The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (37 page)

She laughed softly—and even he heard the effort she was making, trying to be brave. Ducking her head, she pressed into his arms. He closed them around her; the temperature underground was cool, and they’d both started losing heat.

Time ticked inexorably by.

And suddenly, sitting there in their underground prison with her warm and vital and so much his, so perfectly complementary, in his arms, full realization of what he’d succeeded in seizing—what together they’d succeeded in creating—and now stood on the brink of losing, welled up and overflowed.

She’d brought him all he’d ever wanted, and more. Combined, their potential was beyond his wildest dreams. But their successes would go for naught; their potential would never be fulfilled.

Regret and helplessness, bitterness and sorrow, swamped him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, but tears welled, and he bent his head. Laid his cheek against her hair. Moistened his lips and said, his voice low, rough, “My only regret will be that we didn’t have a chance to grow old together—to have our children, and laugh and cry and challenge each other.” His voice broke and he stopped.

She clutched him more tightly; he felt her gulp, felt her breath hitch, sensed the tightness in her chest that matched the constriction of his own.

He sighed and let his head sag lower. “I’m sorry.”

She lifted her head, raised her hands and framed his face. “No! This is not your fault. It’s
hers
.” Fierce and indomitable, she looked into his eyes. Her fingertips found his tears and brushed them away with no flicker in her gaze to show she’d even registered. She searched his eyes. “You—” She froze.

Then, very slowly, she drew one hand from his cheek and stared at her fingertips.

The look on her face brought him instantly alert. “What?” He glanced at the tunnel mouth, but there was no sound from there. He looked back at her and saw an expression of dawning wonder break across her face.

“There’s a breeze.” Pushing out of his arms, she sat up and held her hand to the wall between them, turning her palm and fingers around an inch from the surface. “I can feel it on my damp skin.”

Scrambling to her feet, she faced the wall. “It’s coming from around here.”

Getting up, he joined her. Had to ask, “Are you sure?”

The look she cast him told him not to be stupid. “Lick a finger—you should be able to feel it, too.” She was moving her hand, dampened with his tears, along the seam between two rows of stone blocks. “There!” Excitement rang in her voice. Stepping close to the wall, she squinted at the mortar, then turned to him, urgency and more in her eyes. “There’s a crack—and I can feel cool air on my face.” She stepped back and waved him forward. “Try it.”

He licked a finger, held it near the spot. And felt nothing. Inwardly sighing, he started to turn—a definite waft of air passed across his dampened skin. Hardly daring to breathe, he focused on the spot and saw the fracture in the mortar.

Stepping back, he studied the wall, then glanced over his shoulder. Looking down at the floor, he saw what from any other position was far less obvious—a slight trough worn in the stone. “Damn—the tunnel diverts, but goes on.” Following the line of the trough, he turned to the wall. “It goes on, but—”

“It’s been blocked up.” Mary rushed to pick up the poker. “If we can shift the stones, we might be able to escape.”

He took the poker from her, then remembered. “Here.” He fished in his pockets, pulled out the skewers from one, the forks from another. “Use these, and let’s try to loosen just this one stone.”

They fell to with a combined will born of inner strength and stubborn determination. She scraped along one side, he on the other. Between the forks and the skewers, they cleared the joints to a depth of four inches. The block was still stuck, but pressing both hands and throwing his weight onto it, he sensed it was only just holding.

“Step away.” He waved her back, then, holding the poker by the haft, he rammed the blunt end of the handle onto a corner of the block, then repeated the exercise down one side, then along the next, around the edge of the stone.

Mary glanced back at the tunnel. “How long do you think we have?”

“I checked a few minutes ago. It’s heading toward eleven o’clock.” He bashed at the stone and felt it jar. “We’ll know when they’re coming—they’ll have to shift those sacks. But if I was Lavinia, I wouldn’t get back here until midnight at least. Assuming Claude Potherby isn’t a party to this—and the more I consider it, the more I doubt he would be—then returning any earlier would risk raising his suspicions.”

“True.” Impatient, she jigged. “Is it moving?”

“Not yet.” He struck twice more with the poker, then handed it to her. “Now, let’s see.”

