Come alone. Come now. Or you will never see sweet Niniver again.
Unsurprisingly, the note was unsigned.
Marcus studied the writing, and thought of the letter on his study desk, the one from Glencrae.
Was this McDougal at work?
He’d already packed his bag and left it by the front door. He’d already sent word to Johnny to saddle Ned and have him ready.
How closely was he being watched?
Did he dare leave a note, one for Johnny to deliver?
Did he dare alert Flyte and assume that when he, Marcus, left to go to the mine, any watcher would follow him?
He sat at the table for several minutes more, but, in the end, he rose, went into his study, and left the letter from Glencrae, the note from Niniver’s kidnapper, and her ribbon and cameo lined up on his blotter. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything that might increase the risk to her. But if anything happened and he didn’t return, the desk was the first place his father or brothers would check.
Then he left the study, closing the door behind him, and called to Mrs. Flyte that he was off for a ride and would be back for his bag later.
Pulling on his riding gloves, he walked out of the house. Johnny had Ned waiting. The groom looked at him curiously when he didn’t return the lad’s smile, but as he swung up to Ned’s back, he had no space in his mind for anything but the driving urge to find Niniver and get her back.
Whether it was Ramsey McDougal who had kidnapped her, or someone else, mattered not one jot.
Someone had seized her. His first step was to get her back.
Vengeance would come later.
Tapping his heels to Ned’s sides, he set off for the old lead mines.
* * *
Deserted long ago, the old lead mines lay to the north of the Carrick estate. The land belonged to the Crown, which meant no one tended it, and the area around the mine workings was now thoroughly overgrown.
For Marcus, as for most males who had grown up in the locality, throughout childhood, the mines had exerted a near-hypnotic tug, and even though they’d been forbidden from venturing into the area, of course, they had. That said, it was more than a decade since he’d last been near any of the mines.
Exactly how many mines there were, he didn’t know, but there was only one with a gantry still standing over the entrance. The gantry had supported wheels to help haul the buckets of ore back to the entrance from the tunnel that led deep into the hillside.
It took him more than fifteen minutes to reach that mine. The entrance was an arched hole carved into the side of a hill in the lee of a rocky outcrop; immediately before it, the rusted gantry listed, framing the hole. Above the mine’s entrance, the hillside rose toward the ridge of one of the rocky spines that stretched outward like gnarled fingers from the range to the west.
Although overgrown by tussocky grasses, the track leading to the mine was still discernible. It led to a small, still reasonably clear area before the mine’s entrance, but, all around, the trees and bushes had crowded in.
There were umpteen places for a watcher to hide.
Marcus rode in a wide arc around the entrance, but all he spotted was a single horse, tethered to a tree not far from the mine. A man’s saddle. There was no sign of any other horse or carriage, but Niniver was such a lightweight, she could easily have been brought there by a man on a horse.
It didn’t, however, appear likely that she’d come there of her own accord, under her own steam.
He tried not to think of what might have happened, yet the unthinkable prospects urged him toward the mine. He rode Ned up the path and dismounted before the mine’s mouth. It was dark inside, but there was light coming from somewhere deeper down the tunnel. “Niniver?”
He wasn’t surprised when nothing but silence answered him.
Feeling decidedly grim, he looped Ned’s reins and tied them to the saddle. Although obstreperous and fractious, Ned was attached to him; the horse might wander, but he wouldn’t go far, and he would always come to Marcus’s whistle. And if something happened to Marcus, Ned wouldn’t let any other person near him. He might, eventually, take himself back to Bidealeigh, or perhaps the manor stable, but he wouldn’t let anyone else take him—except Lucilla, who shared the ability to lure the big horse to her hand.
When Marcus pushed Ned away from the mine entrance, the big horse harrumphed, but then ambled off to graze.
Marcus faced the mine. Head tilted, he listened, but still heard not a single sound. Straightening, he walked into the darkness.
