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

“Yes, miss. A boy’s already gone.”

“Excellent.” Mary eyed the long first flight of stairs. “In that case, let’s take his lordship to his room.”

“Indeed, miss . . .” Pemberly tried to catch her eye.

“Cynster. Miss Mary Cynster.” Shuffling alongside the door-cum-stretcher bearing Ryder’s still form, Mary cautioned the men, “Very carefully, now. No need to rush.”

Taking due note of her tone, the six burly men—footmen and grooms—climbed the stairs one slow step at a time.

Mary largely lost track of the following hour. With a great deal of organizing, they managed to lift Ryder off the door and onto the wide expanse of his bed without her shifting her hands; she ended up perched on her knees alongside him, keeping steady pressure on his wound. Collier and Mrs. Perkins worked around her to strip the clothes from Ryder’s upper body, then Mrs. Perkins washed the worst of the blood from his too-pale skin.

Her gaze drawn to the wide expanse of his chest, the broad, heavy muscles garlanded with crisp golden brown hair, the skin, more olive than her own, smooth and taut over the sculpted hardness, Mary found herself fascinated, but in a distant, detached way.

Some currently submerged part of her noted the immense weight of his shoulder bones, the heavy muscles of his upper arms, the impressive width of his chest that tapered down past his lower ribs and ridged abdomen to his waist, and then further to his still narrower hips. Her hands were pressed to his side, just a touch above his waist. Theoretically, she supposed, her palms were—shockingly—pressed to his skin, but the blood between nullified any true tactile contact.

The first time she’d seen him half naked shouldn’t have been like this.

The first time she had her hands, skin to skin, on his torso, she would have hoped to feel more than the sticky slickness of blood.

She registered the oddity of the thoughts but didn’t have time to dwell on them.

“There now, miss.” Mrs. Perkins ducked her head to catch Mary’s gaze. “I think it’s time we had a closer look at that wound. There doesn’t seem to be much more coming from it.”

Seeing that the housekeeper was holding a clean, damp cloth in her hand, Mary drew breath, nodded, and slowly—ready to slap them back if need be—she peeled first one, then the other hand from the wound.

Collier appeared beside her with damp rags; without shifting her gaze from the wound, she let him wipe her hands. Revealed, the tear in Ryder’s skin was less than two inches long, a stab wound obviously deeper than it was wide.

Eyes locked on it, breathing suspended, they watched, waited, but no more blood flowed from the gash.

“Shall I wash it, miss?” Mrs. Perkins brandished her cloth.

“No.” Frowning, Mary turned as Collier brought a bowl of water for her to wash her hands. “I think we should wait for the doctor.” She looked at Pemberly, who had observed all from the foot of the bed. “How long will he be, do you think?”

“Dr. Sanderson’s rooms are in Harley Street, miss, so he should be here soon.”

Mary glanced at the bloody patch marring Ryder’s otherwise perfect form; to her it looked obscene. “In that case, I suggest we place a pad of clean cloth over the wound—gauze first, if you have it—and then lightly bind it in place.” She glanced at Ryder’s face. “Just in case he regains consciousness and moves.”

Between them, they managed it, then she and Mrs. Perkins withdrew, allowing Collier, with Pemberly’s help, to divest Ryder of the rest of his clothes.

When Mary returned, the room was softly lit by shaded lamps. Ryder lay still, the covers drawn to his neck, his golden-brown hair bright against the pristine ivory of the pillows. But beneath his mane, his face was shockingly pallid, his lips faintly blue, his features leached of all animation.

He might have been an effigy except his chest discernibly rose and fell, his breathing shallow, but still regular.

Pemberly had left, going downstairs to wait for the doctor. Mrs. Perkins had departed, carrying all the bloodied rags away.

Collier remained, sitting quietly in a corner, his hands between his knees, his gaze fixed on the figure in the bed.

Inwardly acknowledging her dashed hopes that Ryder might have regained consciousness, Mary fetched a straight-backed chair from the side of the room. Collier started to rise to help her, but she waved him to remain where he was, then set the chair beside the bed, sat, and, like Collier, prepared to keep vigil. Leaning her elbows on the side of the high mattress, she folded her hands and fixed her gaze on Ryder’s face.

Now the first rush of activity was past and they’d done all they could to tha

t point, she took a moment to reach for calm, to reconnect with the wider present.

After a few minutes, she murmured, “Collier—am I correct in assuming there’s no lady of the house?”

“Yes, miss.” Collier shifted on his chair. “Meaning to say there isn’t.” After an instant’s hesitation, he went on, “The marchioness and his lordship don’t get on. He bought her a house in Chapel Street, and she lives there.”

“His half sister, Lady Eustacia?”