The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,45

I need anything, I’ll ring—or ask Collier.” She had no doubt the little man intended to remain at least figuratively by his master’s side.

Pemberly cleared his throat. “Ah . . . in light of Doctor Sanderson’s verdict, do you think we should send for Lord Randolph, miss?”

Mary considered, then shook her head. “Not at this point.” Swiveling so that she was once again gazing at Ryder, she forced herself to say, “If his lordship hasn’t woken by midmorning, perhaps then.”

Openly relieved, Pemberly bowed and departed, taking her note to pass on to John Coachman. Collier straightened the covers, then retreated to the chair in the corner.

Silence gradually sank, enfolding the room in a hush tinged with expectation, broken only by the very faint sound of Ryder’s breathing. The scent of antiseptic hung in the still air. The small fire had already reduced to glowing coals, the room warm, but, as instructed, not too much so.

Softly exhaling, trying to ease the grim tension locking her muscles, Mary settled on the chair to wait. To hope, and pray, and see.

Her gaze fixed on Ryder’s still face, she allowed her mind to open, to broaden the scope she’d held so tightly focused over the last hours.

It was long after midnight; glancing fleetingly at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was, indeed, past two o’clock.

She was well aware of the impropriety of her remaining by Ryder’s bed—in his house, in his bedroom, with him present. But he was unconscious, and Collier was there, and . . . she really didn’t care what society thought. Her parents, her family, would understand; they wouldn’t expect her to do anything else.

Anything but wait, and keep vigil, in case Ryder died.

Someone had to bear witness to the passing of a life such as his. He was the head of a house much like her own, ancient, wealthy, endowed with title, estates, and proud heritage.

All of that was unquestionably true; she could use it as an excuse, but she was quite clear in her own mind that such considerations weren’t what was holding her there.

Binding her, above all else anchoring her there.

She couldn’t let him die alone purely because of him being him.

Because of the sort of man he was, the fascinating male he’d allowed her to glimpse over the past several nights.

Because he’d revealed to her the true magic in a waltz.

Because of the challenge he’d so arrogantly, forcefully, and with calculated enticement laid at her feet mere hours ago.

Because he might be her one.

And she hadn’t yet given him a chance to convince her.

Hadn’t yet had a chance to decide if he truly was.

She wanted to be there when he awoke, to tell him he could have his chance—that she was prepared to explore the possibility.

But she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything if he didn’t wake.

Her entire future, the one she’d longed for and had finally set out so determinedly to secure—them having the deity-ordained future they might have been fated to have—rested on Ryder’s innate strength, on his ability to recover from a wound that had already come within a whisker of being fatal.

So she sat by his bed and willed him to keep breathing, to keep on living as the night hours rolled on.

And sometime in the dark watches of the night, she vowed to The Lady that if he survived, if come the morning he woke and looked at her with his glinting hazel eyes, she would, indeed, give him the chance he’d asked for—the chance to convince her that he was “her one.”

Chapter Six

Ryder drifted in and out of consciousness, or was it sleep? Some part of his mind wondered if he could tell the difference.

Relevant yet not very important thoughts like that wreathed through his mind and trapped his wits, distracting him. Leading him astray, away from more critical observations.

Such as Mary, and what she was doing there, seated by his bed, and what that meant.

Stay with me!

He could still hear her words echoing in his head, even through the dimness shrouding his recent past. Could still hear her voice make that demand—her command.

But it appeared she’d ensured the outcome she’d desired by staying with him . . . which, given their setting, seemed wrong.

Not as things should be.

But he wasn’t going to complain. Her presence soothed him, literally comforted on some level he didn’t truly comprehend.

Sometime later, the pain in his side reminded him of what had happened, of the pair of thugs he’d left dead