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

If he allowed her to glimpse the hold she now had over him . . .

That wasn’t an attractive proposition, not to a nobleman accustomed to complete and absolute control.

Accustomed to being in control of himself most of all.

No—he would have to find ways to deal with all he felt without allowing his affliction to show.

Eyes closed, body relaxed, he was still vaguely puzzling over how to achieve that when Mary stirred, then wriggled onto her other side, curling deeper under the covers, facing away from him.

He considered, and decided that wisdom dictated that he strive to maintain at least the appearance of mere fondness and nothing more between them—he should therefore remain as he was, on his back, leaving an inch or so of air between them.

A full minute passed.

Then he mentally sighed, unclenched his jaw, shifted onto his side, and, placing one arm over her, curled his body around hers. Now able to relax, he did, and over the space of two heartbeats fell asleep.

Drifting in clouds of slumber, Mary registered Ryder’s warmth, felt the weight of his arm around her. She wasn’t so asleep she couldn’t smile at the thought that wafted through her mind.

Possessive protective, thy name is Ryder Cavanaugh.

“What do you mean, you’d rather I didn’t go outside?” Mary stared down the length of the breakfast table—and decided that tomorrow she would have Forsythe set her place on Ryder’s left; from this distance she couldn’t see well enough to read the expression in his eyes.

The expression on his face—a twist of his lips, the faint arch of one brow—told her little as, after one fleeting glance at her face, at her incredulous expression, he returned his attention to his plate. “Exactly that. This being your first day here, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to do getting acquainted with the house and how it runs—I know Mrs. Pritchard is holding herself ready to give you an extended tour—so remaining indoors isn’t likely to lead to boredom, and . . .” He paused, considered the slice of roast beef on his fork, then stated, still without looking at her, “I would prefer that you remain inside today.”

And I am your husband and you will obey. He hadn’t said the words, but Mary heard them loud and clear. Although her lips had set in a line, she mentally gaped. What had happened to the man—nobleman, admittedly—who had shared the reins so wonderfully last night? And this morning, too, if it came to that. Mere hours ago, he’d been well on the way to being the husband she intended him to be, and yet there he sat, giving an excellent imitation of the most dictatorial of tyrants.

Imitation? Or reality?

Eyes narrowed, she studied him and wasn’t entirely convinced either way. Regardless, she obviously had to take him in hand, had to react and refashion this, but, given he was what he was, and more, that he knew what she was, what was the best way to achieve her desired end? It took her a moment to find the right question. “Why?” When he glanced up at her, she again cursed the distance, but she thought she saw fleeting . . . was it panic? . . . in his eyes. Emboldened, she reached for her teacup. “I’m sure you have a reason for such a peculiar prohibition.” Taking a sip from her cup, she met his gaze over its rim. “So what has occasioned your . . . request?”

He blinked; his expression appeared studiously blank. Then he said, “Rats.”

“Rats?” She lowered her cup and stared. “In this house?”

He grimaced and looked down. “One was found inside this morning.” He glanced toward the windows. “We brought the cats in and the house has been completely searched and there are no more inside, and we have men checking the terraces and gardens.”

That explained the odd activity she’d sensed in the house and had glimpsed through the windows as she’d made her way downstairs. She’d wondered why so many men were beating the bushes, but really . . . she shrugged and sipped again, then admitted, “I’m not all that frightened of rats.”

“You aren’t?” He looked faintly nonplussed.

&nbs

p; She shook her head. “They’re small and they always run away. Not that I would like to think they were inside the house, however, so I am glad the staff reacted so quickly and decisively. But if your edict against me going outdoors was occasioned by imagining I might faint on encountering some poor little rat—”

“They’re not little.” He shook his head. “Big. Big as the cats. And they’re rabid—they won’t run away. They’ll fly at you and might bite you.” He drew in a short breath and looked away. Waved. “Well, you can see why I can’t have you exposing yourself to that.”

Dumbfounded, Mary stared. After a long moment, she confirmed, “Rabid rats—big as cats?”

Raising his coffee mug, avoiding her eyes, Ryder nodded and prayed she’d swallow the tale. “Exactly. We should be clear of them by tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

After what they’d discovered that morning, there was no chance he would permit her out of his sight, or out of the close care of his most trusted staff. The panic that was riding him simply wouldn’t allow it; it was all he could do not to lock her in his arms and snarl and snap at any who came close. He could barely think, let alone formulate any rational response; the idea that, willful and headstrong as she was, she might not accept his decree and stay safely indoors where he and his staff could keep her safe . . . every time the notion wafted through his brain, he panicked all over again.

And that panic shook him to his core, as if he’d been solidly knocked off his foundations.

Never in his life had he panicked like this; he had no idea how to manage it—how to rein in his out-of-control reactions, how to calm himself enough to think . . . the instant he thought of her, let alone saw her, instincts he’d never known he possessed overwhelmed him and took charge. He was so tense that despite his best efforts his jaw felt like it would crack, and he’d already bent one fork out of shape. And right at this moment, his sanity hinged on Mary believing—or at least accepting the tale—that this sleepy little corner of the English countryside was overrun by rabid rats. As big as cats.

She’d been staring at him, studying him; he watched her from beneath his lashes and nearly sighed with relief when she gently nodded. “As you say, I’ll be occupied for the entire morning with Mrs. Pritchard and the staff. I suspect it will be afternoon before I’m free. However”—she waited until he raised his head, then trapped his eyes with hers—“if I could suggest a compromise, perhaps you could then accompany me on a stroll through the rose garden. I would like to see it from ground level, and if you’re with me—and perhaps we can take your head gardener as well—then I’m sure between the two of you, you’ll be able to protect me from any lingering rats.”

Given he felt so much like a drowning man, he recognized the olive branch, grabbed for it and nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”