Yet if he dropped through the trapdoor—easy enough—there was no way he could see of getting back up. And if there was no other way out of what appeared to be a long-unused cellar . . .
He paused, thought again, but still could see no option. Even if he attempted to wait them out, they would come for him eventually—long before anyone from the abbey came looking for him—and he was unarmed. He doubted they were.
All he had to work with was his wits and his strength. Together, they would have to suffice.
And Mary was down there, alone, tied and gagged.
He hunted through the basement and found what he’d imagined had to be there somewhere—a rope. Tying one end to the iron ring, he threaded the rope through the gap beside the big hinges on the door and let the length fall; it reached nearly to the cellar floor.
He thought for a moment, then hauled the free end of the rope up, tied it around the handle of his lantern, then lowered the lantern down into the cellar.
Glancing back at the basement door, now barely visible, he hesitated, then stalked back toward the steps, along the way gathering as many of the glass jars as he could carry and two empty metal pails.
Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he set the jars and pails down, then went up, into the kitchen, and lit three more lamps. He played the beams around, warning the wary watchers that he was still in the kitchen and hadn’t yet dropped down into their trap.
Then he left the lanterns before the basement door, their beams shining outward so there was no easy way for his would-be attackers to know if he was in the basement or lower by the amount of light. After that he quickly shut the basement door and wedged it closed with the spatula, then he went down and arranged the glass jars across the steps and set the metal pails strategically—his makeshift alarm—then without further thought, he ran to the trapdoor, kicked the poker through the hole, sat on the edge, grasped the sides, and swung himself down.
And let go.
The instant his boots hit the stone floor, he caught up the poker and ran full tilt down the tunnel. It was wide enough for two men abreast, and curved away from the house for a good twenty yards. Ahead he saw an old stone wall; a lamp sat at the base of the wall, shining back down the tunnel—the light set to lure him. He erupted into the roomlike space before it, another rough-hewn chamber about four yards across, and running for five or so yards on either side.
A muffled wailing rose from his left. Whirling, he saw Mary seated on a chair at that end of the chamber. She was lashed to the chair, a black cloth hood over her head.
Why the latter should make him so furious, he wasn’t sure—but had they asked if she was frightened of the dark first? Striding across, dropping the poker, he grasped the offending hood and gently eased it off.
Furious blue eyes met his. Through the gag fastened over her lips, she growled at him.
Despite his prevailing grimness, he grinned. “Good evening, Mary.”
Her eyes spat sparks, then she twisted her head to the side. He obediently went to work on the gag. “I know it’s a trap. I’ve done what I could to try to get us out of it, but they left me no option”—the knot loosened—“other than to come down after you.” She jerked her head and the gag fell.
“There’s always a choice!” Mary moistened her lips, shocked by the hoarseness of her voice.
“Indeed.” Ryder met her eyes as he shifted to start on the knots holding her to the chair. “And I’ve made mine.”
What could she say? She growled low in her throat and waited, more than impatient, urgent and concerned and frightened—for him more than her—as he worked at her bonds. “They’ll come back—there’s three of them. Three largish men. Where are we?”
“The Dower House. You haven’t been here before.”
She glanced around, tried to glimpse his face. “Where your stepmother lives?”
“Yes.” His tone was flat and hard.
The ropes fell and she rose, stumbled, but he caught her. Steadied her. “We have to hurry.”
“Yes—please let’s.”
He bent and picked up a poker, then with her hand locked in his, they ran as fast as she was able toward the opening to the passageway he must have come down. She hadn’t seen anything of her prison before; she’d been hooded when they’d carried her down.
They turned into the passage—and glass crashed, smashed, and metal clanged, the sounds coming from somewhere above.
Ryder swore, swept her up in his arms, and charged down the passage.
More curses exploded over their heads. Pounding feet thundered on floorboards.
They burst into another chamber at the end of the passage—just in time to see a rope that had been dangling from a hole high above, along with the lantern swinging wildly from its end, fall with a small crash and a slithering thump to the floor.
Holding her in his arms, Ryder stared up at the hole, then calmly stated, “You bastards will die.”
There was enough icy certainty in his tone to make Mary shiver.
Silence greeted his pronouncement, then she heard a click.
Ryder swore and whirled back into the passage.
Sound exploded behind them; rock shattered and shards flew.
With her clutched in his arms, his body curled over hers, Ryder halted, leaning against the passage wall out of sight of the men above.
Rough laughter fell, echoing in the chamber. “Aint us who’s slated to die, me fine lord. Just you and your missus, too.”
A percussive thud followed hard on the words.
Ryder didn’t need to look to know they’d shut the trapdoor.
Mary wriggled. He straightened and released her legs, allowing her to swing them down and stand, but he kept one arm around her. With her leaning into him and him holding onto her, they leaned back against the tunnel wall and took stock.
The men were still moving around above; Ryder and Mary heard muffled words, then a few seconds later shuffling footsteps, then a solid thump.
The first was followed by others, increasingly muffled.
Mary frowned. “What’s that?”
