Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Johnny came out carrying a heavy horse blanket. Niniver nodded at the railing. “Leave it there for the moment, near the hounds, and go and saddle a horse for yourself. I need you to take a message to the Vale.”

  Turning back to Mrs. Flyte, she gripped the woman’s arm and steered her back toward the house. “I need that shirt. While you fetch it, I’ll write a note to Marcus’s parents, and my cousin, Thomas, and Marcus’s sister. I’ll tell them what I think is going on, and where I’m going, where I’m sure Marcus is—I’ll suggest they follow me there, or perhaps check at Carrick Manor on the way.”

  If the person behind this was McDougal, then she was his ultimate target, and this ploy was designed to get Marcus out of McDougal’s way…and possibly also give McDougal either excuse or bait to get her to agree to his demands. Either way… “I think the perpetrator, believing me to be at Carrick Manor, will go there.”

  She released Mrs. Flyte and led the way into the house. She was starting to get an inkling of what McDougal’s plan might be. “I think Mr. Cynster will have been trapped in the mine. Pray to heaven and The Lady that he won’t yet be dead.” Whether it was wishful thinking, an inability to believe otherwise, or something more accurate, she felt sure, somewhere inside her, that Marcus was still alive. “But the man behind this doesn’t know I’m here and that I already know where Mr. Cynster has gone. I don’t think he—the perpetrator—will still be at the mine when I get there.”

  She strode toward the study, planning aloud as she went. “If I can’t free Mr. Cynster myself, I’ll ride to the Bradshaw and Canning farms—they’re closest, and have men who’ll be able to help.”

  Pausing in the study doorway, she glanced at Mrs. Flyte. “I need that shirt.”

  Mrs. Flyte bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, my lady.” With no further protestations, she hurried down the corridor.

  Niniver marched into the study, crossed to the desk, and sat behind it. She found paper and a pen with a reasonable nib, and quickly wrote a note—she only had time for one—simply listing what had happened that she knew for fact, what she believed had happened to Marcus, and what she proposed to do.

  She spent no time in making it neat or even composing full sentences. She wrote her name at the bottom, then blotted and folded the sheet.

  As she rose with the missive in her hand, Mrs. Flyte appeared in the doorway clutching one of Marcus’s shirts.

  “Excellent.” Niniver walked quickly to the door. She took the shirt. “When Mr. Flyte or any of the men return, please ask them to hold the fort here, pending further orders from Mr. Cynster.”

  Mrs. Flyte wrung her hands. “I do hope he’s all right, my lady. Those mines are so old, and they always were said to be treacherous.”

  Niniver refused to let her mind dwell on the dangers. Pulling on her riding gloves, she made for the front door. “I’m sure Mr. Cynster will send word once we have him free.”

  She walked swiftly to the stable, with Mrs. Flyte trailing behind.

  Johnny stood outside, the reins of a good-looking hack in one hand. “I figured Mr. Cynster would want me to take one of the faster horses.”

  “Indeed.” Niniver handed him the note. “The butler at Casphairn Manor is Polby. Give that into his hands, and tell him it’s from me, that Mr. Marcus is in danger, and that letter needs to get into the hands of either Lord Cynster, Lady Cynster, Mr. Thomas Carrick, or Mrs. Carrick immediately.”

  Johnny tucked the missive into his breeches pocket while reciting her message verbatim.

  She nodded. “Good. Now go!”

  Johnny swung up to the saddle and urged the big horse down the drive.

  Niniver turned to her hounds. She dragged the horse blanket from the rail and presented it to all five hounds with the order to take the scent. Then, while Mrs. Flyte helped by tying the blanket to Niniver’s saddle, Niniver called the two air-scenting bitches to one side and gave them Marcus’s shirt to fix on.

  Then she returned to Oswald, thrust the shirt into her saddlebag, led the big horse to the mounting block, and scrambled into the saddle.

  Mrs. Flyte looked up at her. “I hope you find the master and that he’s all right. Take care, my lady—and good luck!”

  Niniver nodded. She called the hounds to hunt and set Oswald to follow their lead.

