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

Angelica’s description of how her hero might appear to her.

Under such a definition, Ryder qualified.

She stared at the rose quartz pendant, then, lips tightening, tucked it back under her bodice. She believed in the powers of The Lady’s talisman—she truly did—but she hadn’t expected her quest for love and her true hero to require her to court the sort of risks that walking into the den of an acknowledged lion of the ton would entail.

Sitting back as the carriage rolled around the corner into Mount Street, she grimaced. “I suppose it comes down to whether or not I’m convinced that there’s no other true hero out there for me—that Ryder is truly my one.”

Sudden movement outside the carriage had her glancing out. As if her use of his name had conjured him, Ryder stepped out of the mouth of an alley just ahead . . .

No, not stepped—reeled.

As the carriage drew level, she watched as he staggered, slowly pivoted, then collapsed facedown on the pavement.

He might have been drunk, but she knew he hadn’t been, that he couldn’t be.

Leaping to her feet, she thumped her fist on the trapdoor in the ceiling. “John! Stop! Stop!”

Chapter Five

She leapt out of the carriage while it was still rocking. Her heart in her mouth, she raced back along the pavement. The shouts from John and Peter for her to wait seemed distant, far away.

Even before she reached Ryder, she knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Blood glinted, fresh, ruby red, by his side.

She fell on her knees beside him. “Oh, God!” One glance at his face confirmed he was unconscious. An unsheathed rapier, the blade stained with blood, lay weakly clasped in one hand.

Frantic, she tried to push him onto his back, to find where he was wounded. There was too much blood . . . but he was too heavy for her to shift.

Peter reached her. She didn’t even glance up. “Quickly! Help me!”

With Peter’s assistance, she managed to heave Ryder onto his back.

An ugly gash on his left side, near his waist, was steadily pumping blood.

Her heart stopped. “No.” She pressed a hand over the wound, then as blood immediately seeped through her fingers, she slapped her other hand over the first, trying desperately to staunch the flow.

Glancing up and about, she realized Peter had circled around; he stepped cautiously into the alley. He came out almost immediately, his face ashen. “Two ruffians in there, miss. Reckon as they’re dead. Must’ve set on him.” Dragging in a breath, he nodded at Ryder. “Gave a good account of hisself, but they’d already stuck him.”

“Yes, well, don’t just stand there!” When Peter did just that, looking mournful, she snapped, “He’s not dead yet!”

The warmth flooding under her hands assured her that was true, but for how long? “For God’s sake!” Wild panic gripped her. Looking around, she saw John Coachman, who had had to brake the coach and find some urchin to hold his horses, running toward them. “Thank heaven.” She raised her voice. “John—it’s the Marquess of Raventhorne. He’s been badly wounded, but his house is just there.” Without taking her hands from Ryder’s side—was it her imagination, or was the steady stream slowing, and was that good or bad?—she hauled in a breath, swallowed her fear, and nodded to the houses on the opposite side of the street. “It’s the one with the iron railings—go and summon his staff immediately!”

“Yes, miss!” Skidding to a halt, John turned and raced across the street.

Despite the traffic about Berkley Square, and a conglomeration of carriages some way down the street, there was no traffic passing along that stretch just then. Mary didn’t know whether to be thankful for the lack of distraction or annoyed not to have had more help.

She looked down and attempted to take stock. The closest source of light was the streetlamp several yards beyond Ryder’s feet. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure the gash she was pressing on was his only wound. “Peter, can you see any other cut? Is he bleeding from anywhere else?”

“Not that I can see, miss.” Peter had retrieved Ryder’s hat and his cane—the empty outer sheath of the rapier—from the alley. Coming to stand opposite her again, he shifted, clearly nervous. “Is there anything else you want me to do, miss?”

Her mind seemed to be operating on two levels simultaneously. One was a tumult of emotions; the other was surprisingly clear. Just as well; this was no time for panic—Ryder couldn’t afford it. Holding her emotions at bay, she clung to what needed to be done—to what she was good at. Taking charge. “Yes. Go across the road and tell his lordship’s people that he’s unconscious and they’ll need a door, or a gate, or a stretcher of some sort to move him. And they must send for his physician immediately.”

“Ah—I don’t think I should leave you—”

“There’s no one about. Just g

o!” She used the tone of voice with which few argued.