Almost immediately, he had to stoop to keep his head clear of the tunnel’s ceiling. The tunnel led deeper under the hill, and as he’d thought, there was a light—a lamp, given the steadiness of the glow—somewhere around the first bend, where the tunnel swung to the left.
Given the pervasive silence, which suggested that nothing was occurring at that moment, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust. As soon as he felt confident he could see where he was putting his feet, he headed down the old tunnel.
It was crudely constructed, hewn from the rock with picks and shored up by heavy timbers. He reached a narrow constriction just before the bend. He stepped through, then walked around the bend—only to discover the lamp was further away still, around another bend that curved to the right.
But the light had strengthened. “Niniver?”
He quickened his pace and rounded the next bend. A lamp stood to one side of the tunnel. Swiftly, he looked around, then he paced to the far side of the pool of light, but there was no one and nothing else there.
Just the lamp…
Crack!
Wood splintered. He looked back toward the entrance.
Crack!
Stone groaned.
He swore and raced back, past the lamp and around the second bend. He flew back along the next section and around the first bend—he cleared it in time to glimpse a shadowy figure, silhouetted by the daylight spilling through the mine’s entrance, bring a massive sledgehammer down on the wooden support above the narrow constriction.
With a deafening roar, the tunnel’s roof caved in.
Marcus flung himself back around the bend. He stumbled and sprawled full length. Rocks flew and bounced. He covered his head with his arms and drew his legs up. He tried not to breathe as choking dust enveloped him.
Finally, the thunder of rocks falling faded.
Slowly, he raised his head. He blinked his eyes open, but he now lay in deep darkness. The gust of air caused by the rock fall must have blown out the lamp. Carefully, he straightened his limbs, then pushed himself up until he was sitting. Cuts, bruises, and scrapes he definitely had, but nothing seemed broken.
From somewhere beyond the cave-in, he heard, “Excellent!” Ramsey McDougal’s voice echoed eerily. “Goodbye, Cynster. I doubt you can hear me, but in case you can, I suppose I should thank you for taking the bait and showing up so promptly. And if you are alive, let me save you some time—I checked, and now that this tunnel is blocked, there’s no way out. So I’ll leave you to ponder your sins. Meanwhile, I’m off to take your place. One way or another, Niniver Carrick and all she brings with her will soon be mine.”
Marcus didn’t respond. He listened as McDougal’s footsteps retreated up the tunnel.
Then came silence.
It was broken by another long, tortured creak of stone.
Marcus frowned; now that his eyes had adjusted to the deeper gloom, the dark wasn’t pitch black. But it should have been. There was light coming from somewhere, and this time, it was coming from the direction of the entrance.
Slowly, he got to his feet. Rocks and rubble had spilled around the bend. He scrambled over them and around the bend, and found himself facing a wall of jumbled rock. It filled the space where the tunnel had narrowed—but there was a small gap, high and to his left. The wooden support to the left of the constriction had remained in place, and a section of the upper support was still attached to it.
Relief flo
oded him. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until the vise about his lungs released. He drew in a breath, careful to avoid breathing in too much dust. Quickly, he ran his gloved hands over the rock wall, testing, pushing.
The wall was much thicker to his right, where the supports had completely given way. There was no possible chance of digging his way out on that side. But to his left…the base of the wall was thick, but at the very top left, he pushed, and sent a small avalanche of loose stones and one hand-sized rock rolling back along the tunnel.
He started pulling and pushing away the rocks, working to make the small hole larger.
Another deep, aching groan, followed by two others, spurred him on. The tunnel’s partial collapse had weakened the entire structure; from the sound of the protesting stone, the whole tunnel would all too soon cave in.
He didn’t waste his breath swearing.
Grimly, he pulled and pushed at the rocks and rubble. But after the first few rocks, the first few inches, the newly formed wall grew much thicker, and he had to remove a lot more rock to widen the hole by even an inch.
He didn’t slow. He couldn’t give up—wouldn’t give up. Quite aside from wanting very much to live, there was Niniver still to be saved.