  As she rode along a track leading, as Johnny had predicted, northwest across the Bidealeigh fields, she finally allowed herself to think of what she might find when she reached the old mine.

  She imagined McDougal, assuming it was he, would have knocked Marcus out, tied him up, and hidden him in the mine. That seemed the most likely scenario. She refused to let her mind dwell on any other—not until something worse presented itself. She would deal with anything worse when she came face to face with it.

  The dogs were running freely and holding direction for the area in which the old mines lay.

  Niniver encouraged them and urged Oswald on. And silently prayed.

  CHAPTER 16

  Marcus shut his ears to the moaning and groaning of the rock all around him and doggedly pulled stone after stone out of the wall between him and the tunnel’s entrance. Every now and then, grit and dirt drifted down from the ceiling—harbingers of the collapse yet to come.

  He didn’t want to die. He kept scrabbling and hauling, but it was slow going. He’d managed to widen the hole, initially smaller than his fist, to the size of a large pumpkin, but the gap was still nowhere near big enough for him to crawl through; at present, only his head would fit.

  This was one time broad shoulders weren’t going to be an advantage.

  He had no idea how much longer he had before the tunnel caved in completely. Whether he’d be better off accepting his fate and spending his last moments making peace with God and The Lady.

  But he couldn’t believe this was how his life was meant to end. Not when he had so much yet to do. Like telling Niniver he loved her. Like protecting her from McDougal and his ilk.

  Just the thought of what fiendish scheme McDougal might, even now, be setting in motion was enough to make him clench his jaw and redouble his efforts.

  He had to get out, not just for himself, but for Niniver, too. He had to get to her in time.

  The dust in the air made breathing difficult. He paused to assess the size of the hole—still not big enough.

  A familiar click of nails on stone reached him.

  Hounds?

  Angling his head, he peered through the gap toward the entrance.

  And saw several deerhounds milling. The hounds saw him and woofed, then a sharp command rang out and the beasts drew back.

  Marcus filled his lungs and was about to call out when Niniver came rushing into the tunnel. “Marcus?”

  She saw the wall of jumbled rock. “Oh, no!”

  “I’m all right,” he called. Another horrendous groan sent a curtain of fine stones raining down between them.

  “Thank God.” She started to cough; ducking her head and covering her nose and mouth against the dust, she hurried to the wall.

  “Niniver—no! Get out of here.” He renewed his efforts to widen the hole, dislodging the tumbled rocks as fast as he could.

  She ignored his order. On reaching the rock wall, she ran her gloved hands over its face, then stood on tiptoe and, through the gap, glared at him. “No. I’m not leaving you here. Keep digging.”

  She started to pull at the rocks, too, flinging the smaller ones aside, tugging to free the larger ones.

  The groaning in the tunnel seemed to deepen. Dust and fine grit was falling almost constantly. Stone cracked and fractured, slivers plinking on the tunnel floor.

  His gloves were ripped. He kept pulling rocks away, but it took too long to gain even an inch.

  “Niniver— please.” He put every ounce of pleading he could muster into the word. “There’s no point in both of us dying.”

  She didn’t look up from her efforts to loosen a larger rock. “If you die, I die, regardless of whether I’m in this tun
nel or not.” She gave a soft grunt as she hauled the rock free. “So stop arguing. Just keep digging.”

  He heard the building panic in her voice, but he also knew her stubbornness. And her indomitable will.

  He surrendered and frantically hauled stone after rock from the jumbled pile. “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  He blinked, then shook his hair out of his eyes. “You do?”

  She waved briefly. “Well, why are you here?” She yanked a stone free and sent it spinning behind her. “You thought McDougal had kidnapped me, and you came to save me even though you knew it was almost certainly a trap.”

  “He had your ribbon.”

  “I think he stole it.”

  He braced and heaved, hauling a huge rock from the barricading wall. “If we get free—”

  “ When we get free.” Cupping her gloved hands, she tumbled the loosened rocks toward her. “Speaking of which, can you get out, do you think?”

  He paused to visually measure the hole. “Not quite yet.”

