy and soothing, and rolled over them.

  Echoes of ecstasy still tingled through their flesh as, wrecked and helpless, they disengaged only to draw the covers up before slumping back into each other’s arms.

  Together, where they needed to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Life was good. Over the following days, Mary felt increasingly pleased, as she found the position of Ryder’s marchioness not just to her liking but fitting her like a glove.

  The incident of the adder remained unresolved, yet as several days passed and nothing further occurred to mar the moments as she settled into her new home, the incident largely faded from their collective consciousness.

  Enough for Mary to decide that it was time Ryder took her for a ride about the estate. Seated beside him at the breakfast table, she made her request, before he could reply adding, “As I mentioned last night, I think we should invite all the estate families and workers to a picnic later in the summer, and before we do I’d like to get a better idea of the estate and all those who live on it.” She glanced at his face. “And you are unarguably the best source of information on that subject.” She arched her brows. “So when can we go?”

  Accustomed by now to her manipulative ploys—her last question presumed he’d agreed—Ryder looked at her and considered her request, yet her picnic was precisely the sort of event he would like to see instituted, the sort of major estate annual function Raventhorne currently lacked and that he’d hoped his wife would attend to. And, after all, he would be with her. He nodded. “All right.” Seeing triumph light her face, he raised his cup to hide his amused grin. “When are you free?”

  She’d noticed his amusement and blinked her big blue eyes at him. “Whenever you are.”

  The challenge in the words ensured they met in her sitting room immediately they’d changed into their riding clothes. He wasn’t surprised to discover her riding habit was in a shade of mid-blue, but the frogging over her breasts, the jacket’s tight waist, and the draped and flowing skirt fixed his attention; he followed her out of the door and was halfway around the gallery before his gaze rose and he noticed the bobbing feather in the tiny cap anchored atop her curls.

  She strode along at her usual forceful pace and the feather bobbed, and he found himself grinning foolishly.

  He showed her the fastest way out of the house to the stables. He’d sent word ahead, and their horses were saddled and waiting; his raking gray hunter, Julius, and the nimble-footed bay mare she’d had sent from London were both shifting restlessly, eager for a run, their hooves clacking on the cobbles of the stable yard.

  Ryder cast his eyes assessingly over the mare, then lifted Mary to her saddle. He watched as she settled and accepted the reins from the groom. “I take it she’s from Demon’s stables?”

  “Yes.” She looped the reins through her gloved fingers with casual expertise. “He provides all the family’s horses.”

  “I’ve heard he’s careful about matching horses to riders.”

  Clearly recognizing the question behind his statement, she smiled and nodded. “Indeed—he refuses to let us ride any beast we can’t control.” Leaning forward, she smoothed a palm over the mare’s glossy neck. Arched a brow as she met his eyes. “So we all learn to control the animals we ride.”

  He held her gaze for a finite moment, trying to decide whether the double entendre was deliberate or not, then snorted and turned away.

  Accepting the reins of his big gelding, he swung up to the saddle. The instant he’d settled, Mary flicked him a glance and led the way out of the stable yard.

  He drew level in the forecourt, and with a nod directed her across a gentle grassy slope. “How are you with fences and hedges?”

  She’d been assessing the gray’s points; raising her gaze to Ryder’s eyes, she arched a haughty brow. “Lucinda and I can take anything you and that brute can.”

  Having noted how steady, how assured in the saddle she rode, he suspected that was no idle boast, but rather than rise to her lure, he nodded and said, “Very well. We’ll see.”

  She softly humphed but fluidly followed him as he led the way over the first fence and into the field beyond. They cantered through the fields and paddocks of the home farm, but both horses remained restless, wanting to run.

  As they left the fields and turned toward the woods, taking a well-worn bridle path, he called, “Let’s give them a chance to get rid of their fidgets—there’s a long glade just ahead.”

  “Lovely! Lead on.”

  He did; without exchanging so much as a glance, the instant they saw the glade ahead both dropped their reins, let their horses stretch their legs, and side by side raced into a flat gallop.

  Both horses flew. The gray was stronger, but the mare was sleek and had plenty of power. Ryder found himself grinning delightedly as neck and neck they thundered down the glade.

  Leaning low over the mare’s back, Mary laughed, the rush of their passage whipping away the sound. Her heart pounded in time with Lucinda’s hooves as they stayed with Ryder’s gray, matching horse and rider inch for inch; the moment filled her with glorious joy.

  Lucinda’s stride broke.