Ramsey McDougal had been banished for trying to force a marriage by attempted rape. Niniver didn’t know that. She had no reason to suspect McDougal of such foul intentions.
Neither did any of her clansmen.
He had to get out, get free, and get to her, because if he didn’t save her, he didn’t know who would.
* * *
Niniver clattered into the stable yard at Bidealeigh with five of her hounds trotting at Oswald’s heels. She’d brought the hounds in case she needed an excuse to have ridden that way.
As matters had fallen out, she’d managed to leave the manor without Sean or any other of her clansmen tagging along as guardian. All three stablemen had been in the rear paddock, along with both stable lads, tending to a horse giving birth. Niniver had been able to slip into the stable, saddle Oswald—not an easy feat—then lead him out to the mounting block and ride away across the fields without anyone noticing. She’d stopped in at old Egan’s farm to pick up her escort-cum-excuse, then ridden straight for Bidealeigh.
Now she’d made the decision to ask Marcus whether he loved her or not, she was hell-bent on doing so as soon as she could.
His groom dashed her hopes. “Mr. Cynster rode out not long ago, my lady.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Do you know where he went? Will he be long, do you think?”
“I didn’t hear where he was headed, but he rode off that way.” The lad pointed to the northwest. “I don’t think he’ll be long. I heard Mrs. Flyte say that he was headed back to Carrick Manor, and that he’d left his bag all packed by the front door and said he’d be back to pick it up.”
“Ah.” So he was already intending to return to her? That sounded promising. “Perhaps I’ll go in and leave a message.” An encouraging one.
The groom held Oswald while she dismounted.
“I won’t be long.” She gave the hounds the order to sit and stay. They obediently sat, but whined as she walked away.
Reaching the front door, she tugged the bell chain and heard a distant jangling. A minute later, Mrs. Flyte opened the door.
The housekeeper’s face lit at the sight of her. “Lady Carrick.” Mrs. Flyte opened the door wider. “I’m afraid the master’s just ridden out, but he did say he’d be back.” The housekeeper glanced down to the side, to where Marcus’s bag sat waiting. “Was Mr. Cynster expecting you, my lady?”
“No, he wasn’t. I was out riding with my hounds, and just thought to stop by.” Niniver started pulling off her gloves. “I’d like to leave a note, just to let him know I called.”
“Yes, of course, my lady.” Mrs. Flyte stepped back. Niniver walked into the small front foyer. Mrs. Flyte closed the door, then waved her down the corridor toward Marcus’s study. “I’m sure Mr. Cynster won’t mind if you use his desk. He keeps paper in the top drawer to the right.”
“Thank you. That will be perfect.”
The bustling housekeeper opened the study door and waved Niniver in. “If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I’ve a pot on the stove that needs stirring. Flyte’s gone off to market, and the maid’s gone for the day, so I’m the only one here, but please call if you need anything else.”
Niniver nodded. “I doubt I’ll be long.”
Mrs. Flyte bobbed, then hurried off down the corridor to the kitchen. Niniver glanced around the study as she walked to the desk. Tugging off her second glove, she halted before the desk and looked down—at her favorite ribbon, carefully curled and placed to one side of the blotter.
Frowning, she picked it up. “But…how?” She twined the ribbon through her fingers, feeling the familiar silky weight, then checked the cameo; both were, indeed, hers.
Staring at the ribbon, she cast her mind back; she’d chosen that ribbon to wear yesterday morning because it was her favorite and she’d needed cheering up. After Marcus had left. She knew she’d been wearing the ribbon through the morning and had taken if off sometime after luncheon.
How had it come to be on Marcus’s desk?
Focusing on the desk, she realized that the ribbon had been the third item left displayed on the blotter, with the other two items, letters, turned so they faced anyone who came into the room—more or less inviting whoever approached to examine them. The letters had been lined up to the left of the ribbon—one an elegantly written missive, the other a short note.