  The words had barely left his lips when, from above their heads, there came a horrendously loud, long groaning moan—followed by three sharp, staccato cracks.

  They froze. Everything seemed to still.

  He felt the shift in the atmosphere. “The tunnel’s going.” He looked at her. “Get out—now! Go!”

  “Not without you!” She all but launched herself through the hole and grabbed his hands. “Come on! Try!”

  The hole came to barely mid chest and was not as wide as he was. But he set his lips, clenched his jaw, freed his hands from her clasp, and hoisted himself up. Bracing his boots on tumbled rocks, he thrust his arms through the gap first, then twisted and shifted, making his shoulders as narrow as possible as he tried to angle himself through.

  Niniver grabbed his hands. She wasn’t going to leave him. Wasn’t going to let him be taken from her.

  She locked her fingers around his wrists and pulled with all her might as he wriggled and inched through.

  About them, stone and rock rained down. At the edge of her vision, she saw a crack appear in the rock wall beside them.

  The air seemed to shiver, and the floor quaked.

  The tunnel, the whole hillside, groaned like a tortured being.

  He was edging forward, but it was a horribly tight fit. She heard his clothes rip, heard his labored breathing, but his shoulders were nearly through.

  Ignoring the grit in her throat, she dragged in a huge breath, set her boots against the rock, and hauled back with her full weight.

  He grunted, twisted, then his shoulders came free.

  He pulled his hands from her grasp, flattened them on the surrounding stone, and levered his lower torso, then his hips and legs, out through the jagged hole they’d created.

  He tumbled free, landing in a sprawl on the tunnel floor.

  She seized his hand. “Get up—get up!” With her other hand, she gripped his elbow and hauled, and he clambered to his feet. “Come on!”

  She pushed under his arm, anchoring it over her shoulders. She looped her other arm around his waist. Larger and larger rocks were raining down; she prayed none would knock them out as together they pushed into a staggering run.

  Faster and faster, they raced toward the tunnel mouth.

  Behind them, the ceiling fell.

  The roar was like an ungodly lion on their heels. Dust billowed out and in front of them, almost obscuring their vision, but the light of the world beyond the entrance beckoned them on, growing larger as they neared.

  Marcus sensed the change in the air pressure as the tunnel gave way behind them, as section after section progressively collapsed, coming up fast on their heels. Rocks spilled to either side of them; several bounced past them and out of the tunnel mouth.

  They had several yards yet to go when he saw the entrance to the tunnel start to buckle and sag.

  He dug deep and sensed Niniver do the same.

  With the last of his strength, he caught her to him and dove out of the entrance.

  They passed through it and into the sunshine. He twisted and they landed wrapped together, skidding further away from the tunnel mouth as the ungodly roar reached its apogee—then the entire hillside slumped, filling in the tunnel, sealing it forever.

  The roar cut off, replaced by a series of grumbling rumbles; gradually, the echoes faded. The sounds of falling rocks, of rocks settling, grew fewer, then ceased.

  For a moment, their ears rang with the sudden silence, then the sounds of a bright spring morning in the countryside rushed in and engulfed them.

  He rolled over to lie flat on his back and stared up at the blue of the sky—and gave heartfelt thanks that he could see it. And that Niniver was there, warm and alive, by his side.

  He sensed her turn toward him. Shifting his head, he met her eyes. Dust and fine grit coated her bright hair and had laid a fine film over her alabaster skin, but her eyes were still bright, still so very blue. A scratch marred her forehead, but that was the only damage he could see.

  She studied his eyes, then her gaze drifted over his face. Raising a hand, she lightly touched his cheek. “You’re scraped.”

  He felt his lips curve. “All over. But I’ll live.” He caught her eyes as her gaze returned to his. Then he captured her hand, raised her wrist to his lips, and placed a kiss on the fine skin below the edge of her glove. Entirely sober, he said, “I wouldn’t have made it out if you hadn’t come, and then stayed to help. Thank you—by which I mean thank you for being stubborn enough to ignore my orders and not leave me.”

