The Lady By His Side (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 4)

  “This has to be the place.” Sebastian studied the cavern’s sandy floor. “It’s clear those men have been here. The floor all the way along has had boot prints the same as those on the beach.” He looked ahead. The boot prints led on. “Let’s see where they go.”

  Stepping to the side of the well-tramped trail, he drew Antonia behind him, and they moved steadily forward.

  He sensed a stir in the air and stared ahead. There was a darker patch in the dimness before them—perhaps the opening of a tunnel leading onward.

  “Look!” Antonia tugged his hand and halted.

  He glanced at her and saw her pointing at the floor ahead and to their right with the hand holding her candle. He followed the direction, then grinned. “At last.”

  He let go of her hand and walked to the marks she’d spotted, then crouched and examined the circular impressions left in the sandy floor.

  Antonia came to stand at his shoulder. She raised her candle, illuminating the line of circles. “Ten. Ten barrels stood here.”

  He released a breath, then straightened. “Until last night.”

  She glanced sharply at him, as if hearing more in his tone than he’d intended. “How much gunpowder is there in ten barrels?”

  He glanced again at the impressions by his feet. Heard the grim note in his voice as he replied, “Barrels this size would each hold a hundredweight.” He’d expected fewer barrels, maybe three or four. Not ten.

  “A hundred and twelve pounds each?” When he nodded, she paused, then said, “But…that’s over one thousand pounds of gunpowder!”

  His face felt like stone as he nodded. “Indeed. Enough to blow up something very large.” And the barrels were already on their way to London.

  Urgency gripped him. He reached out and caught her hand. “We need to get news of this to Whitehall immediately—”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.”

  The voice came out of the darkness ahead.

  Sebastian swung to face the threat, and light—a strong, brilliant beam of it—hit him in the face.

  Some man—just a vague shadow in the opening of what, in the faint light reflected from the distant cavern walls, was revealed as a tunnel leading onward—ruthlessly directed a powerful lantern beam into Sebastian’s and Antonia’s eyes.

  Sebastian raised the hand holding his candle and tried to shield his face, but he couldn’t escape that disorienting, blinding light.

  He and Antonia were standing together; a mistake.

  He released her hand and stepped away from her. “Drop the candle,” he murmured and tossed his away.

  She did the same.

  He took another, larger step away from her, forcing the man to swing the lantern beam more widely to keep them both in sight.

  “Stop!” the man ordered.

  Antonia gave up trying to see the man clearly and looked at Sebastian—saw him disregard the man’s order and keep edging away from her.

  Then the lantern beam locked on Sebastian, and the sound of a pistol being cocked echoed through the cavern.

  She knew that sound. Knew what she was seeing—and immediately realized Sebastian had it wrong.

  He was ensuring the man shot him and not her.

  But if the man wounded Sebastian, who would protect her? The man wouldn’t allow her to live. And if he killed Sebastian…

  Her heart seized.

  Sebastian’s gaze swung from the man to her.

  “No!” She flung herself toward him.

  Sebastian felt his heart stop. He saw Antonia spring toward him, distantly heard her scream.

  He was already moving, launching himself at her—forced by instincts too powerful to resist to change direction and protect her.

  The pistol roared, the sound magnified by the rock around them.

  The ball sliced through the air where, a split second before, he’d been, and ricocheted into the darkness.

  He collided with Antonia, clutched her to him, and let his momentum, dampened but not negated by hers, carry them on and down. He rolled, shifting to cushion her head as they landed. Then he pushed her from him and turned onto his side between her and their assailant, and frantically reached for his right coat pocket.

  The lantern beam swung wildly as the man tried to locate them. Then it steadied above their heads and started to lower.

  Searching desperately, Sebastian slumped onto his back.

  A second before the light reached his face, his fingers closed around the butt of his pistol. He hauled it from his pocket, sighted, and fired.

  The man cried out. The lantern wobbled crazily, but the bastard didn’t fall, just cursed.

