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

“Thank you—that would be perfect.”

By the time Collier fetched the writing case and laid it on the bed before her, she’d realized she had two notes to write. One to Hudson, to relieve any anxiety as to her safety, and a second to her parents, to be handed to them the instant they crossed the threshold that morning, in case she had not by then returned home.

Both notes were straightforward and to the point, the first simply telling Hudson that all was well and not to worry, the second explaining her absence in more detail and asking her parents to come to Ryder’s house as soon as they could.

Their arrival would lend her all the countenance she required and, if Ryder had not yet woken, the support she suspected she would need.

Mrs. Perkins fussed about the room, tidying things away, then, with a last look at the bed, she left. Still keeping station by the door, in hushed tones Pemberly discussed keeping watch with Collier.

Mary folded the note to her parents, wrot

e their names and the instructions for delivery on the outside, then enclosed that note inside her missive to Hudson, and inscribed the resulting package with his name.

Waving the packet to dry the ink, she turned to Pemberly. “Please give this to John, my coachman, and tell him he and Peter are to return to Upper Brook Street and deliver it to Hudson, my parents’ butler.”

Accepting the packet, Pemberly bowed. “At once, miss.” Straightening, he waited while Collier cleared the traveling writing case away, then said, “If there’s anything we can do for you, miss—anything at all—please let us know.”

Collier softly added his agreement.

Finding a faint smile, Mary trained it on the pair; their gratitude for her help, for her rescue of Ryder and even more for her staying and holding them together, shone plainly in their faces. “Thank you. Should I need anything, I’ll ring—or ask Collier.” She had no doubt the little man intended to remain at least figuratively by his master’s side.

Pemberly cleared his throat. “Ah . . . in light of Doctor Sanderson’s verdict, do you think we should send for Lord Randolph, miss?”

Mary considered, then shook her head. “Not at this point.” Swiveling so that she was once again gazing at Ryder, she forced herself to say, “If his lordship hasn’t woken by midmorning, perhaps then.”

Openly relieved, Pemberly bowed and departed, taking her note to pass on to John Coachman. Collier straightened the covers, then retreated to the chair in the corner.

Silence gradually sank, enfolding the room in a hush tinged with expectation, broken only by the very faint sound of Ryder’s breathing. The scent of antiseptic hung in the still air. The small fire had already reduced to glowing coals, the room warm, but, as instructed, not too much so.

Softly exhaling, trying to ease the grim tension locking her muscles, Mary settled on the chair to wait. To hope, and pray, and see.

Her gaze fixed on Ryder’s still face, she allowed her mind to open, to broaden the scope she’d held so tightly focused over the last hours.

It was long after midnight; glancing fleetingly at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was, indeed, past two o’clock.

She was well aware of the impropriety of her remaining by Ryder’s bed—in his house, in his bedroom, with him present. But he was unconscious, and Collier was there, and . . . she really didn’t care what society thought. Her parents, her family, would understand; they wouldn’t expect her to do anything else.

Anything but wait, and keep vigil, in case Ryder died.

Someone had to bear witness to the passing of a life such as his. He was the head of a house much like her own, ancient, wealthy, endowed with title, estates, and proud heritage.

All of that was unquestionably true; she could use it as an excuse, but she was quite clear in her own mind that such considerations weren’t what was holding her there.

Binding her, above all else anchoring her there.

She couldn’t let him die alone purely because of him being him.

Because of the sort of man he was, the fascinating male he’d allowed her to glimpse over the past several nights.

Because he’d revealed to her the true magic in a waltz.

Because of the challenge he’d so arrogantly, forcefully, and with calculated enticement laid at her feet mere hours ago.

Because he might be her one.

And she hadn’t yet given him a chance to convince her.

Hadn’t yet had a chance to decide if he truly was.