As soon as he realized there was no one there, Mason rushed through the room, again not bothering to pause before charging through the open double doors at the far end. He stepped into the mansion’s grand hall, where four more guards stood loitering somewhat carelessly around the base of a wide curving staircase. Judging by their lack of vigilance, Mason would guess the place wasn’t often—if ever—infiltrated.
The guards had a moment of surprise before Mason charged the closest one, sending his shoulder into the man’s gut and lifting him off the floor. He slammed him into the wall, making the whole place shudder and moan at the impact.
“There goes our element of surprise,” Warfield noted caustically.
Mason ignored him. A couple quick hits to the kidney then an uppercut knocked the guard out, just as two more grappled with Mason from behind. A backward headbutt to one, followed by a low sweep of his leg had them both landing hard on their backsides so he could address the fourth. He barely had to think. Instinct and years of training guided his fists in a swift and efficient assault. The blood was rushing too fiercely through Mason’s veins. His vision was tunneled and focused. It felt like his body had been rigorously trained over more than a decade for this purpose and this purpose alone. To save his woman. The last man had no greater chance for being slightly more prepared. He hit the floor within seconds.
Mason turned in place, scanning the room for any other comers. He was alone. Not even Warfield was about.
With a curse, he started for the stairs only to make it about halfway up before the sound of someone rushing down had him squaring off for another confrontation.
Warfield appeared on the landing above. “The upper levels are empty.”
“You know it was four against one down here,” Mason muttered.
The marquess shrugged. “I’d have only gotten in your way. Besides, I saved us a little time.”
He finished speaking just as three more guards came running along a short hall beside the stairs.
Mason squared off against them, but these men had come prepared. He caught sight of a long knife in the hand of one before his eyes locked on the more dangerous weapon, a pistol. As his muscles bunched to dodge a possible bullet, the marquess threw his greatcoat in an obscuring arc that momentarily blocked the gunman’s view. It was just enough time for Mason to leap down the steps with a driving punch, followed quickly by a spinning kick that sent the pistol skidding across the floor.
Unfortunately, he didn’t turn in time to block the slicing path of the second man’s blade as it seared across his back in a shallow, stinging arc. He turned to see Warfield take the man down with a neat jab to the throat, but not before the third got Mason in a choke hold. A quick evasive maneuver had the man flying over his head to the floor.
“Go on,” Warfield stated with surprising calm as he stepped up to one of the fallen who was rolling about, groaning. The marquess placed his booted foot on the man’s back. “I’ll keep these men from following.”
“You?” Mason’s doubt was clear. The man had a nice, clean punch, but if the guards regained consciousness, it’d be one against seven.
The man’s smile was cold. “Me and the length of rope this one is carrying.”
With a hard nod, Mason turned down the short hall to a stairway that obviously led down to the cellar. The way was heavily shadowed but a faint glow illuminated from below. Rushing down the worn steps, Mason could hear the low murmur of a man’s voice echoing off the stone walls. At the bottom extended a narrow hall that led to what appeared to be a well-lit, open chamber.
Mason entered the space boldly. He quickly scanned the scene, taking in every detail.
The room was wide and cavernous. A low ceiling. Walls covered in black silk and a floor of polished white marble. About a dozen iron candelabra stood sentry around the perimeter of the room, flooding it in golden light. In the center was a raised dais.
Shelbourne, he presumed, stood close behind Katherine atop that dais. One hand wrapped tight around her upper arm while the other held a blade beneath her chin.
Relief and purpose flared. She was alive and within his reach.
As Mason met her gaze, his stomach clenched hard at the flicker of fear in her eyes. But shining stronger than her fear was her stubborn, indignant bravery.
His lips twitched. There’s my duchess. “Hello, dove.”
She parted her lips to reply, but Shelbourne spoke first. “Not another step or I’ll slide my dagger across her throat.”
Mason stopped and held Katherine’s gaze for as long as he could, willing her to prepare herself for any opportunity to escape. Then he shifted his attention to her captor. “Threatening her’s a very bad idea.”
“You may have gotten past my guards, but this is my domain. I’m in command here.”
Mason lifted his brows as he began to circle around their position, forcing the lord to turn in place if he wished to keep Mason in his sights. Mason hoped Shelbourne’s focus would be weakened when divided between Katherine and himself, providing an opening they could take advantage of.
“If you say so,” he replied flippantly. “But you should know I didn’t come alone. I don’t see any way for you to get out of this.”
Shelbourne’s features tightened with anger. “None of this would have been necessary if you’d minded your own business.” A red flush crept over the lord’s face as his knife hand wavered, causing the blade to slide gently across the side of Kathrine’s neck.
