The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,38
she snapped, “He’s not dead yet!”
The warmth flooding under her hands assured her that was true, but for how long? “For God’s sake!” Wild panic gripped her. Looking around, she saw John Coachman, who had had to brake the coach and find some urchin to hold his horses, running toward them. “Thank heaven.” She raised her voice. “John—it’s the Marquess of Raventhorne. He’s been badly wounded, but his house is just there.” Without taking her hands from Ryder’s side—was it her imagination, or was the steady stream slowing, and was that good or bad?—she hauled in a breath, swallowed her fear, and nodded to the houses on the opposite side of the street. “It’s the one with the iron railings—go and summon his staff immediately!”
“Yes, miss!” Skidding to a halt, John turned and raced across the street.
Despite the traffic about Berkley Square, and a conglomeration of carriages some way down the street, there was no traffic passing along that stretch just then. Mary didn’t know whether to be thankful for the lack of distraction or annoyed not to have had more help.
She looked down and attempted to take stock. The closest source of light was the streetlamp several yards beyond Ryder’s feet. She couldn’t see well enough to be sure the gash she was pressing on was his only wound. “Peter, can you see any other cut? Is he bleeding from anywhere else?”
“Not that I can see, miss.” Peter had retrieved Ryder’s hat and his cane—the empty outer sheath of the rapier—from the alley. Coming to stand opposite her again, he shifted, clearly nervous. “Is there anything else you want me to do, miss?”
Her mind seemed to be operating on two levels simultaneously. One was a tumult of emotions; the other was surprisingly clear. Just as well; this was no time for panic—Ryder couldn’t afford it. Holding her emotions at bay, she clung to what needed to be done—to what she was good at. Taking charge. “Yes. Go across the road and tell his lordship’s people that he’s unconscious and they’ll need a door, or a gate, or a stretcher of some sort to move him. And they must send for his physician immediately.”
“Ah—I don’t think I should leave you—”
“There’s no one about. Just go!” She used the tone of voice with which few argued.
Peter wasn’t proof against it; he ducked his head and went.
She refused to think about how much blood lay on the pavement beside Ryder, let alone had soaked into his clothes and was turning sticky around her hands. As she registered the cloying warmth about her fingers, instinct shrieked at her to draw her hands away; ruthlessly she quashed it. Her senses drew in; her gaze locked on the rise and fall of Ryder’s chest, she followed the rhythm until it became her own heartbeat. . . .
His heart was higher than where she was pressing; she could sense the faint thump through her fingers.
Dragging in a ragged breath, she raised her gaze to his face, that unbelievably beautiful sculpted face, now pale in the moonlight and so still, devoid of its customary animation—the glint in his hazel eyes, the inherently wicked curve of his chiseled lips, the languidly suggestive arch of his brows.
Something in her chest shifted; her vision blurred. “Don’t you dare die on me, Ryder,” she whispered, fierce and low. “Not now.”
Ryder sensed hard pavement beneath him. He felt cold all over, chilled; he wasn’t sure he could actually feel much of his body. Everything seemed far away.
But he sensed warmth beside him. He would have liked to get closer.
He remembered getting stabbed, and wondered why fate, who had never been fickle to him before, had suddenly deserted him.
He tried to lift his lids—and was surprised when they rose a fraction.
An angel with lustrous dark hair was leaning over him. His vision swam into focus and he recognized Mary. Not an angel then, but for him even better.
Her normal skin tone was alabaster, but she looked even paler. Her brows were drawn. She looked worried, anxious . . .
Why? His lips were oddly dry, his tongue leaden. “What . . . ?” More breath than speech.
She looked at him, startled, but she didn’t move her arms, her hands. Then her expression grew fierce and her blue eyes burned. “Stay with me!”
He blinked—would have told her he had no intention of doing anything else, but then his lids wouldn’t rise again, and everything grew dim, and he tumbled into the waiting darkness.