Settling his feet on the floor, he flattened his palms on the stone, braced his arms, his back, then drew in a massive breath, held it, and shoved.

The block shifted half an inch.

Mary softly cheered, literally danced.

He dragged in another breath, braced, and pushed again—this time leaning further, longer . . .

With Mary calling encouragement, he repeated the process three more times before the stone finally gave, yielding to the pressure, scraping slowly back, then with a last
scritch
the block suddenly fell, toppling back and down. They heard it thud on the ground beyond the wall.

Drawing his arms out of the hole, he stepped back as Mary rushed up with one of the lanterns. She played the light through the hole. “It
is
a passage! Thank God!” Then, “Ugh—cobwebs!”

He laughed. When she sent him a narrow-eyed look, he waved at the hole. “Freedom beckons and you’re worried about cobwebs?”

“No—I’m worried about what
makes
cobwebs. I told you I hate creepy crawlies, and spiders definitely qualify.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll bear it.” He examined the stone blocks above and below the hole they’d made. “We need these two blocks out, then I think I’ll be able to fit through.”

They set to work again. Conscious of the minutes ticking by, once they’d pushed the second block through he tried to insist that she squeeze through and work from the other side—from where, if their would-be killers came for them, she could still run off and escape—but she refused point-blank. “Spiders, remember. I’ll need you by my side to bear with them.”

One glance at her face, at the stubborn set of her lips and chin, warned him further argument would be a waste of breath. And they didn’t have time to waste, either.

Luckily, the third block came away more easily, gravity helping it fall from its moorings.

“All right.” Mary looked around. “What do we take?”

“The poker.” He hefted it. “And both lanterns.”

She picked up both lanterns; they’d turned one very low to conserve the oil.

Taking the brighter lantern, he leaned into the gap and used its light to scan the tunnel beyond. “No spiders.” And the tunnel walls and ceiling looked solid and stable, safe enough. Reaching as far as he could, he set the lantern down on the tunnel floor, then drew back and offered Mary his hand. He saw her debate urging him to go first, but she was starting to get nervous over the passing time; so was he. Gripping his hand, she gathered her skirts in the other and clambered through the opening.

Releasing her, he cast a last glance around their prison, so nearly, he suspected, their tomb, then he handed the second lantern and the poker through to her and, with much angling of his shoulders and a curse or two, climbed though.

They set out immediately, needing no urging to put distance between them and the cellar. Neither spoke for a good ten minutes, then Mary, walking at Ryder’s side, her fingers clutching his left sleeve, whispered, “Do you know where we’re going?”

“No, but the area is riddled with cave systems.”

After a moment, she murmured, “Aren’t there stories about people getting lost in such labyrinths and never being seen again?”

“Yes, but we’re not in just any tunnel. This one’s man-made—or rather it most likely started out as part of a natural system, but it’s been widened and worked on.” He nodded at the walls. “You can see the marks of chisels and picks.”

She looked and felt some of the fear that had wormed its way into her recede. “So . . . if this tunnel’s been worked on by people, then presumably it leads somewhere.”

“That’s my theory. And the air is moving, which means there’s an opening to outside somewhere.”

They hurried on as fast as they could, that tantalizing waft of air in their faces the ultimate promise of survival. They came to branches, the opening to other passages, but those were natural, the floors and walls untouched by human tools. It was easy enough to stay on their path, one that, as far as Mary could tell, led them steadily away from the Dower House and its secret cellar.

Eventually, she whispered, “Do you have any idea in which direction we’re going?”

“It’s not easy to tell underground, but I think we’re heading toward Axford, which means the abbey is some way to our right.”

As the words left Ryder’s lips, the lantern beam he was playing ahead of them was suddenly swallowed by black. They both slowed; swinging the lantern beam in a wider arc, he realized they’d come to a cavern.

Stepping inside, they halted. He played the light up and could just discern the ceiling. The cavern was wide enough that only the section the lantern beam lit remained visible, but as he swept the beam across the floor, Mary gripped his arm. “There.” She pointed to their left.

