The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

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.