The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,144

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.”

Once 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?”

“No.”

He grimaced and looked ahead.

“But I smelled them.”

He looked at her. “Smelled?”

“Horses—all three of them. It’s not a smell I would mistake. And one gave orders to the others—I’ll know him by his voice, too.” Mary glanced at him. “How many men work in the Dower