He shone the lantern that way and saw what she had. A large stone block, roughly rectangular, higher than his waist and wider than he was tall . . . “It’s an altar.” As they neared, that became clearer. A glint of metal on the cavern wall had him lifting the lantern beam.

“A crucifix.”

Crude, rusty, but recognizable.

Mary glanced around. “This was a church. A secret chapel.”

He nodded. “Protestants or Catholics—could have been either.”

“Mary’s reign or Elizabeth’s. They came here to worship in secret.”

With his back to the altar, Ryder played the lantern beam slowly around the cavern. There were five entrances. He thought, then said, “It was the Protestants in Mary’s reign.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because the Cavanaughs, and most of the families around here, were never Catholic, or at least, not truly.” He pointed to the entrance now to their left, almost opposite the passage from which they’d come. “So that way will lead to Axford, the village. And that”—he pointed to the next tunnel mouth—“makes that The Oaks. And that one’s Kitchener Hall, and that leaves that”—he pointed to the tunnel almost directly opposite the altar—“as the way to the abbey.”

Mary glanced at him. “Are you sure?”

“No.” Through the dimness, he met her eyes. “But we need to keep moving, and as long as we stick to a worked-on tunnel with air on our faces, we should come out somewhere.”

Glancing back at the tunnel from the Dower House, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

They did. The tunnel they hoped led to the abbey had been cut wider and the floor evened out; they made good time. They’d been striding along for perhaps half a mile when Mary tugged his sleeve. “What’s the time?”

He glanced at her, decided a pause wouldn’t hurt. Handing the fully lit lantern to her, he pulled out his watch, held its face in the beam. “Not quite midnight.” Tucking the watch back, he retook the lantern and they walked on.

The tunnel slowly climbed, then they came to a spot where it narrowed severely, leaving just enough space for a man to fit through. There appeared to be a wider space beyond, and past that . . . came the soft swoosh and splash of falling water.

Ryder stared through the gap; he tried angling the lantern beam through, but the light reflected back—from a curtain of falling water. “I don’t believe it.”

Peering past his shoulder, Mary asked, “Where is it?”

“I think we’re behind the waterfall in the grotto above the abbey lake.” He stood back and waved her through. “Trust me, there won’t be any spiders. Not with all that water about.”

Mary handed him her lantern, then stepped into the crevice and edged through. “Just as long as I don’t get soaked.”

She emerged onto a narrow rock ledge that curved to her left around the waterfall.

“Here—take the lanterns.”

She turned and took the lanterns as Ryder handed them through, followed by the poker.

Then, with difficulty and several curses, he squeezed through the opening and they were both standing in the spray from the waterfall—one she’d thus far seen only from the mouth of the grotto.

Instead of clambering on and making her way out, she set down her burdens, looked up at Ryder, then smiled, stretched up, wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him—ferociously.

He closed his arms around her and kissed her back—equally passionate, even more possessive—but then he drew back and set her on her feet. “We’re not safe yet. It’s a good half mile to the house.”

O
nce out of the grotto, damp but not soaked, they doused the lanterns. Ryder knew every inch of his gardens, and the moon shed enough light for them to see their way.

Carrying one lantern and the poker in one hand, his other hand closed firmly about Mary’s, Ryder strode along as rapidly as her shorter legs would allow. He’d given thanks several times that she was no delicate miss, no weak, wilting female; she’d kept up without complaint through the tunnels and continued to walk swiftly by his side.

Ahead of them, the abbey was ablaze. Light shone from the long library windows, and flares had been planted in the forecourt. There was activity in the stable yard but, Ryder was relieved to note, no carriage drawn up before the front steps. “Just pray that Forsythe hasn’t reached the point of sending for the magistrate, Lord Hughes, yet. If at all possible, I want to handle this myself.”

Mary glanced at him. “You’re the Lord Marshal for the area, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “But as I’m the one who’s disappeared . . .”

“Yes, well, you’re back now, and ready to resume control.”

He smiled, but as they strode on and he thought further, he sobered. “I’m trying to think of what evidence we have that it was Lavinia behind this—the men who abducted you are the best and very likely only witnesses.” He met Mary’s eyes as she looked at him. “Did you get a look at any of the three when they grabbed you?”