The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (36 page)

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.

Facing death was a chilling prospect; he wasn’t surprised to feel her shiver. Raising his arm, he curved it over her shoulders; urging her closer against his side, he pressed a kiss to her hair.

She settled. After a moment asked, “Why are they waiting—do you know?”

He was grateful they were, but he followed her thought . . . “Lavinia. She isn’t here. There’s no one at all upstairs, except whoever shot at us and shut the trapdoor—presumably the three who seized you.”

Shifting her head, she stared into his face. “
She’s
behind this?”

His expression grim, he let his head fall back. “I think she must be. Her things are upstairs, and only she could have ordered her staff away for the day—and the evening, too. And I can definitely see her wanting to gloat to my face.” He paused, then added, “It could also be that, this time, she wants to make sure I am, indeed, killed, and don’t somehow escape.”

“So where is she?”

Equally puzzled, he shook his head. “I can’t see her patiently waiting in some tavern to be summoned.”

After a moment, Mary said, “Actually, if I were her and planning our deaths, I’d make sure I was nowhere near the abbey and had lots of people to vouch for that.” She looked at Ryder. “Consider the time—I’d wager she went off to some luncheon or other, and then stayed on for some dinner or ball, all at a good distance from here.”

He grimaced. “That sounds too well planned for Lavinia, but Potherby is staying here, too—his things are upstairs—and while I have no idea if he’s involved, what you suggest might have been Lavinia’s best way of ensuring Potherby wasn’t here, either.”

Mary snuggled closer. “Regardless of whether Potherby knows of her scheme or not, his being with her the whole time ensures she has an alibi for both our disappearances—or so it will seem.”

Ryder nodded. “If that’s what she’s doing, then it’ll probably be several hours before they come for us.”

Thinking of what might happen when they did . . .

Silence fell, stretched, then, closing his hand about one of Mary’s, he murmured, “It’s me they—she—wants.”

“Actually, I don’t think that’s true—well, not anymore. You heard what that blackguard said. ‘You and your missus, too.’ They can’t let me live—quite aside from bringing down the wrath of God and the Cynsters on their heads, from Lavinia’s perspective, there’s the rather pertinent matter of your heir.”

“What?” Startled, he looked at Mary’s head, then ducked his own to look into her face.

Meeting his eyes, she shrugged. “I might be pregnant already—who knows? And no, I can’t be sure, but neither can she.”

He fell silent. After several long moments, he asked, “You truly believe she’s intent on killing me—and you, and any unborn child of ours—so Rand will inherit?”

Mary nodded decisively. “You told me she always expected Randolph would inherit, and while there seemed a chance Fate or you would bring that about without any effort from her, she was content to wait, but now . . .” Breaking off, Mary frowned. “Why now? Why after all these years did she finally decide it was time to act? It wasn’t our marriage—that came after the attempt on your life . . . oh! Of course.” Mary met his eyes. “Randolph.”

He shook his head. “Rand won’t have had anything to do with this.”

She held his gaze. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Rand and I—and Kit, and Stacie, and Godfrey—we’re close in a way that’s difficult to define. Trust me—none of them would have had anything to do with this, with harming me and you. As for Rand wanting to inherit—he doesn’t. The attendant responsibility scares him.” Lips twisting, he admitted, “That was one of the reasons I knew Rand wasn’t the right man for you but I was. Even as a sickly child, I always knew Raventhorne would one day be mine—I always expected to shoulder the burden someday. But Rand . . . he would do it if it was thrust upon him, but he’s counting on you and me to ensure he never has to.”

Searching his eyes, reading his unshakeable conviction, Mary nodded. “All right, but Randolph’s still at the heart of this, whether he means to be or not. Does Lavinia know how he feels about the marquessate, and even if she does, will she care?”

“No, she won’t.” Ryder paused, then went on, “Lavinia sees her children—all of them, still—solely as an extension of herself. To her, they have no other purpose in life other than being her children. While my father tried to intercede, to have more influence in their lives, Lavinia fought him tooth and nail, until he more or less gave up. He had me, and he and I were close. He was allowed to have little relationship with the others.”

She nodded again. “So regardless of Randolph’s wishes, Lavinia is intent on him inheriting the title, and if that’s the case . . .” Narrowing her eyes thoughtfully on Ryder, she asked, “How old were you when you inherited?”

“I was twenty-four when my father died . . .” He paused, then, his voice strengthening, continued, “But by the time everything was sorted out, I was twenty-five and inherited in my own right, without any guardianship.” He met her eyes, curtly nodded. “That’s it. Rand’s age is what’s brought this on.”

“Exactly. You inheriting from your father showed Lavinia how the process worked, and what the earliest age at which Randolph could cleanly inherit from you was—so she waited until the time was right. Am I correct in thinking that if you died now, by the time matters were sorted out, Randolph would be twenty-five?”

“Yes.” Ryder’s jaw clenched. “So she’s been waiting all this time, and then, when Rand was the right age, she arranged to have me killed—and damned near succeeded.”

