It hadn’t been difficult… His tongue couldn’t seem to form the words, or any others. His mind, his senses, had seized.
Several seconds ticked past before he got them working again and he managed to draw in a much-needed breath. He hadn’t seen Niniver socially, at a ball or anywhere else, for several years. In the interim, she had, in common parlance, blossomed.
Her riding habit hadn’t done her figure justice, but the reddish-purple gown she currently wore rectified the oversight. Combined with her more elaborate hairstyle, it made the most of her utterly delectable charms, creating an image from a gentleman’s fantasies.
His fantasies, at least.
The vision she presented was so alluring it took palpable effort to drag his gaze from her—and swing it to the severe-looking, dark-haired, hatchet-faced lady seated on the sofa. Clad in a gown of pale gray, Niniver’s erstwhile governess was a large, heavy-boned female who exuded an aura of formidableness.
While Niniver was regarding him with her usual open and direct gaze, Hilda Hildebrand’s eyes were narrowing, and her lips were tightening in growing disapproval.
Shaking off the impact of the vision that was Niniver, he forced his features to relax into a smile and walked forward to bow before the dragon. “Miss Hildebrand, I take it?” Grasping the hand the governess reluctantly offered, he smoothly continued, “Despite being neighbors, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
After releasing her hand, he straightened and stepped back.
Miss Hildebrand regarded him severely. “Indeed, sir. But I have, of course, heard of you. And I must admit I was surprised to learn that you are presently residing under this roof.”
Marcus read the dragon’s suspicions. Instead of responding, he glanced at Niniver and waited; as she was still standing, he couldn’t sit.
Comprehending the unvoiced message, she moved to sink into the armchair beyond the end of the sofa. “I told you, Hildy—Mr. Cynster is here because he’s agreed to help me settle things within the clan.”
“Indeed.” Claiming the armchair opposite the sofa, Marcus sat and fixed Miss Hildebrand with a level gaze. “It appears Lady Carrick needs support in convincing some of her clansmen that she is not interested in marrying any of them.”
Miss Hildebrand’s dark brows rose in poorly screened skepticism. “And that’s why you’re here?”
“Precisely.” Marcus held the dragon’s gaze and watched her digest his refusal to append the words “that and nothing else.” After several silent seconds, he did, however, add, “I can assure you that Lady Carrick’s safety is my principal and dominant goal, and that I will do whatever proves necessary to ensure she remains safe and untroubled.”
Hilda Hildebrand’s gaze remained steady on his face as she absorbed that declaration; he could almost see the arrestation of her thoughts as her calculations shifted her initial conclusion about why he was there to something significantly more palatable. Eventually, slowly, she inclined her head. “I see.” Her defensive stiffness fading, she hesitated, then ventured, “I’ve heard you’re an honorable gentleman, which is what I would expect of a scion of a family such as yours.”
He hid a smile that might have appeared too predatory. If he was any judge, Hilda Hildebrand considered herself a guardian of Niniver’s virtue—a dragon in truth. Having her on his side would prove helpful in the short term, and also later on, assuming Fate hadn’t led him up any garden path but had, indeed, steered him in the direction he was supposed to take.
He still wasn’t one hundred percent certain of that, although, thus far, all the omens were pointing that way.
“I understand you’ve acquired the old Hennessy property.” Miss Hildebrand resettled her shawl. “What plans do you have for the land?”
Still hiding a grin that grew ever more appreciative, he replied to that and a subsequent inquisition that would have done any father interrogating a daughter’s suitor proud.
Niniver frowned. Although she didn’t interrupt, she grew increasingly restive. Marcus watched her clasp her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting and twining. Initially, her restiveness seemed due to nervousness; he put that down to concern that her governess’s interrogation would drive him off. Subsequently, however, when that clearly wasn’t going to happen, nervousness was replaced by impatience.
Impatience over what, he wondered?
Then Ferguson appeared in the doorway, and the three of them glanced his way. He bowed. “Dinner is served, my lady.”
