“Do you mean to start a fire? It’s not that cold.”

“No, but this lamp won’t last all night. And once we have a bit more light, I’ll go up and assess the damage.” From the quality of the air, Rhys suspected the cave-in was complete, but he would check it himself to be certain.

Keeping her hand in his, he scouted the immediate area for wood. As his luck would have it, he stumbled into a crate almost instantly. He bent and began prying the boards apart with his bare hands. It was rough going. For a crate stored for more than a decade in a damp, underground room, the wood was surprisingly strong and dry.

Once he had the top of the crate pried off, Rhys waved the lamp over it to see what was inside. Brushing aside a thick layer of straw—again, remarkably fresh and dry—he uncovered several rows of bottles. Strange, that his father would have left this much of any spirit lying about, untouched.

Curling his fingers around a bottleneck, he lifted it to the torchlight. French brandy. And, judging by the rich amber color that swirled red in the flickering light, it was brandy of a fine quality.

Well, that sealed it. This hadn’t belonged to his father. The old man had always valued quantity over quality.

“At least we won’t die of thirst,” Meredith said, taking the bottle from his hand. “I’d wager he has some foodstuffs stored in here, too. I thought he mentioned a crate of olives, some weeks ago. Or was it dates? And I know he was very proud of seizing some silver flatware recently. We could make a right fine meal down here.”

“Myles,” Rhys breathed. “This all belongs to Gideon Myles. He’s been storing his smuggled goods here?”

She nodded. “Amongst his associates, he specializes in the hard-to-place items. When they can’t find a buyer immediately, or none who’ll pay what the goods are worth … he brings the goods up here and stores them until he can find a market for them in one of the cities. Some things stay just a week. Others, months.”

“A tripwire. The bastard had this place rigged.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t lightning that caused that cave-in. I thought I’d stumbled over a cord, just before. It must have triggered a powder explosion somewhere.”

“Yes, well. That makes sense. Gideon is very protective of his goods.”

Rhys held the lamp aloft and blinked until the smoke stung his eyes, straining to make out more of the cavernous room. It was full to bursting with crates, casks … even furniture and rolled carpets.

“So,” he said. “This is the real reason no one wants me to rebuild Nethermoor Hall. You’re all living high off this trade.”

“Not living high. Surviving, just barely. Gideon has had to take a great many risks. Harold, Laurence, Skinner … they all work for him as lookouts, and they help him transport and unload his cargo.”

“And you hire out the ponies to him.”

“Yes.”

“And accept some of the goods in trade?”

She paused. “Yes, some. Stores for the inn.”

He swore softly. What else could he say? The entire village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, including his intended bride, was complicit in a vast smuggling ring. He’d known Myles was dealing in unlevied goods, but he’d never dreamed of an operation of this magnitude. Truly, he wouldn’t have believed the knave capable of it.

“It’s not something I’m proud of, Rhys. I know it’s unlawful, and I know it’s dangerous. That’s why I’ve been so determined to build up the inn and draw travelers to the district. If I’m ever going to convince Gideon to disentangle himself from this … this trade, the village needs another source of income to replace it.”

Rhys’s jaw tightened. “And the patronage of a new Lord Ashworth won’t serve that purpose?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed noisily. “Not indefinitely. You’ve said yourself, you don’t even intend to produce an heir. You know I’m barren. Unless you mean to marry another lady, but I don’t know how you’d convince her to come live in this place.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t even know how you can stand to live in this place. I know what you went through here, Rhys. I grew up watching it. I saw every bruise, every welt—”

He shoved the lamp into her hand and bent to pry a board off the crate. “I need to make a fire.”

He couldn’t talk about this now. He’d rather not talk about it, ever.

“Rhys—”

Crack. He braced a board between his hand and the ground, then broke it in two with his boot. After throwing the splintered pieces into a pile, he wrenched another plank free and prepared to repeat the process. “Look at the smoke,” he told her, determined to change the subject.

Her eyes went to the swirl of black soot coiling away from the lamp, rising into the air.

“It’s drawing upward,” he said. “That means there’s ventilation someplace. A crack—either in the caved-in entrance, or above us somewhere. Once daylight comes, I’ll be able to make us a way out of here. We just have to wait for dawn.”

“And pray for poor Cora.” She sniffed. “What can I do?”

“Gather some straw for tinder,” he said. “And I don’t suppose you’ve a screw for uncorking that brandy?”

“No, I haven’t a screw. But I have my ways.”

“I’m certain you do.” If he was going to spend a night in this hole, at the least he was going to do so while warm to the marrow and drunk out of his skull.

They cleared a small depression in the ground to use as a firepit. Rhys arranged the broken planks, propping them against one another, and Meredith stuffed the gaps with straw. Then she cracked the top off a bottle of brandy with a stone and dashed a liberal amount of spirits over the kindling. One spark from the lamp, and …

Whoosh.

They had a fire.

