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

Peter wasn’t proof against it; he ducked his head and went.

She refused to think about how much blood lay on the pavement beside Ryder, let alone had soaked into his clothes and was turning sticky around her hands. As she registered the cloying warmth about her fingers, instinct shrieked at her to draw her hands away; ruthlessly she quashed it. Her senses drew in; her gaze locked on the rise and fall of Ryder’s chest, she followed the rhythm until it became her own heartbeat. . . .

His heart was higher than where she was pressing; she could sense the faint thump through her fingers.

Dragging in a ragged breath, she raised her gaze to his face, that unbelievably beautiful sculpted face, now pale in the moonlight and so still, devoid of its customary animation—the glint in his hazel eyes, the inherently wicked curve of his chiseled lips, the languidly suggestive arch of his brows.

Something in her chest shifted; her vision blurred. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ryder,” she whispered, fierce and low. “Not now.”

Ryder sensed hard pavement beneath him. He felt cold all over, chilled; he wasn’t sure he could actually feel much of his body. Everything seemed far away.

But he sensed warmth beside him. He would have liked to get closer.

He remembered getting stabbed, and wondered why fate, who had never been fickle to him before, had suddenly deserted him.

He tried to lift his lids—and was surprised when they rose a fraction.

An angel with lustrous dark hair was leaning over him. His vision swam into focus and he recognized Mary. Not an angel then, but for him even better.

Her normal skin tone was alabaster, but she looked even paler. Her brows were drawn. She looked worried, anxious . . .

Why? His lips were oddly dry, his tongue leaden. “What . . . ?” More breath than speech.

She looked at him, startled, but she didn’t move her arms, her hands. Then her expression grew fierce and her blue eyes burned. “Stay with me!”

He blinked—would have told her he had no intention of doing anything else, but then his lids wouldn’t rise again, and everything grew dim, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.

Mary stared at Ryder’s face, willing him to open his eyes again, to give her that much hope, but his features had slackened; he was unconscious again.

A clatter of feet, a rush of people, and she was surrounded by a bevy of men all exuding unbridled concern but with no idea what to do, and she was forced to focus and organize them. “No, I’m not stepping back. I can’t take my hands away, not yet.” She glanced around. “Good—there’s enough of you. One at his head, one at each shoulder, one at each hip, and one man to lift his feet. The other three of you can slide that door under him when the rest of us ease him up.”

They shuffled, and under her continued direction, acting in concert they managed to ease Ryder onto the door, then six of them lifted the panel while Ryder’s butler—he’d introduced himself as Pemberly—helped Mary to her feet so she didn’t have to shift her hands.

But the pressure she’d exerted necessarily eased a trifle before she could press down again; blood welled, but much less, and more sluggishly.

Sending up a swift prayer, she grimly nodded and they started off, John and Peter holding back the traffic so they could ferry their burden across the cobbled street and up the steps into Raventhorne House.

As, slowly and awkwardly, they negotiated the steep steps, Mary said, “He regained consciousness just before and spoke—it was only one word, but . . .” She paused to steady her voice. “He’s not dead yet.”

Whether she was speaking to reassure them or herself she didn’t know, but the butler audibly drew in a breath; quickening his pace, he crossed the narrow porch to hold open the double doors. As he did, he spoke to others within, “He’s still alive.”

“Oh, thank heaven!”

Crossing the threshold, Mary realized the feminine exclamation hadn’t come from any female member of Ryder’s family but from a woman she took to be his housekeeper.

The staff were all gathered, all trapped by concern and an eager, almost desperate desire to help, but with no notion of what needed to be done. Mary didn’t hesitate—this was no time for social niceties, and if she was treading on some lady’s toes by assuming command, then that lady ought to have been there to take charge. “Pemberly—some names, please. We need to get his lordship upstairs.”

Snapped into action by the whip of her voice, Pemberly shut the double doors and introduced the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and a man Mary took to be Ryder’s gentleman’s gentleman, Collier.

“Good. Mrs. Perkins, perhaps you might go up and ensure his lordship’s bed is ready to receive him, but please don’t start any fire in his room, not until the doctor has seen him.”

“Yes, miss.” Eyes round, Mrs. Perkins curtsied and hurried for the stairs.

Mary turned her sights on Collier; the man was all but dithering in his helplessness. “Fetch scissors to cut his lordship out of his clothes—we won’t be able to ease him out of them. And round up bandages and a basin. You might also take charge of his lordship’s swordstick.” She glanced around. “My footman has it.”

Collier gulped in a breath and straightened. “I’ll find it, miss. And the rest.”

Keeping her hands pressed to Ryder’s side, she turned to Pemberly. “Have you sent for his lordship’s physician?”