The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,39
Ryder’s face, willing him to open his eyes again, to give her that much hope, but his features had slackened; he was unconscious again.
A clatter of feet, a rush of people, and she was surrounded by a bevy of men all exuding unbridled concern but with no idea what to do, and she was forced to focus and organize them. “No, I’m not stepping back. I can’t take my hands away, not yet.” She glanced around. “Good—there’s enough of you. One at his head, one at each shoulder, one at each hip, and one man to lift his feet. The other three of you can slide that door under him when the rest of us ease him up.”
They shuffled, and under her continued direction, acting in concert they managed to ease Ryder onto the door, then six of them lifted the panel while Ryder’s butler—he’d introduced himself as Pemberly—helped Mary to her feet so she didn’t have to shift her hands.
But the pressure she’d exerted necessarily eased a trifle before she could press down again; blood welled, but much less, and more sluggishly.
Sending up a swift prayer, she grimly nodded and they started off, John and Peter holding back the traffic so they could ferry their burden across the cobbled street and up the steps into Raventhorne House.
As, slowly and awkwardly, they negotiated the steep steps, Mary said, “He regained consciousness just before and spoke—it was only one word, but . . .” She paused to steady her voice. “He’s not dead yet.”
Whether she was speaking to reassure them or herself she didn’t know, but the butler audibly drew in a breath; quickening his pace, he crossed the narrow porch to hold open the double doors. As he did, he spoke to others within, “He’s still alive.”
“Oh, thank heaven!”
Crossing the threshold, Mary realized the feminine exclamation hadn’t come from any female member of Ryder’s family but from a woman she took to be his housekeeper.
The staff were all gathered, all trapped by concern and an eager, almost desperate desire to help, but with no notion of what needed to be done. Mary didn’t hesitate—this was no time for social niceties, and if she was treading on some lady’s toes by assuming command, then that lady ought to have been there to take charge. “Pemberly—some names, please. We need to get his lordship upstairs.”
Snapped into action by the whip of her voice, Pemberly shut the double doors and introduced the housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins, and a man Mary took to be Ryder’s gentleman’s gentleman, Collier.
“Good. Mrs. Perkins, perhaps you might go up and ensure his lordship’s bed is ready to receive him, but please don’t start any fire in his room, not until the doctor has seen him.”
“Yes, miss.” Eyes round, Mrs. Perkins curtsied and hurried for the stairs.
Mary turned her sights on Collier; the man was all but dithering in his helplessness. “Fetch scissors to cut his lordship out of his clothes—we won’t be able to ease him out of them. And round up bandages and a basin. You might also take charge of his lordship’s swordstick.” She glanced around. “My footman has it.”
Collier gulped in a breath and straightened. “I’ll find it, miss. And the rest.”
Keeping her hands pressed to Ryder’s side, she turned to Pemberly. “Have you sent for his lordship’s physician?”
“Yes, miss. A boy’s already gone.”
“Excellent.” Mary eyed the long first flight of stairs. “In that case, let’s take his lordship to his room.”
“Indeed, miss . . .” Pemberly tried to catch her eye.
“Cynster. Miss Mary Cynster.” Shuffling alongside the door-cum-stretcher bearing Ryder’s still form, Mary cautioned the men, “Very carefully, now. No need to rush.”
Taking due note of her tone, the six burly men—footmen and grooms—climbed the stairs one slow step at a time.
Mary largely lost track of the following hour. With a great deal of organizing, they managed to lift Ryder off the door and onto the wide expanse of his bed without her shifting her hands; she ended up perched on her knees alongside him, keeping steady pressure on his wound. Collier and Mrs. Perkins worked around her to strip the clothes from Ryder’s upper body, then Mrs. Perkins washed the worst of the blood from his too-pale skin.
Her gaze drawn to the wide expanse of his chest, the broad, heavy muscles garlanded with crisp golden brown hair, the skin, more olive than her own, smooth and taut over the sculpted hardness, Mary found herself fascinated, but in a distant, detached way.