Chapter 35

Marshington Abbey was beautiful. Miranda wished she were seeing it for the first time under better circumstances. Arriving bound, gagged, and bruised in a curricle designed for town travel was not her ideal introduction to the place.

Early morning sunlight glinted off the many windows, turning the abbey into an exquisite jewel. The gardens radiated from the house, providing what was sure to be a stunning approach from any direction.

Miranda couldn’t appreciate the beauty right now, though. She was too busy trying to extricate herself from Ryland’s imbecile of a cousin. What was he thinking by bringing her here? This was Ryland’s country home. Wouldn’t the man think to look here?

She would remind him of that, but he’d grown tired of her talking within an hour of London and gagged her with his cravat. It was enough to make her sympathize with every horse she’d ever ridden. The fabric cutting between her lips and pulling at the back of her head was far worse than Jess’s mittens stuffed in her mouth.

As they pulled up to the side of the house, Mr. Montgomery jerked the sodden hood of her cloak forward to where it flopped into her face and stuck to her cheeks and chin. She tried to shake the dirty wool off.

The sharp barrel of his gun poking into her ribs stalled her movements.

She sat in blindness, listening as a door opened and the slow shuffle of footsteps approached the curricle.

“We weren’t expecting you, Mr. Montgomery. I’m afraid there’s no one here but me. The rest of them are staying the week in the village to prepare for the fair.”

Miranda ducked her head to try to see around the edge of the cloak, but all she could see were her own feet. The man sounded older but not feeble. If she could convey her plight to him, he might be of some help. She shifted in her seat, hoping he would ask about her.

Mr. Montgomery wrapped a hand around her arm and began dragging her from the curricle. She was sure to have bruises there in minutes, but it was better than a gun to the ribs.

She tripped after him, searching for some way to let the servant know all was not as it should be.

“Do not fret, Mr. Blakemoor. We’ve no need for much. A simple stopover on our way elsewhere. If you could see to the horses and prepare a bit of food, that will be more than enough.”

Miranda dug her teeth into his cravat. How could the man be so calm about abducting her? She wanted to stomp on his foot or kick him in the shins, but she didn’t know where that gun had gone.

“We had a very successful crop of tomatoes last year. Have you seen those, sir? The missus says she heard they’re poisonous, but I think they’re too tasty for that. Will you be staying the night, sir?”

“No. There will be no need for that.”

Until that moment Miranda had been more irritated than truly afraid. But the coldness of those words stabbed through her, and fear made her tremble.

What did Mr. Montgomery plan to do to her?

Ryland was running on nerves and fear. He’d ridden all night, changing horses as often as he could. He felt the shakiness that came from too little sleep and too much energy. A deep breath, a prayer, and a long drink of water from the wineskin he carried and he felt himself begin to calm.

Where was everyone? Even though it had been years since any family had occupied the abbey, it required a certain number of staff to keep it from falling into disrepair. Ryland had often said he cared so little for the place that he wouldn’t mind seeing it as a heap of rubble, but that wasn’t true.

Even though his memories weren’t worth recalling, the last several dukes had used this as their home. He owed it to them to keep the place in good condition. It wasn’t their fault that Aunt Marguerite had made the years here awkward with her attempts to treat Ryland and Gregory like brothers. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d shown them equal affection, but she’d never had anything but reprimands for Ryland.

It didn’t—couldn’t—matter what had happened within those walls. All that concerned him now was whether or not Miranda was within them. Was she inside somewhere, screaming for him to rescue her? She had to know he was coming.

In the distance he saw the old caretaker, Mr. Blakemoor, leaving the barn.

It was the first stroke of luck he’d had in a very long time.

Ryland was coming. Miranda didn’t know when, how, or from where, but she knew he was coming for her. It was up to her to do what she could to make things easier for him when he got here.

The best thing she could do was be nowhere near Mr. Montgomery.

So she put every one of her lady lessons to use and became the exemplary hostage. She perched on the edge of a sofa covered in a white dustcloth, watching her captor pace in front of the window in an upstairs parlor. Nary a peep had crossed her gagged lips in more than half an hour.

She knew because she’d been counting the seconds. It was the only thing she could think of to occupy her mind.

After ten minutes he’d slid the gun into the waist of his pants.

After twenty minutes he’d stopped glancing her way at all.

She gave it another fifteen minutes to be sure he’d all but forgotten her.

Then she moved. Slow, steady steps. The soundless graceful kind her mother had made her practice for hours before her debut. She had her excuse ready if he caught her. He couldn’t question her looking for the chamber pot. That excuse was only going to work once, though, so this was her only chance to get away and remove Mr. Montgomery’s advantage.

Because Miranda knew if it came down to it, Ryland would sacrifice anything to keep her safe.

Possibly even his own life.