  In the reflected glow from the now-erratically swinging lantern beam, Sebastian saw the man heave something their way; he reached up and batted the projectile—the man’s spent pistol—aside. It clattered to the rock floor.

  Glancing back at the man, Sebastian started to push to his feet—only to realize the bastard was fleeing.

  The lantern light winked out.

  Leaving him blinking into complete and utter darkness. “Damn!”

  He dropped back to sit on the floor.

  “My God—are you hurt?” Suddenly, Antonia was clambering over him—in the dark patting him, working her way to his face. “Sebastian? Say something! Did he shoot you? Where, for heaven’s sake?”

  He caught her hands, one in each of his, and yanked her to him. He released her hands, found her face, held it immobile, and crushed his lips to hers.

  The emotions crashing through him were too many, too great, to make any sense of. All he knew was that if she hadn’t acted—hadn’t flung herself at him—he would, almost certainly, be dead. And she might have been facing a worse fate.

  It seemed all wrong—completely and inescapably wrong. She shouldn’t even have been there. If he’d had his way—if she hadn’t pushed, or if he’d pigheadedly insisted on letting his protective self hold sway as he’d been so very close to doing—she would have been waiting in safety on the shore for him.

  And he would never have returned to her.

  He would never again have felt the indescribable thrill of her hands desperately clutching at him, of her fingers winding in his hair, never again have experienced the transcendent glory of her lips soft and pliant under his, kissing him back with a fervor and a passion to match his.

  A maelstrom of feelings wracked him—wracked them. He kissed her ferociously, and she responded in kind, as if letting him go was something she couldn’t yet manage.

  Relief, and the knowledge that they were still there—alive, hale, whole, and together—eventually seeped into their brains.

  A storm of reaction still roiled inside them, but they couldn’t let it rage—not now. Not here.

  Not yet.

  He filled his lungs and drew back.

  They broke from the kiss; his hands cradling her face, her hands framing his jaw, each holding the other captive, with their breathing still ragged, each leaned their forehead against the other’s in wordless communion.

  In wordless support.

  Several seconds passed, then they both drew deep breaths and moved apart.

  Refocused.

  He glanced toward where he judged the mouth of the onward tunnel lay. “Did you see who it was?”

  “No. You?”

  “Just that it was one of the younger men.”

  In the dark, he felt her push to her feet. “And from his accent, it was one of the Irishmen—so Filbury, Wilson, or Connell Boyne.”

  He nodded, then realized she couldn’t see. Moving slowly so he wouldn’t bump into her, he drew his legs in and stood. “We need to get back to the house and see which one is wounded.”

  “Are you sure you hit him?”

  “Yes. But he knows I know, so he’ll be running as fast as he can. We need to hurry.”

  “I can’t see anything,” she said. “We both dropped our candles.”

  He felt in his pockets and was relieved to discover his matchbox stil
l there. “I have matches, but we’ll need to find at least one of the candles.” Carefully, he opened the matchbox and extracted one of Congreve’s matches. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He struck the match. As soon as it flared, he held it at head height, and they both searched the floor.

  “There!” She pounced. Just as the match burned down, and he swore and dropped it, she triumphantly rose, holding one of the half-burned candles.

  He drew out another match, lit it, then he lit the candle, and they finally had light enough to see each other.

  For an instant, they stared—and it felt as if a rush of urgent things both needed to say passed between them in a second.

  Then they both drew in a breath, and she looked toward the tunnel leading onward. “Do we follow him? That will be the fastest way, won’t it? On to the house?”

  He considered. “No, we can’t go that way.” An explanation of the dictate leapt readily to his tongue. “If I were him, I would wait along the tunnel somewhere and hope we come along. It’s still very much in his best interests to make sure we don’t reappear—at least not alive.”

  She drew in a quick breath and, in a brisker tone, said, “Very well. It’s back to the beach. At least we know it’s not that far.”

