The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (16 page)

Honoria smiled. “The position will soon be yours. You pour.”

Mary did. Gabriel helped hand around the cups, and the conversation shifted into a more social vein.

Mary knew that her cousins’ wives were eager to ask questions, questions they couldn’t ask while Ryder and their husbands were hovering.

Eventually, however, Gabriel drifted up the long room, drawn to examine the ancient globe that sat in the corner by Ryder’s desk. Ryder ambled in Gabriel’s wake, then Vane and Devil followed.

Leaving the men to their low-voiced conversation, the ladies shifted closer.

“I take it,” Honoria said, opening proceedings, “that you’re happy with the situation?”

Mary considered. “I . . .” Lips firming, she nodded. “Yes. I am.”

“That sounded surprisingly equivocal for you.” Patience studied her over the rim of her cup.

“It was very unexpected.” Mary frowned. “But as Mama said, I can and surely will meet the challenge.”

“Well,” Alathea said, her gaze traveling up the room to Ryder’s broad back, “Ryder Cavanaugh is certainly challenge enough, even for you.”

“You do realize,” Patience said, “that you will be expected to bring him to his knees?”

Alathea chuckled. “Indeed. You will have to exact from him the full price for marrying a Cynster—he absolutely must declare his love for you.”

Patience nodded. “And from such as him, it will have to be in words, with no roundaboutation.”

Mary considered, then said, “I don’t think roundaboutation will be a problem, not with Ryder. But as for the rest—well, that’s my challenge, isn’t it?”

The others softly laughed and agreed.

“But what happened with this necklace you’ve all set such store by?” Honoria asked.

Mary glanced down, then hauled the pendant from between her breasts and realized it wasn’t overly warm.

She thought back to all the times it had been . . . slowly, she blinked. “I think,” she murmured, “that the necklace worked exactly as it should have.”

The other three ladies studied her face, then Honoria said, “In that case, I believe we can have faith that all is exactly as it should be.”

At the far end of the room, Gabriel turned to Ryder. “I can see you have doubts that it was Fitzhugh behind the attack. I wondered if there was anything in your finances, any investments or estates matters or even recent acquisitions”—Gabriel nodded at the antique globe—“that might in any way have precipitated the incident.”

Ryder grimaced. “Not that I’m aware of. We haven’t made any acquisitions of that type for years—most of the art and antiquities date from my father or grandfather—and as for the estate and finances in general, mine are handled by Montague, as are yours.” Ryder glanced at Devil, now leaning against the desk beside him. “So how likely is that as a cause?”

“Not likely at all.” Vane met Ryder’s eyes. “So now we’re out of earshot of the ladies, tell us why you really got us here.”

Ryder fleetingly grinned. “I did, indeed, have another purpose. The attack was specific, targeted, and very nearly did for me—if the knife had struck a few inches higher, I would have died. And now there’s Mary. If in the near future anything should happen to me—”

“We would, of course, step in and take care of Mary.” Devil met Ryder’s eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Ryder nodded. “Randolph, my brother—half brother, to be exact—is my heir, but he’s too young to adequately protect her. And I would prefer Mary is never . . . I hesitate to say ‘left at my stepmother Lavinia’s mercy.’ While I don’t imagine Lavinia would do anything truly heinous, she is capable of behaving atrociously and is highly antipathetic toward me, and I fully expect that to extend to Mary.”

Devil nodded decisively. “If anything should happen to you, we’ll make sure Mary is taken back into the Cynster fold.”

Ryder inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“So your stepmother doesn’t like you.” Gabriel caught Ryder’s gaze. “Could she have been behind the attack?”

Ryder considered, then grimaced. “I really can’t see it. Lavinia is all melodrama and sweeping accusations. She’s one of those women who always feels put upon, or let down, or done badly by, but while she will rant, rail, and even rage, I can’t imagine her ever actually
doing
anything about me—she never has. Aside from all else, if she removed me, who would she blame for all the disappointments in her life? And as for hiring men to kill me, I seriously doubt she’d have the faintest idea how.”

“In that case”—Devil straightened from the desk and turned toward the ladies—“Fitzhugh remains the most likely suspect. I’ll see if there’s any way to get word to him that there’s nothing to his wife’s assertions. Failing that, perhaps we can arrange to get word should he return to the capital.”

