The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

“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.