  And they knew the terrain; they accomplished the return journey to the beach in a matter of minutes. They stumbled into the deeper sand on the shore. Sebastian blew out the candle, stubbed it on his boot sole, stuffed the remnant into his pocket, then caught Antonia’s hand and helped her run back through the sands to the spot where they’d come down the cliff.

  Because of that last large stone, they had to find an alternative route up.

  He studied the climb, then glanced at her. “Can you manage it?”

  She threw him a look he remembered from long ago, reached up, caught a branch, and swung herself onto the slope.

  This time, he let her go first. He followed close behind, lending a steadying hand whenever she needed one.

  It was a scramble, but she uttered not one word of complaint, just grabbed branches and bushes and hauled herself up.

  Finally, they gained the top of the slope.

  They both paused to catch their breaths.

  Then their eyes met, and they raced for the horses.

  * * *

  They thundered across the fields. Sebastian didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to check on Antonia. He knew she was an accomplished rider; he trusted in her abilities to keep up.

  She was only two lengths behind him when, eschewing the path to the stable yard, he veered across the side lawn. He rode directly to the side door; it was their fastest route into the house.

  He hauled the gray to a halt, flung himself from the saddle, and was waiting to lift Antonia from hers the instant she drew up.

  She did, and he seized her about the waist, swung her down, released her, took her hand, and together, they ran for the door.

  He thrust it open. “Pray he lingered, hoping to catch us in the tunnel.”

  They strode straight down the corridor toward the estate office, but as they neared the office door, they saw Crawford and Sir Humphrey in the front hall. The men’s backs were to the corridor, and they were being railed at by Parrish and McGibbin.

  “Damned man came barreling out through the servant’s door.” His face ruddy, McGibbin pointed down the front hall. “No consideration as to who might be out here.”

  “He slammed into my wife and sent her spinning.” Parrish was well-nigh apoplectic. “But did he stop? Did he even pause?”

  “Inspector! Sir Humphrey!” Sebastian strode out of the corridor.

  Keeping pace at his side, her hand still clamped in his, Antonia noticed Mrs. Parrish sprawled limply in a chair against the wall by the side of the stairs. The older woman had one hand pressed to her ample bosom; her eyes were closed, and she was breathing stertorously.

  Parrish and McGibbin broke off at Sebastian’s hail. Crawford and Sir Humphrey spun around.

  “Earith!” Crawford recovered first. His sharp eyes raked them both. “You have news?”

  “Yes,” Sebastian said, “but there’s no time to explain.” He switched his gaze to Parrish and McGibbin. “Who was it who came charging out just now?”

  McGibbin blinked. “Boyne. Connell Boyne. He came racing out and sent poor Mrs. Parrish flying.”

  “He didn’t so much as glance her way.” Parrish returned to his complaint. “He just raced on”—Parrish waved up the front hall—“straight out through the front door. Disgraceful behavior!”

  Along with Sebastian, Antonia had followed Parrish’s gesture; looking toward the front door, she saw that it stood wide.

  She met Sebastian’s gaze briefly—Connell Boyne was their murderer, and he’d fled—then Sebastian looked at the inspector and Sir Humphrey and urgently said, “Lady Antonia and I found those signs we were searching for in a cavern off the beach to the east. But some man—one of the three younger Irishmen—found us there and shot at us. He missed. I didn’t—I’m sure I winged him. He escaped up a tunnel that we think leads back to the house. We couldn’t follow and had to race back across the fields.”

  Sebastian looked at Parrish and McGibbin. “Was Connell Boyne injured when he came through here?”

  McGibbin and Parrish blinked, then they exchanged a long look.

  “Yes. He was.”

  They all looked at Mrs. Parrish. Antonia had noticed that, as Sebastian had spoken, Mrs. Parrish had opened her eyes and slowly sat up. She’d been listening closely.

  Now, her lips set grimly, she nodded to Sebastian, the inspector, and Sir Humphrey. “Connell was clutching his left arm, just above the elbow. I noticed when he ran into me.” She paused as if remembering. “I believe I saw blood.”