Ryder realized. Letting his head fall back against the rock wall, he closed his eyes and swore. “Damn!” He listened again, then sighed. “I saw bags of grain or flour by one wall. They’ve shifted the bags over the trapdoor.”
“Why? It’s not as if we were about to climb up and push it open.”
“No, but the bags will hide the trapdoor.” Opening his eyes, he looked down at her.
She frowned back. “But surely those working here will know it’s there.”
He grimaced. “Possibly, but”—he glanced at the empty chambers to either side—“this place is clearly not used for anything, and as I didn’t know it existed, it’s possible few others do.”
He could see her working it out, then she met his eyes. “Does anyone at the abbey know you came here?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you were here. We’d only just learned Lavinia was in residence and I came to check if anyone here had seen you. I didn’t imagine that you’d been trapped here—I said that after asking here I’d scout through the woods.”
“So if you don’t return, no one will raise the alarm?”
“Probably not until morning.” He pulled a face. “And even then, there’s no reason for anyone to believe I’m here. I left Julius loose—he’ll find his way back to the stables, but there’s nothing to say we parted company here, rather than in the depths of the woods.”
For a long moment, they stood in silence, drawing strength from each other, from simply having the other there, then Mary pulled out of his arms and he let her go.
“Well, in that case”—she marched out into the chamber—“we may as well take this lantern and search to see if there’s another way out.”
Her dogged optimism struck him as bittersweet; he s
eriously doubted there was another exit. Why seal them down here if there was?
He watched while she retrieved the fallen lantern; it had only dropped a few inches and was undamaged. Straightening, she played the lantern beam over the walls. Still carrying the poker, he joined her; together they checked the roughly round chamber, but it was nothing more than a pit cut directly out of the rock, with only the tunnel leading out of it. Walking back down the tunnel, scanning the solid walls as they went, they emerged into the rectangular space at the other end.
Slowly pirouetting, Mary surveyed the chamber. The passageway entered midway down one long side. The floor, ceiling, and three walls were solid, roughly hewn stone, but the side facing the passage was an old wall of large stone blocks. The chair she’d been tied to sat to the left of the passage entrance, facing down the room; to the right of the passage, at the other end of the rectangular space, stood a table, a jug of water, and two glasses on a tray sitting atop the scarred surface.
Ryder had also noticed the table. He walked to it.
She followed more slowly, trying to remember when the tray had been placed there—before or after . . . “How long have I been down here?”
Reaching for the jug, Ryder glanced at her. “When did they take you?”
“Not that long after luncheon. I went for a stroll in the gardens. I’d left the shrubbery and decided to take a quick look at the kitchen garden. I was walking along the rhododendron walk when they sprang through the bushes and grabbed me. One caught my arms, another gagged me, the other pulled the hood over my head, and that was it. They tied my hands, my ankles, and carried me off like a sack of potatoes.”
“So two o’clock or just after, and”—pulling out his fob watch, he checked—“it’s now after eight.”
“Six hours.” She grimaced. “It felt much longer.” She watched him pour water into both glasses, wondering at what was bothering her, a nebulous niggle at the back of her brain.
Ryder handed her one glass. She took it, watched him raise the other to his lips—
“No!” She shoved his hand, the one with the glass, down and away. Then she stared at the glass in her hand. “Why is this here?”
Ryder frowned, then his face cleared and he looked at the glass he held. “Poison?”
She glanced back at the chair. “They tie me up, hooded and gagged. Then”—she glanced at the passage—“they shoot at us.” Turning back, she looked at the jug. “But they leave water and two glasses?” Lips firming, she set her glass down.
Ryder stared at the water jug, then with one violent swipe, he swept it off the table. Tray, glasses, and all went flying; the jug and the glasses shattered on the stone.
Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, drew his temper back, in, under his control. He felt Mary grip his arm, grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I thought of doing exactly that but could never have managed quite the same effect.”
The dry comment startled a laugh out of him. Opening his eyes, he looked at her, met her gaze and her inquiring look, but simply shook his head.
She glanced around the room, then considered the wall. “Perhaps there’s a hidden door.”
Picking up the other lantern, he joined her in examining the stonework, but there was no obvious doorway, no suggestion of a concealed exit. Stepping back, he shook his head. “It looks like a retaining wall—they must have had to build it to hold back the earth on that side.”
Mary pulled a face and extended her inspection to the other walls, but as in the first chamber, they were solid rock.
Finally halting, she blew out a breath. “Well, having settled that question in the negative, I suppose we may as well sit down and think, and decide what else we can do.”
He walked to the section of the retaining wall level with the chair. “Come, sit.” He waved her to the chair, then slid down the wall to sit with his back against it, his long legs bent. Resting his hands on his thighs, he watched as, after considering him for an instant, she came to join him. Eschewing the chair, she settled on the stone floor beside him. Closing her hands about his upper arm, she leaned her head against his shoulder.