She picked up the first letter and read it. The “Glencrae” scrawled at its end told her who it was from, which strongly suggested the information contained within it was accurate. Which went some considerable way toward explaining why neither she nor, quite obviously, Marcus had trusted Ramsey McDougal.
Setting down the letter from Glencrae, she picked up the short note.
As her eyes traversed the few lines, her blood ran cold.
By the time she reached the note’s end, her heart had stopped. “It’s a trap.”
A trap for Marcus.
For a moment, her wits whirled in panic, and her heart lurched and started to race, but then she drew in a deep breath and held it. She willed herself to calm, anchored herself in her new, stronger, woman-who-was-taking-charge-of-her-life persona.
Marcus had walked into a trap—knowingly. He’d suspected it was a trap—witness the two letters and her ribbon left as evidence—yet he’d gone regardless, and from what Johnny and Mrs. Flyte had said, he hadn’t taken the risk of alerting anyone.
She’d come there intending to ask if he loved her, yet who needed words when faced with these actions?
He’d gone to save her—he would always act to protect and defend her.
And whoever was behind this—Ramsey McDougal?—had known to use her to bait his trap. Had known that she was Marcus’s Achilles’ heel, because of his devotion to her.
Because he loved her.
She needed no more evidence or proof.
“What I need to do now is to rescue him.” He’d said he wanted to share a future with her. They couldn’t do that if he died.
She set the note back down with the letter, and left her ribbon there as well. Then she whirled and walked quickly out of the room and down the corridor to the kitchen. “Mrs. Flyte.”
The housekeeper looked up from the pot she was stirring. “Yes, my lady?”
Niniver drew in a breath and, as calmly—as commandingly—as she could, said, “I believe Mr. Cynster is in grave peril, very possibly in peril of his life. He’s gone to a rendezvous thinking some kidnapper is holding me hostage, but clearly, I’m free and perfectly all right. He’s gone to one of the old lead mines—the one with a gantry still standing. Do you know which one that is?”
Mrs. Flyte’s eyes had grown rounder and rounder. “Oh, dear me!” Forsaking her ladle, she wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m sorry, my lady, bu
t I’ve never been about the old lead mines. I know whereabouts they are, but nothing about the mines themselves.”
Niniver grimaced. “I’m the same.” While all the local boys had grown up in and around the mines, few girls had ever ventured into the dirty places. “Perhaps Johnny will know.”
But when Mrs. Flyte hauled her pot off the stove and they went out to the stable and inquired, Johnny shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I wasn’t born in these parts. The master brought me here from north of Ayr, because I’m good with horses.”
Niniver didn’t like her chances of finding Marcus if she had to ride around the whole of the area dotted with the old workings. Her hounds, sensing her mounting anxiety and impending distress, pressed close, the two bitches leaning against her legs and pushing their heads under her hands.
Abruptly, she focused on them. “Of course.” She looked up at Johnny. “Some of my hounds can air-scent. Did Mr. Cynster ride out on Ned?” When Johnny nodded, she said, “Quickly—bring me Ned’s blanket.”
Swinging to Mrs. Flyte, she said, “Mr. Cynster brought the clothes he wore over the past days back yesterday. Have you washed them yet?”
“No, my lady. I have them in the laundry. Mindy will be in tomorrow to do the washing.”
“Excellent.” Niniver grasped Mrs. Flyte’s arm and squeezed imploringly. “Please fetch one of Mr. Cynster’s shirts—one he’s recently worn. His scent will be on it and with luck”—she looked at her hounds—“my hounds will be able to track both him and Ned.”
“But you can’t go on your own, my lady.” Mrs. Flyte looked shocked, then her face fell. “Flyte’s not here and the other men are in the far fields, way over to the east, today.”
Niniver was already shaking her head. “I can’t wait for them to be summoned.” She didn’t know from where the certainty sprang, but she knew she had to go and find Marcus now.
That she had to find him soon.
That this was one challenge she had to meet if she wanted the reward of a shared life with him.
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 31