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

“Gorse.” Disgusted, Mary picked up the spiky branchlet, went to toss it away, but then stopped. Going up on her toes, she peered at the spot where the prickles had marred the bay’s glossy hide. She frowned. “How the devil did it get there?”

Ryder looked and had to agree. “It couldn’t have slipped in there—not that far under—while you were in the saddle.”

“Or even before—the saddle fits too well.” Mary smoothed her gloved hand over the spot, and the mare shivered, almost shuddering with relief. “Well, regardless, that seems to have been the problem.”

“That part of the problem, perhaps.” Ryder tried not to sound too grim. “But as to how it got there . . .”

Mary met his eyes. After a moment said, “It can’t have been there when they saddled her—she wasn’t bothered when I mounted her. But at the same time, I can’t see how a piece of gorse that size could possibly have worked its way under the saddle while we were riding.”

“Agreed.” He followed the thought to the only conclusion. “It had to have been there when she was saddled, but somehow not pricking her.” Turning to where he’d set down the saddle, he turned it over and crouched to examine it. Still holding the mare’s reins, Mary came to the other side and leaned down.

“There.” She pointed to a fold in the saddle’s leather underside. “There’s a tiny leaflet in the groove—see?”

He looked where she was pointing. Pulling off his gloves, he examined the fold . . . “It’s a seam. It’s been unpicked and opened to make a pocket of sorts.”

Slowly raising his head, he looked at Mary.

She met his eyes, read his expression, and blew out a breath. “So—not an accident.”

Rather than risk her riding the mare, Ryder took Mary up before him on Julius and they rode back to the stable yard with the mare, loosely saddled, following on lengthened reins.

Their unexpected reappearance in such fashion created an immediate stir; Filmore and two grooms—the same two who had saddled the horses earlier—were there to greet them as they clattered in.

“What happened?” Filmore asked.

“A slight problem.” Ryder’s clenched jaw and clipped tone gave that “slight” the lie. Swinging down to the cobbles, he lifted Mary down. Filmore was already examining the mare, trying to find something wrong. “It’s the saddle,” Ryder said. “Take it off and I’ll show you.”

The older groom, Benson, complied, setting the saddle on the mounting block. Ryder turned it over and showed Filmore and the others the opened seam in the underside. “There was gorse—a nice sturdy twig of it—tucked inside.” He glanced at the grooms. “No fault of yours—I doubt anyone would have noticed it. But, of course, the further we rode, the gorse worked loose—especially when we galloped. Once it had, the mare started to react.” He glanced at Mary, felt his jaw tighten. “Luckily, the marchioness is an experienced rider and halted the mare without accident.”

All three men looked aghast.

As aghast as Ryder still felt; if Mary hadn’t reacted as quickly as she had . . . and how many riders, especially female riders, were as well schooled as she was?

Then Filmore’s expression abruptly cleared; a second later, his face darkened. “So that’s what the bastards were about!” Registering Mary’s presence, Filmore ducked his head. “Begging your pardon, m’lady.”

“No, no.” Mary waved aside the apology. “What bastards?”

Filmore glanced at Ryder. “The tack room door was open two mornings ago—and it shouldn’t have been. I know I’d locked it the night before. But the lock wasn’t broken, and when we checked, nothing had been stolen—nothing at all seemed even out of place.” Disgusted, he waved at the saddle. “They—whoever they were—must have come to do this. To slit that seam and stuff in some gorse. It’s an old trick for causing problems during horse races.”

“Well, quite clearly it wouldn’t have been anyone here.” Mary led the way into the library, heading for the chairs before the hearth. “There would have been no reason for any of the staff to have to break into the tack room at night. They could have slipped in during the day—there would be plenty of opportunities.”

“I can’t see that that’s any comfort.” Ryder followed her in and shut the door.

“Can’t you?” Tossing her crop and gloves on a side table, she sat in what had become her chair. “Well, perhaps not comfort, but it does tell us that whoever Filmore’s bastards are, they didn’t want to risk being seen. So they’re not from the household but are people the staff would recognize.”

Ryder met her determinedly confident gaze, then sat in the chair opposite. “That—as you well know—is not the critical point. Who did it is one thing, but why is another, and a much more troubling question.”

He wasn’t entirely surprised to hear her sigh.

“I have no enemies that I know of, and no reason to believe anyone bears me sufficient ill will to wish me harm.” She held up her hands. “Perhaps someone is trying to frighten me, but I can’t imagine why.”

“Frighten you.” He managed to keep his tone even. “A bite from an adder at this time of year could well be fatal, especially for someone your size. A fall from the back of a spirited horse, especially at a gallop, could easily have broken your neck. If you imagine—”

“Actually.” Capturing his gaze, she frowned, paused, but before he could resume his tirade, went on, “Has it occurred to you that one reason someone might stage such accidents is to disrupt, if not end, our marriage?”

The words sent a chill through him. It took a moment to rein in his instinctive reaction; once he had, he asked, his tone level, “What, exactly, do you mean?” He’d seen it, too, but hadn’t wanted to think of it; now he needed to know what she thought, how she saw it.

“I mean that it’s really too coincidental that first someone sends two thugs to kill you in London, and then when they fail, and you and I marry, someone then targets me—first with an adder in what should have been my wedding bed, and you have to admit when considered in that light that’s something of a statement, and when that didn’t work, then with a trick that should have seen me thrown from my horse the first time we went out riding—almost certainly alone.” She held his gaze unwaveringly. “What are the odds that those three incidents aren’t connected? And if they are, then who—what sort of person—might strike first at you, but then once you wed, strike instead at your wife?”