Page 126 of The Bachelor Spy
“Lord Astley said that these tunnels were originally built with a plan to rescue Mary Queen of Scots from one of the nearby manor houses where she’d been held captive by her cousin, Queen Elizabeth.” Grace swallowed, the air growing stuffier the lower they went. “Did you know that?”
“Not interested in a history lesson, my lady.” He nudged her forward.
They’d made it to the bottom of the stairs, and the path moved ahead—straight, or as straight as the earthen walls and scattered fallen clods of earth allowed.
“How far?” Grace asked, looking behind them up the stairway for any sign of lights. Any hint of voices.
Nothing.
“Grandfather’s map showed the chamber about a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet from the bottom of the stairs. There’s a crevice in the wall, marked with the crown seal. That’s where he hid them.”
All right. That wasn’t so far. And the tunnel seemed stable enough—
A low groan emanated from somewhere overhead.
Both of them froze.
Dust sifted down from the ceiling, catching in the lamplight like ash.
“What was that?” Pennington’s voice shook.
Stall him, Grace. But how …
“Well, this would be the perfect kind of place for a ghost hunt, I would think.”
That certainly brought the man to a stop. “What?”
“A ghost hunt. Haven’t you ever been on one?”
He blinked down at her, towering over her with the lantern held high above them. “A ghost hunt?”
“Why not?” She waved ahead of them into the darkness. “Like I said, these tunnels were built to rescue Mary, and I’d imagine men probably died in the making of them.” She nodded, lowering her voice to a whisper. “It does seem like the sort of place where restless spirits might linger.”
Another creak from above. Closer this time.
Pennington didn’t respond right away, his eyes darting to the sagging timbers overhead. Then he gave his head a shake. “There aren’t any ghosts.”
“Perhaps not.” Grace tilted her head, listening. “But there may very well be old supports, Mr. Pennington. And they may wish to make ghosts of us.”
His face paled in the lamplight.
“Then you’d better stop talking and move faster.” But his voice had lost some of its certainty.
Grace moved forward, but not much faster. Every step deliberate. Every pause calculated.
Somewhere behind them—distant, but real—she thought she heard something.
A popping. Muffled and in quick succession, and … Grace froze. Gunfire?
Pennington stilled too.
Where was it coming from? The ruins? Was it Blake and … whoever he was fighting?
Oh God, be with him!
Another successive popping happened, knocking loose a light film of dirt from the ceiling. How close were they to the ruins now? Did the tunnel move in that direction? She swallowed. Beneath it?
“Keep moving,” Pennington said, nudging her forward, even as the gunfire continued. Nearer, somehow. Above them? And each time, a bit of dirt loosened from somewhere.
