She held his gaze, then said, “I’ve been trained to believe that loyal staff are our strongest allies. From what you’ve said, from all I’ve observed myself, I see no reason to suspect any of them, even of any degree of complicity.”
He nodded, plainly relieved. “I concur.”
“Well, then.” She looked toward the double doors as footsteps sounded immediately beyond them. “I suggest that, at least for now, we pass this off as some sort of freak accident.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head.
Rising, he drew her to her feet and together they turned to face Forsythe as he set the doors wide and, with regal assurance, informed them that dinner was served.
After allowing Ryder to seat her at the foot of the table, then retreat to his own grand carver at the opposite end, Mary made several comments, to which Ryder appropriately replied, establishing their considered view of the matter of the adder, with the unvoiced understanding that Forsythe and the two footmen would convey their words to the rest of the staff.
Once that was done, neither she nor Ryder referred to the matter again, although she was perfectly certain it remained in the forefront of their thoughts. Nevertheless, they strove to entertain each other with talk of myriad other subjects and succeeded well enough.
After dinner, they repaired to the library; Ryder didn’t ask her preference, but she decided she approved of him guiding her into his den apparently without conscious thought. Settling into the armchair she’d selected as hers, she picked up her book and tried to escape into the history of gardening.
Ryder tidied his desk, then went to join her. Sinking into the armchair opposite hers, he emulated her, at least as far as opening a book and attempting to read. He suspected she succeeded better than he; he was still coming to grips with his day. With the events, and the emotions they’d provoked.
This morning . . . had certainly been eye-opening. He’d had no idea he could feel such panic, to the extent that he’d been unable to think and so had acted in ways his more rational side—once it had been able to break through—had immediately recognized as unwise.
Most especially if he wished to conceal just how deeply he felt about his wife.
He hadn’t known he could care to the point of panicking to that degree. Now he knew, and that was almost more frightening.
As for her suggestion that the adder might have been intended for him . . . he couldn’t make up his mind if he should be relieved that she might not have been the intended victim, or horrified that, as Barnaby had foreseen, she had nearly become an incidental casualty of some madman’s attempt to kill him.
At the thought, his emotions threatened to geyser again; determinedly he pushed it away. No sense torturing himself with what-ifs and maybes. More pertinently, he had her reaction on learning the news to assimilate. To wonder at. He knew he hadn’t gauged her tempe
r wrongly; she should have come at him like a brigantine with all guns brought to bear. Instead, she’d behaved . . . much more reasonably than he had.
Either she was far more placid and mild-tempered than he’d thought, or . . . she’d understood why he’d behaved as he had.
Given he wasn’t sure he fully understood that, the thought left him feeling more exposed, and more uncertain, than he’d ever felt in his life.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on, then she stifled a yawn, closed her book, and laid it aside. “I’m for bed.” She rose.
He came to his feet as if pulled by strings. “I’ll come up, too.”
She arched a brow, a slow, sirenlike smile curving her lips. “I’d hoped you would. If you don’t mind, in the circumstances I’d rather share your bed than slide into mine.”
Quelling a shiver, he waved her to the door. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Side by side they walked up the stairs and around to their rooms; he let her lead the way into the sitting room, then straight on into his room.
Following her in, he closed the door, then reached out, caught her hand, and drew her to him, into his arms as he stepped deeper into the room.
A quick glance confirmed that two lamps had been lit, the curtains drawn against the deepening night. The bed had been turned down, and even though he hadn’t ordered it, he felt confident the room and the bed itself had been thoroughly searched. His staff had been deeply shocked and, indeed, affronted; they wouldn’t allow a repetition of what, in their hearts, they saw as an attack on him and them, on the House of Cavanaugh that they served, and Mary was now, in their eyes as well as his, a vital and valued part of the family.
Fastening his hands about her waist, he looked down at her face, studied the mystery of her violet-blue eyes. He took a moment to savor the lithe strength of her, the supple steel beneath his hands, before saying, “Thank you for understanding and forgiving my atrocious behavior today.” He faintly arched a brow. “You do forgive me, don’t you?”
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.”