The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,46

in the alley. The ambush had been well planned; they’d waited, hidden, at either end of the stretch where the alley, his habitual route home from the south, narrowed. Absorbed with thoughts of Mary and the question of what next, he’d stridden past one of the pair—who must have been concealed in a doorway—then the other had come charging toward him from the Mount Street end, and before he’d had time to realize the danger, the other man had sneaked up behind him and under cover of his partner’s charge had stabbed him.

If he’d been of average height, he’d be dead.

Instead . . . he was so damn weak, weaker than he could remember ever being, even as a sickly child. He couldn’t summon the strength to move a muscle, not even to lift his lids properly and look about. The best he could manage was to catch a glimpse through his lashes, and even that only for a few seconds.

He must have drifted off, but when he swam up to the world again, he didn’t bother trying to open his eyes but concentrated on his wound. . . .

By taking a fractionally deeper breath, he could sense the constriction of a bandage around his waist. So Sanderson must have come and gone at some point. A fleeting flare of possessiveness gave him the strength to force his lashes up—but Mary was still there.

Despite the hour—it had to be very late—she was awake. She was staring at him, in the low light unable to discern that he was awake and studying her; he would have smiled, but even that was presently beyond him.

Her expression remained serious, concerned; one hand at her bodice, she was—absentmindedly, it seemed—fingering whatever it was that hung from the end of the curious old necklace she wore.

The sight reassured him; the weight of her gaze soothed him.

His lashes lowered and he sank back into the deeps.

Accepting as inevitable that she would eventually nod off, Mary had exchanged the straight-backed chair for one of the wing chairs, and had persuaded Collier to do the same by pointing out that either of them falling asleep and consequently off their chairs wouldn’t help anyone.

So when she woke, she was curled in the wing chair, her legs tucked beneath her skirts, one hand beneath her cheek. Opening her eyes, even before she moved her head she looked over at the bed—and fell into Ryder’s hazel eyes.

She blinked, looked again—saw the sharp mind she’d grown accustomed to glimpsing behind the medley of bright greens and golds looking back at her, his expression as usual lazily amused—and felt inexpressible relief swamp her. “You’re awake! Thank God!”

Uncurling her legs, she stretched, then straightened.

Ryder’s lips curved, his expression wry. “I’m not sure God had all that much to do with it—if I’m remembering correctly, it’s you I have to thank.”

“Well, yes.” Pushing out of the chair, she nodded. “That, too.” She wasn’t foolish enough to refuse any advantage he might hand her.

The soft snoring that had been emanating from the corner of the room abruptly broke off in a series of snorty snuffles. Ignoring Collier, walking to the head of the bed, she leaned across and placed her palm on Ryder’s forehead.

The rose quartz pendant swung free of her bodice.

Raising the fingers of the hand lying on his chest, Ryder caught it. “So that’s what it is.” He turned the hexagonally cut crystal between his fingers. “I glimpsed you clutching it during the night and wondered what it was.” Fingers stroking the long, flat surfaces, he frowned faintly. “Odd—it seems quite hot.”

Considering where it had been resting, Mary wasn’t surprised. “Yes, well.” Tugging the pendant from his fingers—he allowed it to slip free without hindrance—she gripped it and, ignoring his interested gaze, tucked it back between her breasts, registering as she did that it was, indeed, very warm. “It seems to hold heat.”

Drawing her hand from his forehead, she stepped back. He quirked his brows questioningly.

“You’re warm, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“Given how cold I felt last night, feeling warm again is exceedingly welcome.” Still weak as a newborn kitten, Ryder barely managed a vague wave down his body. “I take it Sanderson was summoned.”

“Yes. He came and checked your wound, then sewed you up.” Mary hesitated, her eyes on his, then more quietly added, “He said if you woke up, all should be well.”

So until she’d woken and discovered him awake, she hadn’t known . . . if she’d wake