The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,139
away for the day—and the evening, too. And I can definitely see her wanting to gloat to my face.” He paused, then added, “It could also be that, this time, she wants to make sure I am, indeed, killed, and don’t somehow escape.”
“So where is she?”
Equally puzzled, he shook his head. “I can’t see her patiently waiting in some tavern to be summoned.”
After a moment, Mary said, “Actually, if I were her and planning our deaths, I’d make sure I was nowhere near the abbey and had lots of people to vouch for that.” She looked at Ryder. “Consider the time—I’d wager she went off to some luncheon or other, and then stayed on for some dinner or ball, all at a good distance from here.”
He grimaced. “That sounds too well planned for Lavinia, but Potherby is staying here, too—his things are upstairs—and while I have no idea if he’s involved, what you suggest might have been Lavinia’s best way of ensuring Potherby wasn’t here, either.”
Mary snuggled closer. “Regardless of whether Potherby knows of her scheme or not, his being with her the whole time ensures she has an alibi for both our disappearances—or so it will seem.”
Ryder nodded. “If that’s what she’s doing, then it’ll probably be several hours before they come for us.”
Thinking of what might happen when they did . . .
Silence fell, stretched, then, closing his hand about one of Mary’s, he murmured, “It’s me they—she—wants.”
“Actually, I don’t think that’s true—well, not anymore. You heard what that blackguard said. ‘You and your missus, too.’ They can’t let me live—quite aside from bringing down the wrath of God and the Cynsters on their heads, from Lavinia’s perspective, there’s the rather pertinent matter of your heir.”
“What?” Startled, he looked at Mary’s head, then ducked his own to look into her face.
Meeting his eyes, she shrugged. “I might be pregnant already—who knows? And no, I can’t be sure, but neither can she.”
He fell silent. After several long moments, he asked, “You truly believe she’s intent on killing me—and you, and any unborn child of ours—so Rand will inherit?”
Mary nodded decisively. “You told me she always expected Randolph would inherit, and while there seemed a chance Fate or you would bring that about without any effort from her, she was content to wait, but now . . .” Breaking off, Mary frowned. “Why now? Why after all these years did she finally decide it was time to act? It wasn’t our marriage—that came after the attempt on your life . . . oh! Of course.” Mary met his eyes. “Randolph.”
He shook his head. “Rand won’t have had anything to do with this.”
She held his gaze. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Rand and I—and Kit, and Stacie, and Godfrey—we’re close in a way that’s difficult to define. Trust me—none of them would have had anything to do with this, with harming me and you. As for Rand wanting to inherit—he doesn’t. The attendant responsibility scares him.” Lips twisting, he admitted, “That was one of the reasons I knew Rand wasn’t the right man for you but I was. Even as a sickly child, I always knew Raventhorne would one day be mine—I always expected to shoulder the burden someday. But Rand . . . he would do it if it was thrust upon him, but he’s counting on you and me to ensure he never has to.”
Searching his eyes, reading his unshakeable conviction, Mary nodded. “All right, but Randolph’s still at the heart of this, whether he means to be or not. Does Lavinia know how he feels about the marquessate, and even if she does, will she care?”
“No, she won’t.” Ryder paused, then went on, “Lavinia sees her children—all of them, still—solely as an extension of herself. To her, they have no other purpose in life other than being her children. While my father tried to intercede, to have more influence in their lives, Lavinia fought him tooth and nail, until he more or less gave up. He had me, and he and I were close. He was allowed to have little relationship with the others.”
She nodded again. “So regardless of Randolph’s wishes, Lavinia is intent on him inheriting the title, and if that’s the case . . .” Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully on Ryder, she asked, “How old were you when you inherited?”
“I was twenty-four when my father died . . .” He paused, then, his voice strengthening, continued, “But by the time everything was sorted out, I was twenty-five and