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

She went to nod, then hesitated, replaying the short exchange in her mind. She grimaced. “I believe so, but he didn’t say enough for me to be sure.”

“But he interacted—he reacted to something you said?”

She forced herself to say, “I think so, but I can’t be certain.”

Sanderson was busy untying their makeshift bandage; he shot her a curious look. “All right.” As he lifted the pad, then eased the gauze away, he murmured, “It doesn’t matter that he’s unconscious now—it’s probably for the best if he lost a lot of blood.” He paused, then went on, “And judging by the coolness of his flesh and his pallor, he’s lost far more than I’d like.”

Frowning, Mary said, “I would have thought, as his doctor, you’d rather he didn’t lose any blood at all.”

Finally lifting the gauze away, Sanderson gave a short laugh. “I’ve known Ryder since Eton. Trust me, his losing blood was a common enough occurrence.” Looking down at the wound, Sanderson sobered. A moment passed, then, lips thinning, he said, “He usually had the sense never to lose this much.”

Bending close, Sanderson very gently probed the wound, then he glanced at Collier. “I’m going to need hot water to clean this. Have them boil it now, and bring it here in the kettle in which it boiled, along with a metal basin and a smaller bowl, metal if you have one, porcelain if you haven’t.”

Collier had risen when the doctor had entered and had silently hovered, waiting for such orders. He nodded crisply. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Pemberly had followed the doctor in, closing the door and standing with his back to it; he now opened it for Collier, then closed it again.

Mary kept her gaze on Sanderson, who had gone back to examining the wound. After a moment more, unable to help herself, she asked, “How bad is it?”

Pausing in his probing, Sanderson glanced up at her. “I’m not yet sure. How exactly did this happen, do you know?”

“As far as we can tell, he was set on in the alley”—she waved in the direction of the street—“while walking home. All we know is that two ruffians are there, dead now, and Ryder had his rapier in his hand when he fell.”

“Two dead?” Sanderson glanced at Pemberly.

“Indeed, sir,” Pemberly intoned.

“They’re still out there?”

Pemberly looked faintly offended to have been asked. “I would presume so, sir.”

Lips compressing, Sanderson straightened, his gaze fixed on Pemberly as he clearly weighed . . . something; Mary realized what when he spoke. “I suggest we get both bodies in—your master will want to find out who attacked him when he wakes and can think.”

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“Ah.” Pemberly looked struck. Slowly, he nodded. “Indeed, sir. I take your point. I’ll send some footmen to retrieve the corpses and—”

“I don’t want to know, Pemberly.”

A faint smile touched Pemberly’s lips. “Naturally not, sir. The disappearance of any bodies from an alley is in no way connected with you.”

Sanderson’s lips twisted wryly. “Just so.” Bending again, he returned to his examination as Pemberly quietly let himself out.

Mary considered Sanderson’s dark head. “As I understand it, you just took quite a risk.”

Without looking up, Sanderson shrugged. “In the matter of taking risks, Ryder’s taken more than his fair share for me.” With a sigh, he straightened.

Catching sight of Mary’s openly inquisitive look, he pointed at Ryder. “Eldest son of a marquess—a viscount as he then was.” He pointed at himself. “Youngest son of an entirely undistinguished family attending Eton on a scholarship.” His gaze returning to Ryder, Sanderson more quietly said, “I was the brains. He was the brawn. That worked for us both, surprisingly well.”

Mary glanced at Sanderson, then looked back at Ryder. Sanderson wasn’t giving either of them sufficient credit. Although distinctly on the long, tall, and lean side, Sanderson did not appear weak in the least, and everyone knew that the life of a doctor was physically demanding. As for Ryder, he used his obvious brawn to deflect attention from his intelligence; she, at least, had never been fooled.

While she’d been looking at Ryder, Sanderson had been studying her. When she looked up and caught his gaze, he drew a deep breath, then said, “Rather than ask you what the hell you’re doing here, in Ryder’s house, by his bed . . .” Again she got the impression Sanderson fought some inner battle with his scruples—and, as before, his common sense won. “I will instead inquire whether you can stand the sight of blood without fainting.”

Mary held his gaze. “When Ryder was carried in here, my palms were where that wad of gauze and cloth was. My hands were coated in his blood. It had clotted between my fingers and was horribly sticky.” She paused, then added, “If you must know, it didn’t occur to me to even feel queasy.”

Sanderson grinned. “Good. Very good, as it happens.” His grin swiftly faded as he looked again at the wound in Ryder’s side. “I’m going to need another pair of steady hands for what I think I must do.”

Mary tried to read Sanderson’s expression; he looked worried, but determined. “You don’t seem all that certain about what you intend to do.”