The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,151

loosened their grips.

But Lavinia didn’t try to flee; she rushed forward, pushing past Stacie, then ducking around Mary to fly to Snickert’s side.

Astonished, they all stared at her as she crouched beside Snickert, bending over him, apparently raising his head.

Snickert moaned—then shrieked. His legs jerked, stiffened, then fell lax.

Utter shock held them all immobile for a heartbeat, then Ryder cursed. Swooping, he clamped Lavinia’s wrists, one in each of his hands, and hauled her bodily up. “Damn you,” he ground out. “What have you done?”

“Oh, God!” Randolph had rushed forward, too. Now he stared in horror at something clutched in Lavinia’s left hand. Something that glinted, then dripped.

Mary discovered she’d slapped a hand over her lips. Through her fingers, she said, “It’s her shawl pin.”

Lavinia’s shawl was now trailing, a tide of crimson silk, along the floor.

Randolph crouched beside Snickert. A second later, in a tone of stunned disbelief, he said, “She stabbed him through the eye. He’s dead.”

Ryder’s grip tightened about Lavinia’s wrists.

She seemed not to notice. She was panting, looking down at Snickert, at Randolph crouching there. “I had to kill him—you see that, don’t you?”

Slowly turning, Randolph looked up at her. “No, I don’t. Why?” Face contorting in something close to pain, he thrust a hand toward Snickert’s still form. “You just murdered him! My God, what do you think can excuse that?”

Lavinia tried to go to Randolph; Ryder held her back. Ignoring that, as if she could convince Randolph, she hurried to say, “He was the only one who knew. Now he’s gone”—she lifted one shoulder a fraction—“there’s nothing to be done. Nothing anyone can prove, so everything’s all right.”

“All right?” Randolph’s expression lay well beyond incredulous. “How can you imagine this will ever be all right?” Condemnation, absolute and unwavering, was etched in his features.

Still panting, Lavinia studied his face, then her eyes narrowed. Without warning, she tipped back her head and screeched, “I did it for you!” Pulling against Ryder’s hold, she repeated the words, all but spitting them at Randolph. When all he did was stare at her, horror in every line of his face, she shrieked at him, “For you!”

Mary saw the words hit Randolph, saw his face set, his expression lock, but her attention immediately shifted to Ryder. Ryder, who protected everyone in his care, and in this case . . .

She saw the violence that rolled through him, the wave that turned his muscles to iron, saw the stark reality in his face as, eyes closing, he fought against the urge . . . he could so very easily kill Lavinia.

Drawing breath, Mary walked up behind him, put her hand to his back, and gently rubbed. “Ryder.”

Ryder shuddered. She didn’t have to say or do anything more. The contact, her voice, his name, was enough. Nevertheless, it took effort, and several seconds, to pull back from the brink. Slowly filling his lungs, he opened his eyes. He still held Lavinia by her wrists. As he looked at Rand, his half brother rose, turning away from his mother, patently unable to look upon her anymore; walking toward the basement wall, he halted, staring at it. Ryder found his voice. “Kit—please.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Kit, the most pragmatic and solidly practical of Ryder’s half brothers, came forward. Kit gestured to the two stable hands, who had witnessed the entire incident and remained frozen in shock atop the pile of sacks. “You two—off. Stand over there.” Kit pointed to the side of the basement, a little way from Rand.

The two men jerked to awareness, then scrambled to obey.

Kit turned to Lavinia; not a trace of emotion showed in his face or colored his voice as he said, “Madam.” As Ryder eased his hold on her wrists, Kit indicated the sacks. “Please sit.”

Wrenching her wrists free, Lavinia rubbed them. Narrowing, her gaze traveled over Kit, then shifted to Godfrey and Stacie. Ryder glanced back; the younger two stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way out of the basement. Under their mother’s scrutiny, they remained unmoving, unresponsive.

Finally, Lavinia turned, walked to the pile of sacks, swung about, and sat.

Only then did she look at Ryder, but Ryder was no longer interested in her.

To spare his half siblings, he needed to bring this entire tale to as neat an end as possible. Fixing his gaze on the two stable hands, he said, “As I’m sure you know, I’m the Lord Marshal of this area. That means I can hand you over to the authorities—it