“Oh, great heavens!” With her free hand, Mary gripped his arm. “
That’s
why she called at your house that morning. It was after eleven and she still hadn’t received word of your death, so she came to your house to see what was going on—”

“Bringing the ton’s two greatest gossipmongers with her to help spread the word—she must have thought my people were suppressing news of my death.” Ryder paused, then added, “I wish I’d known at the time so I could have better appreciated her reaction when she saw me so very much alive.”

Mary shivered. “You weren’t so alive—you were pale and weak and propped up with pillows!” Then she gave a short laugh, the sound cynically ironic. “It’s just occurred to me.” She looked at him. “The last thing Lavinia would have wanted at that point was for you to marry and father an heir. But if she hadn’t sent those men to kill you, would we have married, do you think?”

“Yes, we would have, although perhaps not so quickly.” When she arched a brow, he smiled gently and tightened his hold on her hand. “I’d already made up my mind it was you I wanted as my marchioness, and I wouldn’t have given up.”

She tipped her head, studied his eyes. “Why? I always wondered why you were so sure, so focused—because you were, virtually from the moment we ran into each other at Henrietta and James’s engagement ball.”

His smile deepened. “I wasn’t certain when we met there—I was afterward.”

“Good God—what did I say?”

“It wasn’t what you said so much as what you did.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I remember. The challenge. I didn’t swoon at your feet.”

He grunted. “You’ve never swooned in your life.”

“True, but confess—it was that, wasn’t it?”

“No. It wasn’t.” He hesitated but felt compelled to admit, “That was part of it, I suppose, but it was more that I couldn’t control you, that you were unpredictable, and that fascinated me.” Death was coming; there was no reason not to tell her the rest. He drew breath and went on, “But that wasn’t the reason I thought to look your way in the first place—why I deliberately sought you out at the ball.”

Her gaze turned arrested, intrigued. “Why, then?”

“In a word, family.” He focused on their linked hands. “The Cavanaughs . . . I told you my half siblings and I are close, that we share a difficult to describe bond. That bond grew out of our common lack of anything like normal mothering. My mother died when I was three, and even though the others had Lavinia, I’ve described how she views them, how she’s always treated them. They’re little more than animated dolls to her. Our bond grew out of not having a normal family, not having the hub, the lynchpin a mother normally provides. Not having a mother to care for us was one thing all five of us shared. And as I was the oldest by six and more years, the others looked to me. We held together and cared for each other as best we could. My father did what he could, but with Lavinia constantly in his way, he didn’t get far. After he died, I helped Rand, and later Kit, get out from under Lavinia’s paw, but Stacie and Godfrey are still trapped, and I won’t . . .” He tipped his head. “Wouldn’t have been able to free them until they turned twenty-five.”

He paused, then, his gaze on their twined fingers, went on, “But the pertinent point is that since my grandparents’ generation, the Cavanaughs haven’t functioned as a family. I wanted to . . . make that better, to put it right, but I don’t, myself, know the ways. I haven’t experienced them. I saw other families in the ton—like the Cynsters, and some others—that are so . . . strong. That’s the only word I have for it—that structure where each branch supports the others to the extent that the entire tree is damned near invincible.”

Raising his head, he met her eyes. “I wanted that for the Cavanaughs, and there you were, the last Cynster girl unwed . . . and then you refused to swoon at my feet and our fates were sealed.”

Her eyes had narrowed slightly; her lips parted, but before she could speak, he held up a staying hand. “And yes, knowing that Cynsters only marry for love, I freely admit that I was perfectly prepared to cold-bloodedly pretend to fall in love with you if that was what it took to win you as my marchioness, to be the mother of my children and the matriarch of the Cavanaughs . . .” Eyes locking with hers, he drew in a massive breath, let it out with, “But then I discovered I didn’t need to pretend.”

Lost in the deepening cornflower-blue of her eyes, he raised her hand, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, then turned her hand and brushed a caress to her wrist while uncurling her fingers; lowering his head, eyes still locked with hers, he pressed an even more lingering kiss to her palm. And soft and low stated, “I discovered that, somewhere along the way, I’d fallen in love with you.”

She blinked rapidly, then rather mistily smiled. “Yes, I know. And if you don’t know that I love you as much as you love me, you haven’t been paying attention.”

He grinned, then let the expression turn rueful. “So I didn’t need to confess?”

Her smile deepened. “Don’t misunderstand—hearing you say the words is wonderful, and I used to think that was the pinnacle of my desire. But over the last weeks, I’ve realized that seeing the emotion, the sentiment, in action, feeling it and experiencing it every day in myriad little ways, is simply so much more. Feeling love, experiencing being loved, is priceless—it’s all I could ever want, and all I’ll ever ask of you, that you continue to love me as you already do.”

No longer smiling, he murmured, “That’s one thing you don’t need to ask—you’ve possessed my heart for weeks. It will be yours forever.”

They were both aware of time running out, of this possibly being the last private exchange they would ever share. Neither mentioned loving until death did them part; death hovered too close to bear.

Still, she found a soft smile. “Well, now that you’ve given me the words, you won’t need to confess again. I know how it is for noblemen like you—the violence it does to your feelings.”

He let his brows rise, after a moment said, “Strangely, I think
not
saying the words, not owning to loving you and trying instead to deny the feeling . . . the violence that would do would far outstrip any effect of admitting to said feeling.” He met her gaze. “Admitting to love.”