The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,120

would, together, work on the ways, the precautions, the plans, all the elements of her security necessary to allow him to cope with all he felt.

So he could sleep alongside her and not fear the morning.

He wasn’t about to—had no spare space in his mind to—examine what he felt, if it was rational or even logical, much less define what the so powerful, so dominant, and so utterly demanding emotion that had taken root in his heart and guts actually was, not while she was under any degree of threat.

And to his everlasting gratitude she understood, at least enough to comprehend that his conversion to martinet, to dictator and tyrant, wasn’t something he could control, wasn’t the way he actually wished to act but was instead the result of something he was quite simply helpless to counteract.

Given his temper and personality, and hers, if she hadn’t understood . . . in the days that followed their ill-fated ride, he constantly gave thanks that she could.

If anyone had told him that he would, one day, be grateful that his wife could see into his soul, he would have laughed himself into a stupor.

He wasn’t laughing on the morning she’d determined as the time for her to once again venture beyond the grounds.

Since the disaster of that first ride, she’d remained within the protective cordon he, with the grimly determined assistance of the staff, had fashioned. For the first day, she’d remained inside the house; yesterday, she’d convinced him to walk with her in the gardens. Later, during luncheon, she’d broached the subject of riding again, but when he’d voiced his continuing antipathy to allowing her back in her saddle, she’d regarded him shrewdly, then had nodded and acquiesced—and insisted he allow her to drive herself in the gig on a visit to the nearby village.

Having earlier informed her that the men he’d sent to scour the neighborhood for any sighting of strangers had reported that none had been seen, and more, that none were lingering in the vicinity, he’d lost the ability to cite lurking would-be villains as a threat. Not that that had stopped him from arguing, vehemently, but for once she wouldn’t be moved—and given she had thus far been so accommodating . . .

Unable to assemble sufficient ammunition to quash her notion outright, he’d fallen back on the tactic of agreeing subject to her demonstrating her expertise with the reins sufficient to pass his standards.

She’d smiled and agreed.

How could he have known she had at some point inveigled Simon to teach her to drive?

After she’d tooled the gig about the drive with every evidence of not just capability but enjoyment, he hadn’t been able to deny her the outing.

So that morning, after they’d breakfasted and she’d finished her daily meeting with Mrs. Pritchard, they walked out to the forecourt where the gig stood waiting, a well-conditioned roan, a nice, solid stepper with an exceedingly even temper, between the shafts.

The gig was small, light; it couldn’t carry them both, and given his weight, he wouldn’t have used it himself, even alone. He helped Mary up to the seat, then turned to where Benson held Julius’s reins. Swinging up to the saddle, he picked up the reins, then looked at Mary—met her brilliant smile.

She pointed with her whip. “Onward.”

In more ways than one. Gritting his teeth, he set Julius to trotting along the verge, keeping pace with the gig as Mary tooled it sedately out along the back drive.

The village of Axford lay less than two miles distant and was more directly reached via the rear drive and the country lane beyond. While Ryder had a curricle and a phaeton in the stables, either of which would have served for him to drive her to the village, neither was well suited to the country lanes, and he would have had to handle the ribbons—and trying to protect a female while managing a pair of highly strung horses was, in his estimation, a less favorable arrangement than him mounted on Julius, acting as guard, a pistol in his saddle holster and a short sword in a saddle scabbard.

In addition, from Julius’s back he could see much further.

His own pastures stretched for some way, the well-graded drive gently wending through them.

Mary held the roan to a steady, entirely unexciting pace. At least she was out in the fresh air, and despite his heightened watchfulness and the tension that inevitably still gripped him, Ryder was with her, riding alongside—and the day was, in