  Mary was too experienced a rider not to react immediately; drawing evenly back on the reins, she straightened, adjusting her weight to help draw the horse from their headlong rush.

  Beneath her, Lucinda slowed, but also shifted, half twisting, muscles bunching and twitching as if she wanted to buck. Alarmed—Lucinda never behaved badly—Mary clung to calm, knowing that was the surest way to keep Lucinda ca
lm, too. Focusing fully on the mare, she reined the horse in, slowed her—and the instant she safely could, unlooped her leg from the pommel, drew her foot from the stirrup, and dropped to the grass.

  Clutching the reins tightly, she waited until the mare came to a quivering halt, then, puzzled, careful not to startle the horse, she went to Lucinda’s head and stroked her long nose. “What is it?”

  Noticing her sudden absence, Ryder had wrestled his gray into a turn and now halted a few paces away. “What happened?”

  Frowning, Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.” She gestured with one hand. “But just look at her. She’s shivering. It’s as if she’s distressed.”

  Ryder cursed. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him dismount. After tying his reins to a convenient branch, he strode across to her.

  Hazel eyes hard, he surveyed the mare, circling to her other side.

  Mary continued to stroke Lucinda’s nose and croon; the mare seemed to be calming, but still her hide flickered and her breathing wasn’t steady. “Can you see anything?”

  “No.” After a moment, Ryder asked, “Tell me exactly what happened—what made you halt?”

  “She broke stride—I worried she might have put a hoof wrong, partly down a rabbit hole or something of the sort. It wasn’t a big jerk, more like a hop, but . . .” Closing her eyes, she thought back. “I think it was one of her rear hooves that had just struck when it happened.”

  Ryder humphed. “Hold her steady. I’ll check her legs and hooves.”

  He did, but there was nothing—no soreness, no damage, no stone in a hoof—to account for a sudden change in the mare’s gait. And although she’d calmed considerably, the mare was still twitchy.

  Standing back, hands on hips, beyond puzzled, he said, “Walk her. Let’s see if we can pinpoint what’s bothering her.”

  Mary dutifully walked the mare—who paced without any obvious restriction, long brown legs shifting fluidly, exactly as they should, each movement as assured as it should be . . . except that, after a few steps, the mare shifted and twisted and her hide rippled.

  “It’s nothing to do with her legs.” Mystified, but now certain of that, he walked to the mare; halting opposite Mary, he met her eyes. “It seems to be something to do with your saddle.”

  Mary blinked, then looked at the saddle. “It’s my usual saddle—the one I always use on her.”

  “Regardless, let’s get it off her and see what that does.”

  He circled the mare. When he tugged on the buckle securing the girth, the horse snorted and sidestepped away.

  “Oh.” Mary drew the mare back. “I see what you mean. Perhaps something broke and is sticking out underneath.”

  She held the mare steady; more carefully, Ryder released the girth. With the saddle finally loose, he lifted it free—and they saw the problem.

  “Gorse.” Disgusted, Mary picked up the spiky branchlet, went to toss it away, but then stopped. Going up on her toes, she peered at the spot where the prickles had marred the bay’s glossy hide. She frowned. “How the devil did it get there?”

  Ryder looked and had to agree. “It couldn’t have slipped in there—not that far under—while you were in the saddle.”

  “Or even before—the saddle fits too well.” Mary smoothed her gloved hand over the spot, and the mare shivered, almost shuddering with relief. “Well, regardless, that seems to have been the problem.”

  “That part of the problem, perhaps.” Ryder tried not to sound too grim. “But as to how it got there . . .”

  Mary met his eyes. After a moment said, “It can’t have been there when they saddled her—she wasn’t bothered when I mounted her. But at the same time, I can’t see how a piece of gorse that size could possibly have worked its way under the saddle while we were riding.”

  “Agreed.” He followed the thought to the only conclusion. “It had to have been there when she was saddled, but somehow not pricking her.” Turning to where he’d set down the saddle, he turned it over and crouched to examine it. Still holding the mare’s reins, Mary came to the other side and leaned down.

  “There.” She pointed to a fold in the saddle’s leather underside. “There’s a tiny leaflet in the groove—see?”

  He looked where she was pointing. Pulling off his gloves, he examined the fold . . . “It’s a seam. It’s been unpicked and opened to make a pocket of sorts.”

  Slowly raising his head, he looked at Mary.

  She met his eyes, read his expression, and blew out a breath. “So—not an accident.”

  Rather than risk her riding the mare, Ryder took Mary up before him on Julius and they rode back to the stable yard with the mare, loosely saddled, following on lengthened reins.

