The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,37

every woman with functioning senses, so I don’t think I can deduce anything from that.”

The carriage had been inching forward; now it rocked and canted on its springs as the coachman turned the horses north along the west side of the square. Gradually, the carriage’s speed increased to a steady walking pace.

Refocusing on the dimly lit seat opposite, Mary replayed her thoughts. By all the customary social and familial measures, she and Ryder were well suited. “But none of that says anything about love.”

And that was her biggest question, her stumbling block, her highest hurdle. Not by any stretch of the imagination could she believe that Ryder was in love with her. Not now. But the big question was: Could he be?

If she gave him—them—the chance, could he fall in love with her, and she with him?

Could he, Ryder Cavanaugh, Marquess of Raventhorne, possibly be her true hero, the man who would sweep her off her feet and into wedded bliss?

She gnawed on the question as the carriage gradually picked up pace. As the coachman slowed the horses to negotiate the entry to Davies Street, Mary reached up, found the necklace about her throat, and drew the rose quartz pendant from between her breasts.

In the faint light cast by a streetlamp, she studied the pendant, turning it between her fingers. She’d thought it would be so easy. That finding her one, her true hero, would simply be a matter of wearing the necklace, and he would promptly present himself and bow before her. . . .

She blinked, her mind reeling back to the night she’d first worn the necklace. The first gentleman she’d had any real interaction with . . . had been Ryder.

She’d dismissed him, walked around him and away.

If he gets under your skin to the point you simply can’t shrug him off . . .

Angelica’s description of how her hero might appear to her.

Under such a definition, Ryder qualified.

She stared at the rose quartz pendant, then, lips tightening, tucked it back under her bodice. She believed in the powers of The Lady’s talisman—she truly did—but she hadn’t expected her quest for love and her true hero to require her to court the sort of risks that walking into the den of an acknowledged lion of the ton would entail.

Sitting back as the carriage rolled around the corner into Mount Street, she grimaced. “I suppose it comes down to whether or not I’m convinced that there’s no other true hero out there for me—that Ryder is truly my one.”

Sudden movement outside the carriage had her glancing out. As if her use of his name had conjured him, Ryder stepped out of the mouth of an alley just ahead . . .

No, not stepped—reeled.

As the carriage drew level, she watched as he staggered, slowly pivoted, then collapsed facedown on the pavement.

He might have been drunk, but she knew he hadn’t been, that he couldn’t be.

Leaping to her feet, she thumped her fist on the trapdoor in the ceiling. “John! Stop! Stop!”

Chapter Five

She leapt out of the carriage while it was still rocking. Her heart in her mouth, she raced back along the pavement. The shouts from John and Peter for her to wait seemed distant, far away.

Even before she reached Ryder, she knew something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Blood glinted, fresh, ruby red, by his side.

She fell on her knees beside him. “Oh, God!” One glance at his face confirmed he was unconscious. An unsheathed rapier, the blade stained with blood, lay weakly clasped in one hand.

Frantic, she tried to push him onto his back, to find where he was wounded. There was too much blood . . . but he was too heavy for her to shift.

Peter reached her. She didn’t even glance up. “Quickly! Help me!”

With Peter’s assistance, she managed to heave Ryder onto his back.

An ugly gash on his left side, near his waist, was steadily pumping blood.

Her heart stopped. “No.” She pressed a hand over the wound, then as blood immediately seeped through her fingers, she slapped her other hand over the first, trying desperately to staunch the flow.

Glancing up and about, she realized Peter had circled around; he stepped cautiously into the alley. He came out almost immediately, his face ashen. “Two ruffians in there, miss. Reckon as they’re dead. Must’ve set on him.” Dragging in a breath, he nodded at Ryder. “Gave a good account of hisself, but they’d already stuck him.”

“Yes, well, don’t just stand there!” When Peter did just that, looking mournful,