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

Mary shivered. “You weren’t so alive—you were pale and weak and propped up with pillows!” Then she gave a short laugh, the sound cynically ironic. “It’s just occurred to me.” She looked at him. “The last thing Lavinia would have wanted at that point was for you to marry and father an heir. But if she hadn’t sent those men to kill you, would we have married, do you think?”

“Yes, we would have, although perhaps not so quickly.” When she arched a brow, he smiled gently and tightened his hold on her hand. “I’d already made up my mind it was you I wanted as my marchioness, and I wouldn’t have given up.”

She tipped her head, studied his eyes. “Why? I always wondered why you were so sure, so focused—because you were, virtually from the moment we ran into each other at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball.”

His smile deepened. “I wasn’t certain when we met there—I was afterward.”

“Good God—what did I say?”

“It wasn’t what you said so much as what you did.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I remember. The challenge. I didn’t swoon at your feet.”

He grunted. “You’ve never swooned in your life.”

“True, but confess—it was that, wasn’t it?”

“No. It wasn’t.” He hesitated but felt compelled to admit, “That was part of it, I suppose, but it was more that I couldn’t control you, that you were unpredictable, and that fascinated me.” Death was coming; there was no reason not to tell her the rest. He drew breath and went on, “But that wasn’t the reason I thought to look your way in the first place—why I deliberately sought you out at the ball.”

Her gaze turned arrested, intrigued. “Why, then?”

“In a word, family.” He focused on their linked hands. “The Cavanaughs . . . I told you my half siblings and I are close, that we share a difficult to describe bond. That bond grew out of our common lack of anything like normal mothering. My mother died when I was three, and even though the others had Lavinia, I’ve described how she views them, how she’s always treated them. They’re little more than animated dolls to her. Our bond grew out of not having a normal family, not having the hub, the lynchpin a mother normally provides. Not having a mother to care for us was one thing all five of us shared. And as I was the oldest by six and more years, the others looked to me. We held together and cared for each other as best we could. My father did what he could, but with Lavinia constantly in his way, he didn’t get far. After he died, I helped Rand, and later Kit, get out from under Lavinia’s paw, but Stacie and Godfrey are still trapped, and I won’t . . .” He tipped his head. “Wouldn’t have been able to free them until they turned twenty-five.”

He paused, then, his gaze on their twined fingers, went on, “But the pertinent point is that since my grandparents’ generation, the Cavanaughs haven’t functioned as a family. I wanted to . . . make that better, to put it right, but I don’t, myself, know the ways. I haven’t experienced them. I saw other families in the ton—like the Cynsters, and some others—that are so . . . strong. That’s the only word I have for it—that structure where each branch supports the others to the extent that the entire tree is damned near invincible.”

Raising his head, he met her eyes. “I wanted that for the Cavanaughs, and there you were, the last Cynster girl unwed . . . and then you refused to swoon at my feet and our fates were sealed.”

Her eyes had narrowed slightly; her lips parted, but before she could speak, he held up a staying hand. “And yes, knowing that Cynsters only marry for love, I freely admit that I was perfectly prepared to cold-bloodedly pretend to fall in love with you if that was what it took to win you as my marchioness, to be the mother of my children and the matriarch of the Cavanaughs . . .” Eyes locking with hers, he drew in a massive breath, let it out with, “But then I discovered I didn’t need to pretend.”

Lost in the deepening cornflower-blue of her eyes, he raised her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then turned her hand and brushed a caress to her wrist while uncurling her fingers; lowering his head, eyes still locked with hers, he pressed an even more lingering kiss to her palm. And soft and low stated, “I discovered that, somewhere along the way, I’d fallen in love with you.”

She blinked rapidly, then rather mistily smiled. “Yes, I know. And if you don’t know that I love you as much as you love me, you haven’t been paying attention.”

He grinned, then let the expression turn rueful. “So I didn’t need to confess?”

Her smile deepened. “Don’t misunderstand—hearing you say the words is wonderful, and I used to think that was the pinnacle of my desire. But over the last weeks, I’ve realized that seeing the emotion, the sentiment, in action, feeling it and experiencing it every day in myriad little ways, is simply so much more. Feeling love, experiencing being loved, is priceless—it’s all I could ever want, and all I’ll ever ask of you, that you continue to love me as you already do.”

No longer smiling, he murmured, “That’s one thing you don’t need to ask—you’ve possessed my heart for weeks. It will be yours forever.”

They were both aware of time running out, of this possibly being the last private exchange they would ever share. Neither mentioned loving until death did them part; death hovered too close to bear.

Still, she found a soft smile. “Well, now that you’ve given me the words, you won’t need to confess again. I know how it is for noblemen like you—the violence it does to your feelings.”

He let his brows rise, after a moment said, “Strangely, I think not saying the words, not owning to loving you and trying instead to deny the feeling . . . the violence that would do would far outstrip any effect of admitting to said feeling.” He met her gaze. “Admitting to love.”

She laughed softly—and even he heard the effort she was making, trying to be brave. Ducking her head, she pressed into his arms. He closed them around her; the temperature underground was cool, and they’d both started losing heat.

Time ticked inexorably by.

And suddenly, sitting there in their underground prison with her warm and vital and so much his, so perfectly complementary, in his arms, full realization of what he’d succeeded in seizing—what together they’d succeeded in creating—and now stood on the brink of losing, welled up and overflowed.

She’d brought him all he’d ever wanted, and more. Combined, their potentia

l was beyond his wildest dreams. But their successes would go for naught; their potential would never be fulfilled.

Regret and helplessness, bitterness and sorrow, swamped him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but tears welled, and he bent his head. Laid his cheek against her hair. Moistened his lips and said, his voice low, rough, “My only regret will be that we didn’t have a chance to grow old together—to have our children, and laugh and cry and challenge each other.” His voice broke and he stopped.