For a moment, the flames blazed so high, so bright, that Rhys stood frozen, accosted by memories of the last time Nethermoor had seen roaring flames. His heart kicked into a gallop, and sweat broke out on his brow. But the brandy quickly flamed out, and the fire settled down to a small, respectable, unthreatening size. One might have called it cozy. Even romantic.

Adding to the effect, Meredith unrolled a fantastically expensive-looking Afghan carpet and arranged it alongside the fire. “Oh look,” she said, prying open a newly revealed trunk. “Furs.” A pile of sable and ermine soon graced the carpet’s geometric design.

Good God. A small fortune was stored in this cellar.

While she dug about for cups, Rhys took the dying lamp and went to inspect the entrance. As he’d suspected, rocks had shifted and fallen, covering the opening completely. They might be movable, if he could wedge a board or bar in just the right place. But until he had some daylight shining through, he’d have little way of knowing whether his efforts were making matters better or worse.

When he scrambled back down to the cellar floor, he found Meredith brushing the packing straw from a silver tea service. Lifting her skirt, she reached beneath for a fold of clean petticoat to wipe the cups clean.

“There you are,” she said, pouring brandy into a teacup and holding it out to him. “Is it hopeless?”

“No. But it’s not worth trying to dig our way out tonight.”

“Then come be comfortable, and save your strength for the morning.”

They nestled into the furs side by side, but not embracing. A long, empty night together stretched out before them. It didn’t seem possible to him that they’d get through it without having a certain conversation, so he decided to confront it head-on.

“So what is it, then? Your answer.” In the ensuing silence, he took an anxious, overlarge swallow of his brandy. It burned all the way down.

She drank, too. Finally she whispered, “I’m still not sure.”

Shaking his head, he quietly swore. This time, he tossed back an even larger draught of brandy. Because he knew it would burn, and he welcomed it.

“Are you angry?”

“Why should I be angry?”

“You have every reason in the world to be angry, Rhys. I don’t know how you can even sit in this place and remain so calm.”

He wasn’t too sure himself. Brandy had something to do with it. He took another drink, then let his head roll back against the clammy surface of the wall.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Talk about what? Marriage, or lack thereof? I think we’ve talked that out.”

“Not marriage. About … the past. About this place.”

He kept quiet, hoping she would be clever enough to take his silence as a sign that no, he did not want to talk about it.

“I know he beat you here.”

He tensed his jaw, to keep from growling at her to shut hers. She hadn’t accepted him. She didn’t have the right to keep poking at his wounds, tracing his scars …

“Everyone in service at Nethermoor knew.”

“This pit is soundproof,” he bit out. “No one knew what went on down here.”

“Well, I suppose no one did know, not precisely. But it was impossible not to notice the evidence after the fact. And what do you think he did when you went off to school? Do you suppose he gave up violence for the winter term?”

A hot coal lodged in his chest. He could barely manage to form the words. “Did he hit you?”

“No. No, not me.”

A drop of sweat rolled from his brow to his ear. Thank God. If he found out his father had hurt Meredith, Rhys truly would have lost control.

“My father was very careful,” she said. “He never let me run about the Hall, never would have allowed me to work for the man. But there were others who didn’t have a father looking out for them.”

“And then there was me, whose father was the problem. No escape.”

“Tell me what happened. Just have out with it, and you’ll feel better.”

He sincerely doubted that. But they were here all night, and he could tell she wasn’t going to let the matter rest. Fine, then. He’d have out with it, and then he’d drink himself into oblivion. And when he woke in the morning and crawled out of this hole, he would leave this place behind. Forever.

He cleared his throat and prepared a dispassionate tone. “The month after my mother died, my father brought me down into this pit. He told me to stand in the empty center. He melted back into the shadows. And then a fist came out of the darkness. Sent me sprawling to the ground. I was stunned. It took me a minute to realize he’d hit me. I thought it had to have been an accident. He told me to get up, and so I got up. And then he hit me again, harder.”

“‘Get up,’ he’d say. ‘Stand, you miserable wretch.’ And so I would struggle to my feet. Only to be hit again. And again, until I couldn’t stand at all. We played that amusing little father-son game a few times a week, for the remainder of my childhood. Me standing just about there”—he pointed toward the dark center of the room—“and him beating me until I could no longer stand. Took longer every time.”

“For God’s sake, why didn’t you just stay down?”

“I don’t know,” he said. And he truly didn’t. That would have been the clever thing, he supposed—to feign defeat. But he’d been nine years old, and the old man was his only parent left alive. It simply hadn’t crossed his mind to disobey. His father said, “stand”—he stood. He stood and took another blow. It seemed to make the old man oddly happy. What else does a son long to do, but make his father happy?

And after so many years, it was as though that voice had become a part of him. In every brawl, in every battle. Whenever he took a blow or a musket ball and crumpled to the ground, he heard that harsh, brutal command echoing in his head. Up. Up, you filth. On your feet. Stand and take another.