The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,47

to a living man or a corpse.

“Thank you for staying.” If he could have moved his arm, he would have taken her hand and kissed it. “If I could bow, I would. As it is, I’m not up to even nodding, but you may take my abject gratitude as read.”

Concern reappeared in her cornflower blue eyes. “How weak are you?”

He told himself admitting the truth wouldn’t hurt—not to her. “Extremely.”

“You lost a horrendous amount of blood, so that’s probably not surprising.” Her frown grew more definite. “Sanderson said he’d be back as soon as he delivered some lady of her baby, but until then I don’t even know if we should feed you.”

“At the moment, I’m not sure I can even swallow—not food, anyway.”

“Perhaps we can try some water, and if you can manage that I’m sure Mrs. Perkins will have some broth prepared.” Mary glanced at the mantelpiece clock, blinked, then stared. “Good Lord! It’s eleven o’clock already!”

Collier chose that moment to snort himself awake. He looked across the room—and came out of his chair on a highly unprofessional cry of delight. Immediately recollecting himself, he bowed and apologized profusely, although his beaming smile didn’t dim in the least. He concluded with, “I’m just so relieved to see you awake, my lord.”

“And compos mentis,” Mary dryly observed. She met Ryder’s eyes as he glanced up at her. “You appear to be in full possession of your faculties.”

He grinned; facial expressions, at least, were within his ambit. “You’ll be pleased to know that my mind is unimpaired.”

“Can I do anything for you, my lord? Can I fetch anything?” Collier fussed eagerly at the foot of the bed.

“Water,” Mary answered. She pointed at the pitcher on the table beside the bed. “Fresh water would be preferable.”

“Yes, of course.” Collier swooped on the pitcher and bore it off, delighted to have something to do.

“And let the others know I’m back from the dead,” Ryder called after him, “and tell Pemberly to send Sanderson up as soon as he appears.”

“Yes, my lord!’ Collier left with a spring in his step.

Ryder inwardly shook his head. “You’d never think he’d spent all night asleep in a chair.”

Looking up, he found Mary regarding him steadily. “They’re all very devoted to you.”

He managed the hint of a shrug. “They’ve been with me, as they say, boy and man.” But now Collier had gone, he could ask some of the questions banking up in his brain. “The two who attacked me—I left them in the alley.”

“Sanderson realized you’d want to investigate when you woke, and told Pemberly to take in the bodies and store them somewhere.”

“Good man.” Now for the trickier question. “What arrangements—”

The sound of the front doorbell pealing reached them; Collier had left the door ajar.

“Ah! That will be my parents.” Mary started for the door; glancing back she said, “They’ve been away for the last few days and were due home this morning. I sent them a note explaining where I was and why, and asked them to come as soon as they could and”—reaching the door, she gestured—“lend me countenance, so to speak.”

She whisked through the door even as, lids rising fully, he called, “No, wait!”

When she didn’t reappear, he swore, mostly at the weakness that prevented him from going after her and stopping her from doing something no lady ever should, namely rushing down the stairs of a single gentleman’s abode without being certain who was about to be admitted through the door.

Feeling drained by even that degree of exertion, falling back against his pillows, he mentally grimaced. “Pemberly will reach the door first. He’ll see her and order her back.” He tried to imagine it but couldn’t see anyone—much less his loyal, devoted, and in the current circumstances no doubt immensely grateful staff—ordering Mary to do anything. At least, not successfully.

But there was nothing he could do. Heaving a sigh of resignation, he sank deeper into his pillows, thinking words he’d never thought he would. “Pray God it is her parents.”

Raventhorne House was every bit as large and impressive as St. Ives House, just a block north in Grosvenor Square. Mary hurried along the corridor that led to the massive gallery about the grand staircase, noting with approval the trappings of luxury she’d been too distracted to notice during the night. Thick Oriental carpets in jewel tones muffled her footsteps; the walls were richly paneled in dark wood and hung with paintings large and small in ornate gilded frames. The well of