Niniver got to her feet. “Thank you, Ferguson.”
Marcus rose, crossed to the sofa, and gallantly offered Miss Hildebrand his arm.
With a nod of approval, the ex-governess placed her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to help her to her feet.
He turned and, smiling at Niniver, held out his other arm in invitation.
She hesitated, but only for a second; he got the impression it was her impetuous impatience that pushed her to step to his side and slip her small hand into the crook of his elbow.
It was ridiculous, he knew, yet he felt smugly pleased as he led both ladies out of the room.
Niniver walked beside Marcus, glad that he’d adjusted his longer paces to her and Hildy’s much shorter ones. She wished she could breathe more freely; she felt as if an iron band had inexplicably cinched about her lower ribs, constricting her lungs, rendering each breath shallow, tightening her nerves and leaving her a touch giddy.
Luckily, the dining room was only yards away.
Yet, apparently, that was far enough for her senses to riot. For them to fixate on everything about the tall, rangy, powerful gentleman who walked by her side, separated by an acceptable social distance, perhaps, yet nevertheless close enough for everything about him to impinge on her greedy senses. She felt his midnight-blue gaze briefly touch her face, and a wave of prickly awareness washed over her, closely followed by an equally distracting warmth. Oddly, her nerves felt more alive, more alert and energized than ever, eager to glean every last iota of experience.
Her giddiness didn’t abate.
The instant they crossed the threshold, she dragged in a breath, drew her hand from the warmth of his arm, and rounded the table to her usual chair.
A footman moved to draw it out for her—but he halted, then stepped back.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Marcus ambling close behind her; rather than seat Hildy, he’d elected to perform that office for her. With a negligent wave, he dismissed the footman. She reached her chair and paused; Marcus stepped past her and drew it out.
Summoning a vague smile and directing it—equally vaguely—in his direction, she dipped her head in thanks and sat.
He eased the chair in for her, then moved to claim the one beside hers.
Glancing across the table, Niniver saw Hildy happily thanking the footman who had held her chair. Her ex-governess’s initial distrust of Marcus had evaporated, which was a very good thing. Despite Hildy not being clan, and otherwise living a relatively reclusive existence, her opinion held sway with both Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy. The pair—and through them, the clan—relied on Hildy to accurately assess the effect of any happening on Niniver’s social standing beyond the boundaries of the estate.
Although initially distrustful, Hildy now approved of Marcus.
While Ferguson served the soup, Niniver tried to recall the last gentleman of whom Hildy had approved, but couldn’t, in fact, recall Hildy ever lowering her guard to this extent. In the aftermath of her father’s death, and again after the deaths of her brothers, several friends of Nigel and Nolan’s had made a point of calling on her, but she’d never liked or trusted any of them, and Hildy had been only too happy to assist her in sending them on their way.
So with respect to Hildy, Marcus was something of a first, but then he was a local, his family well known, and there was no denying he was a great deal more personable—and more understanding and ready to be accommodating over Hildy’s questioning—than any previous caller.
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p; And, as he’d said, he was there for a purpose; ruthlessly quelling her internal flutterings, she vowed to keep herself—and him—focused on that.
They all tasted the soup, then, as if he’d heard her resolution, Marcus asked, “In light of my purpose here, it would help if you would tell me more about the clan.” With his gaze, he included both Niniver and Hildy. “How many families are there? How many farms overall?”
The answers tripped readily off Niniver’s tongue.
Marcus continued his questioning. His inquiries had a dual aim; he did need a more comprehensive understanding of the clan and the estate, but he’d also sensed Niniver’s flaring awareness—and her resulting jitteriness. The latter was something he felt sure would fade with continuing exposure to him, but he was wary enough to seek to distract her from it in the meantime.
And he’d already realized that talking of the clan—anything to do with the clan—was guaranteed to seize and fix her attention.
“So the manor itself has no farm as such?”