The door was ajar but not enough for her to fit through. Praying the hinges wouldn’t creak, she eased a foot into the crack, followed by her leg and then her body, holding her breath and pulling everything in as tightly as she could. As her shoulder met the doorframe, Mr. Montgomery slammed a hand against the windowsill.

She jumped, pushing the door open enough to slip the rest of the way through. The hinges had indeed creaked, but Mr. Montgomery’s yelling about Ryland taking too long to arrive had covered the noise.

Free of the room Miranda moved faster. Her hands were bound behind her, so they were all but useless. She could gather up her skirt in them though. But in order to raise the skirt in the front she had to pull up the back indecently high. Her cloak still covered her, though, and there was no one around but Mr. Montgomery and the caretaker. Decency was going to have to take a holiday.

Knowing he’d expect her to take the main stairs when he discovered her missing, Miranda headed for the servant stairs. She was partway down the first flight when she heard Mr. Montgomery yell again. This time it was her name mingled in with a selection of blush-inducing curse words. Forsaking quietness for speed, Miranda flew down the rest of the back stairs.

A large wooden door with iron hinges stood at the base of the stairs. Miranda grinned around the cloth in her mouth. She’d found a way out if she could just get the door open. Dropping her skirt, she turned around to work the latch with her quickly numbing fingers. Whatever he’d used to bind her hands seemed to be tightening as it dried.

Finally the latch gave, and Miranda shoved the door open, expecting to fall into the precious freedom of sunlight and fresh air.

Instead she found herself in utter darkness, the heavy wooden door slowly swinging shut behind her.

She’d managed to trap herself in the cellar.

Several minutes passed while Miranda focused on breathing.

Closing her eyes—useless, really, but it made her feel better—she prayed. And prayed. And prayed some more. She lost track of everything she prayed for, not really paying attention to the words, just focusing on the fact that God could hear them and she wasn’t alone.

Peace finally settled around her, bringing a calm assurance with it. Yes, her situation was dire, but at the moment, with a large door between her and her captor, she felt safe. Her eyes remained squeezed shut though. It was much better to think the darkness was of her own making.

With the sense of calm came a determination to do something, anything, to better her plight. One foot inched forward. The floor below was roughhewn stone. Her toes crept forward some more. One agonizingly slow step at a time, she crossed the floor until her foot bumped into something. Pressing her body forward she realized it was a wall, also made of rough stone.

She eased her face forward, desperate to remove the gag but vain enough to not want her face scratched up in the process. It took some work and her cheek stung a bit from a slight scrape, but the gag finally fell to hang around her neck.

Her body sagged into the wall, joy at the simple pleasure of moving her jaw filling her heart. Somewhat renewed by her small success, she began the considerably more difficult task of unbinding her hands. Before she could get to the bindings she had to take care of the cloak, which involved some very ridiculous-feeling twists and painful rubs against the wall to get the garment pushed over one shoulder.

She was exhausted, thirsty, scared, and about twenty other feelings she’d only thought she had experienced before. As much as she wanted to curl up and cry, she knew there was a man in the house who intended to kill Ryland and very likely her as well. Quitting was not an option.

Her fingers were sure to endure more cuts and scrapes than her face. She had lost too much feeling to be delicate about the operation. Hours seemed to pass, though it might have been mere minutes. She’d stopped counting. Her arms ached from the constant up-and-down motion. She began to rise and fall on her toes so that her arms could rest and the binding would still scrape against the craggy rocks.

A loud crack broke the thick silence with an almost physical punch. Light suddenly filled the room, causing Miranda to squeeze her eyes shut and curl her face toward her chest. “There you are.”

A hand wrapped around her sore elbow and jerked her away from the wall. She stumbled after her captor, presuming it was once again Mr. Montgomery. He had been running through the house, if his harsh breathing was any indication.

He started dragging her toward the door but stopped after only two steps.

“Ah, Ryland. As you see, I have the winning card. A pretty queen, I grant you, though the sister shines a bit brighter. Time to fold, Marshington.” He spat his cousin’s title out as if it were uncooked poultry.

Miranda eased her eyes open a crack, blinking furiously at the light. How was the room so bright?

“I look for more than a pretty face, Gregory.”

Her heart leaped at the sound of Ryland’s voice. She couldn’t bring herself to rejoice in his presence, though, knowing that Mr. Montgomery wanted to kill him.

“Ah, yes, you’re going to tell me you admire her brain as well.”

“If you wish to hear it.”

Miranda fluttered her lashes furiously, trying to adjust her eyes so she could see what was going on. She could almost stand to keep them open a crack.

After a heartbeat of silence, Mr. Montgomery spoke again.

“Unless you’d like to see those lovely brains in a more splattered manner, I suggest you stop right where you are.”

Finally! Miranda eased one eye open just as Mr. Montgomery’s words registered in her brain. She found herself looking straight into the barrel of a pistol.