Ryder strolled with the others toward the assembled ladies—and for the first time ever, one of them was his.

F
ifteen minutes later, ignoring the look Mary cast him that stated very clearly she thought he should remain in the library conserving his strength while she did the honors, Ryder walked out to the front hall to farewell his Cynster guests. The ladies went ahead while Vane and Gabriel followed, leaving Devil and Ryder strolling more slowly in the rear.

Grasping the moment of relative privacy, Ryder murmured, “I’m rather surprised you’ve all taken this so . . .
amicably,
shall we say? I was anticipating a somewhat more hostile reception.”

His gaze fixed on those ahead, Devil fleetingly grinned—a flash of white teeth in his harsh-featured face. “Ah, but you are who, and what, you are, and given we know Mary rather better than you, we can appreciate just how much you deserve her.”

Ryder blinked. “That doesn’t sound comforting.”

“It wasn’t meant to.” Devil’s grin returned. “Let’s just say all the Cynster males are distinctly grateful to you for volunteering to take her off our hands—the headache of dealing with her is now officially yours.”

Ryder pondered that, and the light it cast on his soon to be formally betrothed, but when, turning from waving her relatives off, allowing Pemberly to shut the front door, she immediately glided to his side, exasperated anxiety in her blue eyes, he smiled and decided that her challenge was one he was looking forward to meeting.

“You must be flagging,” she nagged.

Immediately seeing the possibilities, he reached a hand to the top of the hall table, as if bracing his weight, and lightly shrugged. “Perhaps a little.”

She made a disgusted sound. “Men—you’re all alike. Would it actually hurt to admit you’re in less than tip-top condition?”

Keeping his expression bland, he pointed to the hall stand. “Perhaps if I had my cane?”

She fetched it. “You should be using it all the time—at least until you’re back to full strength.”

Leaning on the cane, he took an awkward shuffling step.

Making another of her disapproving sounds, she swooped closer. “Here—let me help.” Grabbing his free arm, she draped it over her slender shoulders.

Ryder smothered a triumphant grin. Because he was so much taller—the top of her head barely reached his shoulder—the only way she could assist him was to brace his body with hers. Which she promptly did.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Letting her press as close as she wished, he allowed her to steer him across the hall and on down the corridor.

The feel of her against him—the svelte but definite curves pressing against the side of his chest, her feminine warmth seeping temptingly through the layers of fabric separating their skins, the pressure of her small hands on his chest and back—stirred him to an uncomfortable degree, but as they made their slow way back into the library, he decided this much nearness was worth every second of the resulting discomfort.

Especially as it gave him the chance, once they’d reached the middle of the library and Pemberly had shut the door behind them, to halt, shake loose the light hold she had on his arm, and slide it around her—and then he was holding her.

Wide cornflower-blue eyes stared up at him, her wits—if he was any judge—momentarily suspended. He seized the moment to indulge his senses, but the instant her lips started to firm and her eyes started to narrow, he said, “I haven’t yet thanked you for saving my life.”

Her eyes stopped narrowing, but the expression in them declared she didn’t intend to allow him the upper hand. “I’m still considering what I should claim as my reward.”

“Indeed. You must tell me when you’ve decided. For now, however, I thought I should start paying my dues . . . like this.” Eyes locked with hers, leaving his cane resting against his thigh, he raised his hand, tipped up her chin, and slowly, giving her plenty of time to anticipate the moment, lowered his head and, very gently, kissed her.

The first touch of his lips on hers . . .

Mary felt a shivery tremor slide deep, to her marrow. A tantalizingly delicate caress—more promise than substance, more lure than bait; he supped while she savored, and promptly wanted more.

Both of them wanted more. Without direction, she parted her lips, thrilled to her core when he angled his head and immediately accepted her invitation.

His lips firmed on hers, pressure and heat, veiled hunger and even more heavily screened desire—both were there. She unfurled and reached for him; even though all she did was lean more definitely into the kiss, that’s what it felt like, a physical unfolding and stretching.

A coming alive in a wholly novel way.

She felt no surprise that it was he who made her feel so; he was an expert in this sphere, after all.