“No,” she replied. “But the surrounding paddocks are used for horse-breeding. Sean, Mitch, and Fred manage that, and they provide as many of the horses the clan needs as they can, so we don’t have to buy as many. And, of course, we have pens and barns for the stock, either for when they’re collected for market, or when they’re brought in for the winter.”
A memory from ten years before surfaced. “As I recall, many of those on the outlying crofts come in to the manor over winter.”
She nodded. “Originally, everyone did, at least for the worst of the snows. These days, only the smaller crofters stay for all of winter. It’s what the disused wing used to be used for—housing all the clan families over that time.”
“I believe,” Hildy said, “that over the past twenty years, the larger farmhouses have been made more secure, so those families haven’t needed to retreat to the manor over winter.”
“I see.” Marcus sat back to allow Ferguson to clear his plate; his questions had lasted over the entire meal. “But what of the household—how many live at the manor at present?”
Niniver’s expression suggested she was adding up names… “Twenty. Not counting Hildy and myself, and including our healer, Alice, and her two apprentices.”
Across the table, Hilda Hildebrand caught Marcus’s gaze, then pointedly looked at Ferguson. While the man’s impassive mien gave nothing away, he had to be wondering why, with a perfectly good house of his own only four miles away, Marcus was staying at the manor. He hadn’t exactly explained that, even to Sean.
In the circumstances, Marcus held back his next question: How many of the twenty residing under the manor’s roof were men? He needed to know that, and whether any of those men might prove a threat to Niniver. But he didn’t want to start that hare running in her brain, so he’d wait and ask Ferguson tomorrow; he could then phrase the query so that it wasn’t unnecessarily confronting.
The dessert came and went—a light trifle with a lemony sauce.
As the footmen cleared the dishes, Miss Hildebrand magisterially rose. “Lady Carrick and I will leave you to enjoy your port.”
Marcus rose and drew back Niniver’s chair. He had intended to return to the drawing room with her and Miss Hildebrand; he would rather enjoy their company than any glass of port. However, dallying in the dining room would give him a chance to speak with Ferguson privately—and there was one question he needed to ask someone other than Niniver.
He waited until both women left the room, then sank back into his chair. The footmen drew the covers, then retreated. Ferguson reappeared with a silver tray bearing glasses and three decanters.
Setting the tray on the table by Marcus’s elbow, Ferguson said, “The master always insisted on the three—brandy, port, and good Scottish whisky.”
Hiding a grin, Marcus reached for the whisky. Splashing a small amount into a crystal glass, he set the decanter back on the tray. “As I expect you’ve heard, I’ve agreed to assist Lady Carrick in dealing with the recent disturbances created by certain men in the clan.” Raising his gaze, he shifted to meet Ferguson’s steady regard. “To that end, I’d like to meet with you and the housekeeper tomorrow morning to discuss the situation, but for tonight, I have one point I need clarified.” He sobered. “Norris. Why isn’t he here? And why does Lady Carrick feel she has no right to call on him for assistance?”
Ferguson returned his regard steadily. Marcus knew the exact moment when the stony-faced man decided to reply.
“The answer owes more to Mr. Norris than Miss Niniver. Aye—and the old laird. He was a good laird—he did well by the clan—but other than Mr. Nigel, he ignored the rest of his children. Despite that, Miss Niniver found her own path. Mr. Nolan tried to but failed, and he went mad with the trying. Mr. Norris… We, the household, always thought that he stayed sane by cutting himself off from us all. All except Miss Niniver. She knew how to reach him. I’d say she understands him. But Mr. Norris left—and perhaps he had to leave. I know that, no matter how we push, Miss Niniver refuses to call him back.” The big man raised a shoulder. “And mayhap she’s right.”
Marcus held Ferguson’s gaze for several seconds, then he nodded and looked at the amber liquid in his glass. “It sounds as if she might well be right.” He was starting to suspect that, among other skills, Niniver read people rather well. Certainly those close to her.
