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

She stared levelly back, then shook her head. “No—you’ll break my bed. I’ll come to you as I did the other night.”

“No.” His protectiveness wouldn’t allow that. But seeing haughty independence welling in her eyes, he rapidly reevaluated, then amended, “I’m not enamored of you wandering even as far as your mews alone, so let’s do the reverse of what we did the other morning. I’ll meet you in the garden outside the window. My carriage will be waiting to take us home.”

The last word was an instinct-driven, semi-deliberate slip of the tongue; she caught it, tipped her head as she considered, but then she smiled and left it unchallenged. “All right.” With a general wave, she indicated the wedding breakfast, now winding down. “After this, we’ll be retiring early tonight. Meet me at eleven.”

He didn’t smile, just nodded. “I’ll be there.”

He was waiting in the shadows at the rear of the house to give her his hand as she climbed out of the window. Quietly lowering the sash and reclaiming her hand, he led her out through the night-shrouded garden, then along the street to his unmarked town carriage.

Harness jingled as he handed her up, then followed and shut the door. The night was overcast, the moon screened, leaving little risk of anyone seeing them well enough to recognize. He sat beside Mary on the leather seat; as the carriage shifted, then slowly rolled on, with the deeper shadows within closing around them, he was tempted—sorely tempted—to draw her into his arms and kiss her witless, to plunder her mouth and taste her passion . . . but he didn’t.

In

stead, anchoring her hand, still locked in his, firmly on the seat between them, he pretended to watch the houses slide past. And tried not to think about why he didn’t dare surrender to the nearly overwhelming impulse.

It had been a long, long time since he’d questioned his control. Since he’d had any reason to doubt it. But the hunger presently crawling beneath his skin was simply too powerful to ignore; once he started kissing her . . .

Luckily, the drive to Mount Street took only a few minutes. The instant the carriage halted, he opened the door, stepped out, and handed her down to the pavement. Shutting the door, he nodded to his coachman, Ridges, then escorted Mary up the front steps into the concealing shadows of his porch.

Pulling out his latch-key, he fitted it to the door.

“No Pemberly?”

“I’ve dismissed him and the rest of the staff for the night.” Through the dimness, he looked down at her. “Ridges will return to drive us back to Upper Brook Street in the small hours.” Opening the door, he ushered her in.

“Poor Ridges.” She walked further into the shadowed hall.

Shutting the door, Ryder snorted. “Not so poor, and he’s only too happy to assist.”

Swinging to face him, she arched her brows. Crossing the tiles to halt before her, he added, “He knows you’ll soon be his mistress.”

“Ah.” After a moment of studying his face, she asked, “Are they happy with the prospect then, your staff?”

He hadn’t brought her there to discuss his household. “If anything, they’re ecstatic.” Her brows rose; a smile curved her lips. He studied the sight and found himself admitting, “They are not, however, as happy as I am.” He hesitated, then, entirely against his better judgment, asked, “You know that, don’t you?”

She continued to study his face, then her smile deepened. “Perhaps I do.” Turning, skirts swishing, she headed for the stairs. “But then again”—pausing with one hand on the newel post, her foot on the first step, she glanced back at him—“perhaps you should remind me just how enamored you are over our prospective union.”

He locked his gaze with hers; slowly, he walked across the tiles to her side. Halting there, he looked into her face, let a heartbeat pass, only then asked, “Is that a challenge?”

“I’m hoping you’ll see it in that light and exert yourself accordingly.”

A part of him laughed; the rest rose to her lure. Lips curving—amused, yes, but intent, too—he reached for her . . .

She bolted.

On a smothered laugh, she raced up the stairs.

He was on her heels before he’d thought.

Then he did. He let her reach the landing before looping an arm around her waist, spinning her into him as he turned. Setting her back to the side wall, he crushed her lips with his.

And devoured.

Mary sank her hands into his hair and hung on for dear life. Let her wits spin away and opened her senses wide. Gloried, for one long instant simply drank in his passion—then she flung her heart and soul into returning it.

Fingers clenching in his hair, she kissed him back, returning every rapacious foray with her own fire. Her own need. Her own burning brand of desire. She could feel it surging inside her, undeniable, all-powerful, a heated yearning to be together, to be naked and merged and totally lost in the flames.

The compulsion built, rose higher.