  Her lips curved in response, but her eyes remained steady on his. “You’ve rescued me in various ways over the last days. And you were trapped because you came to rescue me again.” She held his gaze, then softly—almost wonderingly—said, “You walked into what you knew would be a trap because you love me.” Before he could respond—before he could agree—she added, “And I love you. So”—she rolled onto her back and stared upward—“I had to come to rescue you, too, because how could you rescue me in the future if I let you die here?”

  He wasn’t so battered that he didn’t recognize a deflection when he heard it. “You love me?”

  She sighed, then shifted her hand to twine their gloved fingers. “I always have.” She paused; he glanced at her and saw she was frowning slightly. “In fact, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t love you. Even when we were children, you were that boy from the Vale, the one I couldn’t stop staring at whenever you happened to be in sight.”

  He humphed and looked upward, then admitted, “I knew you lived at Carrick Manor, that you were there, but I didn’t really notice you until around the time of your father’s death.”

  She humphed. “You were a boy. Boys don’t notice girls until, one day, they do.”

  He chuckled wryly. “I have a twin sister, remember? I always noticed girls, and I assure you Lucilla and my girl cousins ensured that I never thought of females as a lesser species.”

  “Hmm. Then perhaps it’s your sister and cousins I should thank for you being as you are.” She turned her head and met his gaze. “You’ve always seen me for what I am. You know that just because I’m physically delicate doesn’t mean I’m incapable or unable.”

  He looked into her eyes. “You are one of the most able women I know, and I know quite a few.”

  She held his gaze, then she rolled to her side and came up on one elbow; leaning over him, she gently framed his face with one gloved hand and pressed her lips to his.

  He savored her lips. Tasted the rosy curves, and the lingering tension inside him unraveled. He sighed into the kiss.

  Raising his hands, he gently held her as that first kiss became several, as they explored anew, claimed again, and gloried in the simple exchange.

  And the underlying intimacy.

  Then soft noses nuzzled them, and on a laugh, they broke apart.

  The hounds had crept near; they softly whined and pushed closer yet, shaggy bodies quiv
ering and tails waving, wanting to be part of the fun. Laughing, Niniver sat up and pushed them away. “No—that’s enough.” She glanced at him. “I wouldn’t have found you so quickly—wouldn’t have found you in time—if it hadn’t been for them.”

  He frowned and sat up. “How did you know to track me at all? Did someone from Bidealeigh alert you—no. There couldn’t have been time.” Ignoring the many twinges, and the sharper pains from various gouges in his flesh, he got to his feet.

  “I arrived at Bidealeigh not long after you’d left. I’d brought the hounds in case I needed an excuse.” Looking up, she met his gaze. “I was coming to ask you if you loved me. I realized I hadn’t given you a chance to explain, and that just because the clan wanted you to marry me, that didn’t necessarily mean that was the reason you wanted to marry me.”

  “The clan’s approval is purely fortuitous. In the circumstances, their approval helps, but what the clan wished for never featured in my reasons.” He held her gaze. “I’d intended to return to Carrick Manor from the moment I left—I only left because you begged me to. I was about to return, but then I got McDougal’s note.”

  She nodded. “I saw your bag and realized that you didn’t intend to back away from what we had—from what we’d found. So I asked to leave a note for you, and Mrs. Flyte showed me into your study. I found my ribbon and read the letters you’d left on your desk.” She looked at him. “So it was McDougal? He seems the most likely culprit.”

  “It was definitely him.” Marcus felt his face harden as he recalled the moments after McDougal had made the tunnel collapse. “He was so sure he’d buried me and that I wouldn’t survive, he spoke to me.”

  She snorted. “Gloatingly, I suppose?”

  “Indeed.” He dusted himself off, then examined his clothes. Ripped in many places, they were beyond repair, but would do for now.

  Still sitting, Niniver ruffled the hounds’ ears. “I didn’t know which mine to come to, but they tracked Ned and brought me straight to him. And the air-scenters confirmed you were inside.”

  “Speaking of Ned, we should find him and head back to Carrick Manor.” He held out his hand to her; when she grasped it, he pulled her to her feet. “From what McDougal said, I assume he intended to make straight for the manor and you.”