Ferguson shifted but didn’t retreat. When Marcus glanced up, curious as to why the man was lingering, Ferguson focused on the decanters and reached to rearrange them on the tray. “The household—well, we’re clan, too, so we talk. Of course we do. We might not be the same class as the Carricks, but it seems to us that all the men in Miss Niniver’s life—those who should have been here to take care of her, that she had a right to expect would be here for her—all those men, every last one of them, have gone and deserted her, and left her to manage the clan all by herself. And make no mistake about it”—Ferguson’s hard gaze rose to Marcus’s face—“if she weren’t here, the clan would fall apart. We had no choice but to ask her, slip of a thing though she is, but she took on the responsibility without flinching, and she’s carried the load without complaint.”
Ferguson paused; Marcus saw the pride and respect that glowed in the older man’s eyes. Then Ferguson’s lips twisted and he turned away. “It just seems wrong, to us, that she has to do it all by herself, and there’s not one man who’s man enough to stand by her side.”
But there was. Marcus was there now, and that was precisely what he intended to do. But he said nothing of that—not yet.
He watched Ferguson leave the room, then drained his glass and rose.
As he walked to the drawing room, he inwardly acknowledged that, no matter how things played out between him and Niniver, the pride, respect, and devotion she commanded from the more experienced heads within the clan was something he would need to take into account—to preserve and ensure he did nothing to undermine.
* * *
Three hours later, Marcus lay on his back in the middle of the bed in the room next to Niniver’s, and watched a shaft of moonlight slide across the ceiling. Sleep was eluding him; his mind was full of Niniver.
Hardly surprising given the events of the day, and after dinner, the hour and more they’d spent in the drawing room had brought still more revelations. When he’d joined the two ladies, Niniver had been skittish again, but this time over what she perceived to be her lack of ladylike accomplishments with which to entertain him.
He’d bitten his tongue to keep back the words that she could just sit in her chair and he would deem himself sufficiently entertained simply through being able to look at her. Instead, he’d suggested that he play the pianoforte for her—a concept strange enough to have had her blinking in surprise long enough for him to walk to the handsome instrument sitting in one corner, open it, sit, and place his fingers on the keys.
Miss Hildebrand had promptly suggested that Niniver should sing to his accompaniment. She’d hes
itated, but then he’d run his fingers along the keys and asked what style of song she favored, and she’d acquiesced and come to stand by his shoulder. He’d tried the opening chords of a familiar country air. He’d been conscious of her drawing breath, then she’d opened her ruby lips and sung…and transported them all to paradise.
Her voice was unbelievably pure; he’d never heard a more perfect soprano, and several of his cousins had been very well trained. Not one could hold a candle to Niniver. Her voice held passion and the sort of soaring power that brought to mind the sweeping flight of birds…
She sang like an angel.
He’d played three pieces just to listen to her, then couldn’t resist trying a duet. He’d had to mute the strength of his baritone so he didn’t overwhelm the piercing, rather haunting clarity of her voice, but he’d adjusted, and so had she, until their voices had blended in effortless harmony.
Lucilla played the harp, which was why he had gravitated to the pianoforte, and because of long evenings spent with his large family, he had a ready store of country songs literally at his fingertips; he’d gone from one to the other, interspersing an orchestral piece when Niniver needed a few minutes to recover before sliding into the introduction to another song.
At one point, he’d noticed a reflection in the highly polished face of the piano. Ferguson had arrived pushing the tea trolley, but on opening the drawing room door and hearing their music, he’d paused on the threshold, listening. Other staff had heard, and had come to gather about the open door, delight in their faces.
An hour had sped by, but eventually, Niniver had called a halt, claiming she was growing giddy.
Accepting that that was quite likely true, he’d concluded with a dramatic run of chords, then had closed the piano, risen, and taken her hand. He’d turned her to the crowd at the door. He’d bowed. She’d laughed to see their audience, then had curtsied, and the staff, led by Miss Hildebrand, had all beamed and applauded.
It had been a moment of simple pleasure. He’d looked at Niniver, seen the genuine happiness in her face, and had felt…fulfilled. Distinctly and simply happy, too.
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 8
