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

He hadn’t shown it to Mary; the letter had been written for him alone, Bar

naby’s words had made that plain. Barnaby had argued that, despite the apparent cessation of attacks on Mary, despite the possibility that those incidents had never been intended as anything more than nasty attempts to scare her and disrupt their marriage, in Barnaby’s and Stokes’s experienced view the less favorable possibility that the attacks on them both were all part of one strategy remained. And if that were so, then the chances were good the perpetrator wouldn’t stop, although he might well pause to regroup and redeploy.

Stay on guard. That had been Barnaby and Stokes’s warning, clearly spelled out in words impossible to misconstrue.

Further compounding the uncertainties, despite considerable investigation by all the Cynsters, as well as those gentlemen connected by marriage like Jeremy Carling, Breckenridge, Meredith, and the others, all of whom Ryder knew, no one had been able to unearth any clue as to any gentleman wanting him dead.

Ryder’s own investigation into who had hired the two thugs he’d killed in the alley had returned no further result; that trail was now beyond cold.

As Barnaby had stated in his closing remark, that left them facing an unknown threat, one that could strike from any direction at any time.

Not a situation designed to soothe his inner beast, but . . . finishing the last of his letters, he glanced down the room at Mary’s bent head, and—again—gave thanks for her understanding, and her intelligence. She continued to accept the need to remain within the house and the surrounding gardens without so much as a quibble, much less a complaint.

Scrawling his title across the corner of the envelopes, he tossed them on a salver for Forsythe to collect and dispatch, then rose and headed for his wife.

She looked up as he neared.

He smiled and held out his hands. Laying aside her book, she put her hands in his and allowed him to draw her to her feet.

Still holding her hands, he looked down at her. “Barnaby sends his regards—and warns that we should remain on guard.”

She tipped her head, studying his eyes, his face. “Luckily, at the moment, there’s no reason I need to venture further afield.”

“You’re content to remain within the house and grounds?”

She nodded. “For the moment.” Sliding her hands from his and taking his arm, she turned to the door. “Anyone who wishes to consult with me can come and visit me here. And I’ve discovered that peace becomes me.”

He chuckled and let her steer him out of the room, through the front hall, and up the stairs to their rooms, but the suggestion of uncertainty, that for today they had this, but that tomorrow it might be threatened, lingered.

He followed her into what used to be his bedroom but now showed signs of her occupation—a silk robe neatly laid over a chair, a brush on the lower of the tallboys, along with a shallow dish she used to set her pins and jewelry in. Collier and Aggie had come to some sort of agreement and now seemed to share territorial rights, over this room, at least.

With a happy little sigh, Mary went straight to the tallboy and started unpinning her hair.

Ryder pulled the pin from his cravat and started unraveling it. His cravat was the one item of his clothing Mary had most difficulty divesting him of; the intricate knots he favored defeated her and had on occasion sent her into fits of frustrated impatience, much to his amusement.

Tonight, however, he wasn’t in the mood to test her temper. He was impatient and eager enough on his own.

He wasn’t sure why, but the compulsive thud was already there, a slow, steady pounding through his veins. An outcome of that lingering uncertainty, perhaps. He didn’t question it but followed her across the room; his cravat finally loose, he reached for her.

Her hair tumbling down about her face and shoulders, Mary turned into his arms; hands splaying over his chest, fingers instinctively lightly gripping, she looked into his face and arched her brows. Sometimes they played games, but most often they opted for the direct and dramatic, their needs simple and complementary. Tonight . . . in the hardness of his hazel eyes, from the steely tension in the arm about her waist, she sensed there was something more he wanted, something he thought of to suggest, but, after an instant’s hesitation, he rejected all words and lowered his head, and she offered up her lips, his to claim.

He claimed them, and more. From that first touch of his lips, the first commanding kiss, she knew that tonight would be no simple repetition of anything that had gone before. Of anything they’d done before.

After his initial conquering foray, he supped and enticed, and she followed, into a long-drawn exchange of heated delight, of assured and unhurried savoring, not he of her or her of him but of them both relishing the moment, the confident presaging of the deeper, more enthralling intimacy to come.

From there, the engagement spun out; for once he openly brought to bear all his vaunted expertise and laid it at the feet of not her but what had grown between them. He deployed his undeniable prowess in its name, in its service.

She knew; she could taste that intent in his kiss, reveled in the passionate devotion that infused not just the melding of their mouths but every touch, every caress, every pressure.

Their clothes fell, shed by hands now well-accustomed to the ritual, to the worship of flesh and naked skin as it was bared to the night air, to the gilding of moonlight.

To the touch of a lover’s hands.

To the caress of fingertips that, as the primitive beat rose, trembled.

He drew her fully against him, her delicate frame and silken skin flush against his powerfully muscled, hair-dusted body, and they paused, both caught in the sensual succulence of the instant, enraptured.

The feel of him all around her, his heat, the hardness of his flesh, the tension investing his heavy muscles, the hot, rigid column pressed against her belly, all impinged and drove her on.