The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,119

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?”

Several seconds passed in silence, then he fractionally inclined his head. “The most likely culprit would be some gentleman who imagined I had stolen his wife.”

“We thought it was Fitzhugh, but as that seems not to be the case, who else might it be?”

He studied her eyes; unwavering self-certainty, an assurance of who she was, and also who he was, remained steady and strong in her cornflower-blue gaze. She wasn’t rattled; she was focused and, if he judged correctly, just a tad irritated. Not with him but with whoever had had the temerity to disturb her definition of how their life should be.

Be that as it may, he was far beyond disturbed; it was taking fully half his mind to hold back, lock down the clawing need to savage whoever had dared attempt to harm her, to take her from him. And most of the rest of his mental capacity was absorbed with formulating plans to ensure beyond all possibility that she remained safe. That she remained with him; he couldn’t view the prospect of losing her with any degree of calm.

With what faculties he could spare, he racked his brain for the answer to her question. It was the right question, and there ought to be an answer, but . . . finally, he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I accept that such a man is most likely behind the incidents, but I don’t know—can’t guess—who he might be.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Well, you didn’t know about Fitzhugh, either—that he might have had cause to imagine you’d stolen his wife. It’s possible there’s some other gentleman who, like Fitzhugh, has been fed a tale by his wife, perhaps to conceal a dalliance with some other rake.”

After a moment, he confessed, “I’m starting to feel that I’m reaping the ill rewards of my previous life—and you’ve been involved because of me.”

She didn’t smile too easily and brush aside his statement; instead, she held his gaze for a long moment—long enough to make him wonder just how much of his mind she could read—then she smiled wryly in agreement, rose, and, before he could join her on her feet, with a swish of her heavy skirts, she dropped into his lap.

Placing a hand on his cheek, she angled his face to hers, met his eyes, and simply said, “Don’t worry. Together, we can overcome anything.” Holding his gaze, she confidently stated, “Together, we’ll work this out.”

“You can’t leave the house.” Halting beside her chair half an hour later, he shut his lips and braced for her arguments.

Mary looked up at him, then arched her brows and looked back at her book. “I don’t want to go out at the moment.”

When he continued to stare down at her—not daring to believe—she glanced briefly up at him. “I told you we’d work this out.”

“I thought you’d agreed not to go outside?” Sudden panic churned in his gut.

“That was yesterday. Today—well, there’s no need to go far from the house. Just the rose garden will do.” Mary looped her arm in his. “You can come to make sure I’m safe. The walk will do you good—you’re far too tense.”

He was starting to believe that Fate had, indeed, arranged their match. Mary wasn’t just more than he’d expected, she was more than he deserved.

Together, we’ll work this out. He’d assumed she’d meant that they’d pool their mental resources in investigating who was behind the attacks, not that they