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

Satisfied she’d discovered his den, she walked past the desk to study the books in the shelves beyond it. Lamps in the room’s corners had been lit; in the soft light, the lettering on the leather spines glinted. “Philosophy,” she murmured, then continued her ambling perusal.

Ryder stood and watched her for several minutes, then picked up a book he’d left by his usual chair, sat, made himself comfortable, and left her to it.

Wondered if he could.

As he’d suspected, the words on the page failed to divert his attention from her. Weren’t strong enough to drag his senses from her, she who had become their cynosure.

When she paused to examine the twin suits of medieval armor standing between the windows, he murmured, “Forsythe again. They’ve become his hobby.”

She glanced at him; even though he hadn’t looked at her he felt the touch of her gaze. “Are there more of them?”

“In the attics. I gather Forsythe occasionally slips up there to oil and polish them. He’s become something of an authority, I believe.”

“Hmm.” With that she wandered on, effortlessly leading his senses on a circuit of the room.

At the end of it, she returned to the southwest corner—books on gardening—selected a tome, then came to sit with a swish of her skirts in the armchair across from his.

/> Legs curled half under her, she wriggled, then settled, opened the book, and, without a single glance at him, started flicking through it.

Returning his gaze to the book in his hands, Ryder attempted to persuade his errant senses to focus on the words, and not on her.

Locating an appropriate page, Mary fixed her eyes on it but didn’t read. Instead, she reviewed. Herself, her state. And his. Here they were, husband and wife, sitting comfortably in his library reading. She’d surrendered to Fate, and The Lady’s dictates, and this was where they’d landed her.

Which was well enough in its way, yet she was only halfway to her ultimate goal.

She had his ring on her finger and was certain she could rely on having his strength at her back, but she’d yet to secure that one most vital thing—his love declared and acknowledged, at least between them.

That was the minimum she would, could, settle for.

So here they were. How should she move them forward?

Staring unseeing at the neat black print, she revisited all their previous private interactions; she searched and evaluated, seeking to identify the most direct and unrestrained and unrestricted means of communication, the most certain route to claiming his unfettered attention and persuading and convincing him of the value in taking that one last step.

She now knew him well enough to be sure that, with him, persuading and convincing was the only way to go. And regardless of all else, she was going to have to demonstrate the value, the real and true purpose of love.

Which meant she would have to define exactly what that was for him and her and their future together—the shared life they would live in this house.

And this was, after all, their wedding night; what better time to start?

Closing the book in her lap, she looked at him.

Although he responded slowly, she knew that was a sham. Raising his gaze to her face, he searched her eyes, then arched a fashionably languid brow.

She was perfectly certain he hadn’t forgotten it was their wedding night, either. Setting aside her book, she rose; shutting and laying aside his book, he did the same. When he stood before her, she met his eyes. “I have a request to make, my lord.”

He held her gaze; she could see him trying to decide what she might ask, but eventually he surrendered. “And that is?”

“Take me to your bed.”

Chapter Twelve

Ryder blinked, nearly swayed with the effort of hauling back his impulses enough to clarify, “My bed? Not yours?”

“No—yours.” Brazen and bold, she tipped up her chin. “I think my room is lovely and I want to thank you properly. In your bed.”

He raised his brows. “In that case . . .” He swept her up into his arms. Ignoring her gasp and her consequent laughter, he carried her to the door, juggled her enough to open it, then strode along the corridor to the front hall.

She looped her arms around his neck and, softly laughing, held tight as he carried her up the stairs two at a time. Her eagerness shone in her eyes, infused her expression, the teasing tension in her lithe frame—and effortlessly fed and incited his own.