He hesitated, then tipped his head to rest his cheek against her hair. Softly said, “They can’t simply leave us here. At some point, other staff will come into the basement, and if we yell, they’ll hear us. So our captors have to finish us off, most likely tonight.” He paused, then simply said, “They’re going to come for us, and there’s not a damned thing I can do to stop them.”
“They haven’t killed us yet.” Mary’s tone was fierce. “And you know what they say—where there’s life, there’s hope.” After a moment, she added, “And trying to poison us—you, really, as I’m hardly any threat—tells us they don’t want to take the risk of facing you. At least not a healthy, alive, and enraged you.”
He snorted and glanced at the opening to the tunnel. “I could stop them if they came unarmed, but if they come with pistols . . .”
A long moment passed, then, her voice softer, smaller, she said, “They will come with pistols, won’t they?”
He sighed. “If I were them, I’d bring two pistols each, just to make sure.”
Silence fell as they absorbed the situation and faced the reality of the most likely outcome. There was no way out, and nowhere to hide, to take cover. Nowhere they could stage an ambush and hope to win.
Facing death was a chilling prospect; he wasn’t surprised to feel her shiver. Raising his arm, he curved it over her shoulders; urging her closer against his side, he pressed a kiss to her hair.
She settled. After a moment asked, “Why are they waiting—do you know?”
He was grateful they were, but he followed her thought . . . “Lavinia. She isn’t here. There’s no one at all upstairs, except whoever shot at us and shut the trapdoor—presumably the three who seized you.”
Shifting her head, she stared into his face. “She’s behind this?”
His expression grim, he let his head fall back. “I think she must be. Her things are upstairs, and only she could have ordered her staff away for the day—and the evening, too. And I can definitely see her wanting to gloat to my face.” He paused, then added, “It could also be that, this time, she wants to make sure I am, indeed, killed, and don’t somehow escape.”
“So where is she?”
Equally puzzled, he shook his head. “I can’t see her patiently waiting in some tavern to be summoned.”
After a moment, Mary said, “Actually, if I were her and planning our deaths, I’d make sure I was nowhere near the abbey and had lots of people to vouch for that.” She looked at Ryder. “Consider the time—I’d wager she went off to some luncheon or other, and then stayed on for some dinner or ball, all at a good distance from here.”
He grimaced. “That sounds too well planned for Lavinia, but Potherby is staying here, too—his things are upstairs—and while I have no idea if he’s involved, what you suggest might have been Lavinia’s best way of ensuring Potherby wasn’t here, either.”
Mary snuggled closer. “Regardless of whether Potherby knows of her scheme or not, his being with her the whole time ensures she has an alibi for both our disappearances—or so it will seem.”
Ryder nodded. “If that’s what she’s doing, then it’ll probably be several hours before they come for us.”
Thinking of what might happen when they did . . .
Silence fell, stretched, then, closing his hand about one of Mary’s, he murmured, “It’s me they—she—wants.”
“Actually, I don’t think that’s true—well, not anymore. You heard what that blackguard said. ‘You and your missus, too.’ They can’t let me live—quite aside from bringing down the wrath of God and the Cynsters on their heads, from Lavinia’s perspective, there’s the rather pertinent matter of your heir.”
“What?” Startled, he looked at Mary’
s head, then ducked his own to look into her face.
Meeting his eyes, she shrugged. “I might be pregnant already—who knows? And no, I can’t be sure, but neither can she.”
He fell silent. After several long moments, he asked, “You truly believe she’s intent on killing me—and you, and any unborn child of ours—so Rand will inherit?”
Mary nodded decisively. “You told me she always expected Randolph would inherit, and while there seemed a chance Fate or you would bring that about without any effort from her, she was content to wait, but now . . .” Breaking off, Mary frowned. “Why now? Why after all these years did she finally decide it was time to act? It wasn’t our marriage—that came after the attempt on your life . . . oh! Of course.” Mary met his eyes. “Randolph.”
He shook his head. “Rand won’t have had anything to do with this.”
She held his gaze. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Rand and I—and Kit, and Stacie, and Godfrey—we’re close in a way that’s difficult to define. Trust me—none of them would have had anything to do with this, with harming me and you. As for Rand wanting to inherit—he doesn’t. The attendant responsibility scares him.” Lips twisting, he admitted, “That was one of the reasons I knew Rand wasn’t the right man for you but I was. Even as a sickly child, I always knew Raventhorne would one day be mine—I always expected to shoulder the burden someday. But Rand . . . he would do it if it was thrust upon him, but he’s counting on you and me to ensure he never has to.”
Searching his eyes, reading his unshakeable conviction, Mary nodded. “All right, but Randolph’s still at the heart of this, whether he means to be or not. Does Lavinia know how he feels about the marquessate, and even if she does, will she care?”
“No, she won’t.” Ryder paused, then went on, “Lavinia sees her children—all of them, still—solely as an extension of herself. To her, they have no other purpose in life other than being her children. While my father tried to intercede, to have more influence in their lives, Lavinia fought him tooth and nail, until he more or less gave up. He had me, and he and I were close. He was allowed to have little relationship with the others.”