  She looked down at the floor, scanning a certain area. “He ran into me about there.” She waved vaguely at the space before the side corridor. “Then he ran that way…” She followed the line, then triumphantly pointed. “There! That’s a spot of blood, isn’t it?”

  Antonia slipped her fingers from Sebastian’s hold and walked over to look.

  She was joined by the inspector, who crouched and examined the spot, then he rose and nodded to Sebastian and Sir Humphrey. “It’s blood.” His gaze locked with sudden intensity on Sebastian’s face. “Is Connell Boyne our murderer?”

  His expression grim, Sebastian hesitated, then grimaced. “I can’t say—there might have been someone else working with him. But Connell Boyne is connected with the secret Ennis was killed to protect, so…” His voice hardened. “Regardless, Boyne’s fled, and we need to catch him.”

  “Right, then.” Sir Humphrey looked up the hall to the front door. “He might have gone that way, but no doubt he circled around to the stable.”

  “He was heading for the side door,” Mrs. Parrish said, “but he ran full-tilt into me, and then we were all milling there, so he changed direction and rushed for the front door.”

  Sebastian swore beneath his breath. “We left our horses at the side door. We didn’t go to the stable yard.”

  His gaze met Antonia’s, then as one, they turned and rushed back down the corridor to the side door.

  As she passed them, Antonia saw the inspector and Sir Humphrey exchange a look, then both men fell in at her heels.

  From farther back, she heard Mrs. Parrish saying, “I’ll tell the others. Go! Go!”

  Sebastian hauled open the side door. He and she rushed down the steps onto the lawn. Their mounts had been grazing. They caught the reins and turned them, then, with the inspector and Sir Humphrey now leading the way, strode on toward the stable yard.

  Sir Humphrey marched in under the stable arch. The stable master was standing in the open stable door. Sir Humphrey hailed him and demanded, “Did Connell Boyne come this way?”

  “Aye—you’ve just missed him.” Frowning, the stable master walked out to join them. “Came racing down in a right state and yelled for his horse. He was nurs
ing one arm, but he wouldn’t let me see. Just insisted he have his horse, and the instant it was brought out, he hauled himself up and took off.”

  “Which way?” Sebastian asked. “Did anyone see?”

  “I didn’t.” The stable master turned and looked back toward the stable.

  The youngest stable lad had gathered with his fellows in the entrance; it was he who volunteered, “Went northwest, he did.” The lad pointed. “Up toward the road.”

  “We need horses.” The inspector stood at Sir Humphrey’s shoulder. “Right now.”

  Increasingly grim-faced, the stable master nodded and signaled his lads, and they leapt toward the stalls.

  Crawford turned to Sebastian and Antonia. “You two need to wait for us. You can’t go after him alone—he might well have rearmed himself by now, or met up with others.”

  Sebastian frowned. “He must be heading toward Canterbury and the London road.”

  Sir Humphrey humphed. “That’s a decent ride across country, and he’s wounded—he won’t be able to ride that hard. We’ll catch up with him before he gets far.”

  Sebastian glanced at Antonia, then nodded. “Very well. We’ll wait and ride with you.”

  They heard footsteps on the path and the sounds of male voices exclaiming. The four of them turned and beheld the rest of the male guests; as a group, led by Parrish and McGibbin, they came striding into the stable yard.

  Parrish and McGibbin halted before Sir Humphrey and the inspector, with the other four men ranging at their backs. “We understand,” Parrish said, “that Boyne—Connell Boyne—is somehow behind what’s been going on here over the past week. If you’re riding out after him, we want to come, too.”

  “It’s only fair,” Wilson put in. “He murdered his brother and sister-in-law and caused suspicion to fall on all of us.”

  The inspector stared at the group, then glanced at Sir Humphrey. “More eyes and hands, more witnesses. It can’t hurt.”

  Sir Humphrey pursed his lips, but then nodded.

  “Excellent.” Hadley Featherstonehaugh stepped around the inspector and Sir Humphrey and led the other men to the stable.