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

A heavy iron ring was set into the surface. Setting the lantern on the floor, he bent and hauled the trap—literally as well as figuratively, he feared—open. The door was heavy, weighted by a metal frame and bracing. Leaving it tilted back on its hinges, he crouched beside the opening and looked down, into a largely featureless void. Picking up the lantern, he directed the beam down, revealing a stone floor, not flagged but rough-hewn, more than ten feet below. There were no steps, not even a ladder.

The chamber was empty. He angled his head and the lantern, bent lower and peered, but all he saw was empty space leading to blank walls, also cut directly into the stone. The hole might have been part of a long-ago rock quarry, later built over. A tunnel, large enough for him to walk down, led off in one direction. He glanced briefly at it, his gaze passing over and on, but then he looked back. After a moment, he cursed and turned the lantern away—and yes, there was light, distant and faint, seeping out through that tunnel.

He hesitated, then with nothing to lose, called, “Mary?”

Instantly, distantly, he heard the drum of heels on stone. Even more faintly, he heard muffled sounds. She was there!

“Wait—I’m coming.”

The words unleashed a positive torrent of muffled protest; she wanted to warn him not to come down, that it was a trap.

He already knew that. Accepted it. He was still going down.

Even before he’d walked through the front door, he’d realized that leaving her there and returning to the abbey for help was not an option; if he did, when he returned with his men, she wouldn’t be there anymore. She was the bait to lure him to his doom; Lavinia and her henchmen now knew they had that right, that that would work, so they would keep her until he did as they wished and stepped into their trap. Putting it off would only prolong the drama and risk Mary’s health, and most likely shift the venue from which he had to rescue her to somewhere even less advantageous to him.

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.