His arms, both now, slid around her and gently tightened, gathering her to him. She shifted closer yet, tilting her face to his in clear demand.

She sensed his satisfaction.

Then his tongue traced her lips, then plunged between.

And she stopped thinking.

Ryder teetered on an edge he hadn’t walked in years, an instinctive compulsion to dive deep and plunder almost overwhelming the sensual tactician who knew the best strategy was slow and steady.

Slow so he could savor, could draw every last iota of significance from, and invest every possible nuance back into, the exchange—the first kiss they’d shared. The first of many, true, but this was one to embed in their memories—hers, most certainly, but in this instance his as well.

And steady as a rock so she wouldn’t take fright; virgins were like unbroken fillies—they had to be gentled to a man’s touch, to his tasting, eventually to his taking. His claiming.

But she clearly had no notion of the way things should, for her own sake, be; as reining his baser self well back, he traced the inner contours of her luscious mouth, tasted tea and the honey biscuits she’d nibbled, and gloried in the promise of latent passion the hunter in him sensed dwelled beneath her innocence, she boldly and brazenly stepped fully into him.

The contact seared him, frazzled his control.

And the kiss tumbled headlong into the heated and wanton.

Into a sudden rage of giddy passion and unscripted delight.

Not so slow. Nowhere near steady.

His head shouldn’t have been whirling; his senses should have been far too jaded to fall so easily to the glory and the wonder.

She drank him in; he couldn’t get enough of her.

Sirenlike, she lured him in, on . . .

The pealing of the front doorbell jerked them back to the present.

As one they broke from the kiss. Stunned, he gazed down at her . . . and saw a smile—one of discovery tinged with wonder—curve her slightly swollen lips, then spread to her eyes, making them shine. . . .

The sound of approaching footsteps and familiar voices dragged his attention to the door. “My half siblings,” he murmured.

“Ah.”

He released her and she stepped back. He grabbed his cane before it fell, and together they turned to the door.

It swung open, propelled by a vision in fashionably frothy apple-green muslin.

“Ryder! My God! Are you all right? We only just heard!” Stacie raced across the room.

The sight of Mary standing beside him brought his half sister to a skidding halt, stopping her from flinging herself into his arms—which, in light of his injury, was just as well.

“Oh!” Eyes riveted on Mary, Stacie searched for and found a polite smile. “Hello.”

From Stacie’s tone and the questioning glance she slid him, Ryder deduced she, at least, hadn’t heard about his engagement. “This is Miss Cynster.” Turning to Mary, he said, “Mary—allow me to present my half sister, Lady Eustacia, known to all as Stacie.”

Mary calmly smiled. “Yes, I know. We’ve met. Good afternoon, Stacie.”

Unsurprisingly wide-eyed, Stacie politely nodded and touched fingers. “Mary.” Glancing at Ryder, then around, confirming the room was otherwise empty, devoid of lurking chaperons, Stacie asked, “What’s going on?”

As at that moment Rand, Kit, and Godfrey—Ryder’s three half brothers—reached them, he managed to avoid answering, having to deal instead with a barrage of exclamations and questions.

“What the deuce?” Rand said. “Why didn’t you tell us you were attacked?” He bowed to Mary. “Miss Cynster—a pleasure . . .” Noticing what Stacie had, Rand frowned.

“How bad is it?” Godfrey asked, then promptly answered with the obvious, “Well, clearly not that bad.” He dipped his head to Mary. “Miss Cynster.”

The most observant of the four, Christopher—Kit—had halted a yard away, looking from Ryder to Mary and back again. Eventually meeting Ryder’s eyes, he raised both brows. “Thought you were at death’s door, and instead . . .” Fluidly bowing to Mary, he said, “Your servant, Miss Cynster.” Then he looked back at Ryder. “Well, for heaven’s sake, tell us—what the devil’s going on?”

Ryder held up a hand. “First, from whom did you hear I was attacked?”

Rand looked sheepish. “I bumped into David on the street a few hours ago—literally. He was dead on his feet. Don’t blame him—he was half asleep and mumbled something about you recovering well. After that, of course, I browbeat him into telling me what the deuce you were recovering from. He made me promise not to tell anyone, but”—Rand glanced at his siblings—“obviously he didn’t mean this lot.”