  Their unexpected reappearance in such fashion created an immediate stir; Filmore and two grooms—the same two who had saddled the horses earlier—were there to greet them as they clattered in.

  “What happened?” Filmore asked.

  “A slight problem.” Ryder’s clenched jaw and clipped tone gave that “slight” the lie. Swinging down to the cobbles, he lifted Mary down. Filmore was already examining the mare, trying to find something wrong. “It’s the saddle,” Ryder said. “Take it off and I’ll show you.”

  The older groom, Benson, complied, setting the saddle on the mounting block. Ryder turned it over and showed Filmore and the others the opened seam in the underside. “There was gorse—a nice sturdy twig of it—tucked inside.” He glanced at the grooms. “No fault of yours—I doubt anyone would have noticed it. But, of course, the further we rode, the gorse worked loose—especially when we galloped. Once it had, the mare started to react.” He glanced at Mary, felt his jaw tighten. “Luckily, the marchioness is an experienced rider and halted the mare without accident.”

  All three men looked aghast.

  As aghast as Ryder still felt; if Mary hadn’t reacted as quickly as she had . . . and how many riders, especially female riders, were as well schooled as she was?

  Then Filmore’s expression abruptly cleared; a second later, his face darkened. “So that’s what the bastards were about!” Registering Mary’s presence, Filmore ducked his head. “Begging your pardon, m’lady.”

  “No, no.” Mary waved aside the apology. “What bastards?”

  Filmore glanced at Ryder. “The tack room door was open two mornings ago—and it shouldn’t have been. I know I’d locked it the night before. But the lock wasn’t broken, and when we checked, nothing had been stolen—nothing at all seemed even out of place.” Disgusted, he waved at the saddle. “They—whoever they were—must have come to do this. To slit that seam and stuff in some gorse. It’s an old trick for causing problems during horse races.”

  “Well, quite clearly it wouldn’t have been anyone here.” Mary led the way into the library, heading for the chairs before the hearth. “There would have been no reason for any of the staff to have to break into the tack room at night. They could have slipped in during the day—there would be plenty of opportunities.”

  “I can’t see that that’s any comfort.” Ryder followed her in and shut the door.

  “Can’t you?” Tossing her crop and gloves on a side table, she sat in what had become her chair. “Well, perhaps not comfort, but it does tell us that whoever Filmore’s bastards are, they didn’t want to risk being seen. So they’re not from the household but are people the staff would recognize.”

  Ryder met her determinedly confident gaze, then sat in the chair opposite. “That—as you well know—is not the critical point. Who did it is one thing, but why is another, and a much more troubling question.”

  He wasn’t entirely surprised to hear her sigh.

  “I have no enemies that I know of, and no reason to believe anyone bears me sufficient ill will to wish me harm.” She held up her hands. “Perhaps someone is trying to frighten me, but I can’t imagine why.”

 
“Frighten you.” He managed to keep his tone even. “A bite from an adder at this time of year could well be fatal, especially for someone your size. A fall from the back of a spirited horse, especially at a gallop, could easily have broken your neck. If you imagine—”

  “Actually.” Capturing his gaze, she frowned, paused, but before he could resume his tirade, went on, “Has it occurred to you that one reason someone might stage such accidents is to disrupt, if not end, our marriage?”

  The words sent a chill through him. It took a moment to rein in his instinctive reaction; once he had, he asked, his tone level, “What, exactly, do you mean?” He’d seen it, too, but hadn’t wanted to think of it; now he needed to know what she thought, how she saw it.

  “I mean that it’s really too coincidental that first someone sends two thugs to kill you in London, and then when they fail, and you and I marry, someone then targets me—first with an adder in what should have been my wedding bed, and you have to admit when considered in that light that’s something of a statement, and when that didn’t work, then with a trick that should have seen me thrown from my horse the first time we went out riding—almost certainly alone.” She held his gaze unwaveringly. “What are the odds that those three incidents aren’t connected? And if they are, then who—what sort of person—might strike first at you, but then once you wed, strike instead at your wife?”

  Several seconds passed in silence, then he fractionally inclined his head. “The most likely culprit would be some gentleman who imagined I had stolen his wife.”

  “We thought it was Fitzhugh, but as that seems not to be the case, who else might it be?”

  He studied her eyes; unwavering self-certainty, an assurance of who she was, and also who he was, remained steady and strong in her cornflower-blue gaze. She wasn’t rattled; she was focused and, if he judged correctly, just a tad irritated. Not with him but with whoever had had the temerity to disturb her definition of how their life should be.