Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

And, she hoped, for him. She didn’t actually know how one went about establishing a liaison, but she felt confident that, between them, they would work it out.

  He rose as she approached the table and drew out the chair beside his. Still smiling, she rounded the table and sat.

  She waited until he resumed his seat, then sent an inquiring look his way. “I have to go to Ayr on business. Normally, Sean would go with me, but I wondered if you might prefer to act as my escort.”

  His dark eyes captured hers; he held her gaze for a split second, then simply said, “Yes.”

  Stifling a grin, she reached for the marmalade. “Excellent. We’ll need to leave after breakfast.”

  His gaze once more on his plate—on the sausages, eggs, and kedgeree piled on it—he grunted.

  Several moments passed while she slathered, crunched, and poured and sipped tea, and he made inroads into his meal. Then he said, “Incidentally, before I forget, I spoke with Ferguson this morning. Regardless of tradition, he agrees with me—with us—about the sense in locking the external doors. He’s hunting up the last of the keys. He says he’ll ensure that the house is locked up every night, and he’s going to give Sean, Mitch, and Fred keys to the side door, in case, for some reason, they need to come in.”

  She nodded. “Good. I have to admit that I’ll sleep easier knowing that no one unexpected can simply walk in.”

  Marcus was quite sure he would sleep easier, too. Just the thought…but that, thank The Lady, was no longer an issue. Instead, he turned his mind to the prospects and likely difficulties of spending a day with Niniver off the estate.

  When she’d finished her toast and was sipping a second cup of tea, he pushed away his empty plate and asked, “Do you plan on taking a carriage? Or will we ride?”

  Teacup cradled in her hands, she widened her eyes, transparently debating the pros and cons.

  She was staring past him; he seized the moment to let his gaze rest on her face, on her fine features—to drink in all he could see.

  From the instant she’d accepted the chair he’d held for her, he’d realized she’d lost much, if not all, of her earlier sensual skittishness. Apparently, the events of the previous day had burned that away, and while she was definitely still aware of him, if anything more aware than before, that awareness seemed to be encouraging her rather than inhibiting her.

  Which was precisely what he wanted, yet managing their reins with a Niniver who was likely to take the bit between her teeth and run wasn’t destined to be a simple or straightforward task. Especially as he’d yet to define the right ways to deal with her—to steer, guide, and protect her without resorting to edicts that dictated or dominated.

  Indeed, how to deal with Niniver was becoming his primary concern.

  She was still debating; he bit his tongue against the urge to suggest they ride. Spending several hours in a closed carriage alone with her was, in his experienced view, simply asking for trouble. He knew exactly what could be achieved in a closed carriage bowling sedately along a quiet highway.

  Setting down her cup, she declared, “There’s nothing of any weight we need to bring back, and I prefer to ride.” She looked at him. “Unless you think we should take the carriage.”

  “No.” Straightening, he set his napkin beside his plate. “I prefer to ride, too.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I’ll tell Sean to saddle the horses. How much longer will you be?”

  She smiled up at him. “I just need to change into my riding habit. I’ll meet you in the stable yard.”

  He dipped his head and retreated, the better to ensure she didn’t change her mind.

  * * *

  They left in good time and reached Ayr by midmorning. The busy town on the coast to the northwest was, if not the closest as the crow flew, the easiest of any size to reach; they’d just followed the highway at the end of the drive until they’d ridden into the town.

  The clock in the Wallace Tower stood at half past eleven when Marcus held the door of the Carrick family solicitor’s office open for Niniver to leave. A meeting with the solicitor had been the first and most important item on her list. Although Marcus hadn’t pressed to accompany her into the solicitor’s inner sanctum but instead had kicked his heels in the outer office, from the lack of any frown in Niniver’s eyes, much less on her face, and the solicitor’s jovial air when he’d bowed her out, Marcus judged the meeting to have gone well.

  It certainly didn’t appear to have dampened Niniver’s enthusiasm for a host of other errands, most of which involved shopping for this and that—not for her, but for the household or the clan.

  “Where next?” He halted beside her. She’d stopped on the pavement to consult a list she’d pulled from her pocket.

  “The apothecary’s.” Looking up from the list, she glanced across the busy street. “Ferguson wanted me to get more of that new powder for treating burns.”

  Marcus seized the opportunity to link her arm with his, then he escorted her across the crowded thoroughfare and along the pavement on the opposite side. The apothecary’s lay toward the end of the street, close by the corner with Newmarket.

  They went in. He stood back while she spoke with the apothecary. Both he and she were known to most of the town’s shopkeepers and business-owners, so if he stood beside her, the shopkeepers instinctively addressed themselves to him. Even in the solicitor’s office, although the receptionist had never set eyes on him before and Niniver had led the way in, the receptionist’s gaze had traveled over Niniver and landed on him, and the receptionist had asked who he wished to see.

  For much of his life, he’d been vaguely aware of the difficulties ladies like his mother and his sister occasionally faced, but in their cases, both possessed an innate imperious demeanor that, despite their gender, tended to alert people to their station and power.

  Niniver, however, looked so delicate and fragile, on first glance people tended to dismiss her as unimportant—as the sort of person who could be ignored or overlooked.

  The apothecary hadn’t made that mistake; once people knew her, knew who she was and had interacted with her, they adjusted their view. Even so, if he stood beside her, he would…diminish her. People would almost certainly start to overlook her again.

  The thought…offended him on some level he was only just beginning to comprehend—another facet of possessive jealousy.

  She finished with the apothecary, who promised to make up the powder and have it ready for Sean to collect later in the week. As they stepped out onto the pavement, Marcus retook her arm. With her anchored beside him, at her direction they strolled down one of the lanes that led to the banks of the Ayr River. The fishmonger the Carrick cook, Gwen, favored operated out of one of the quayside shops not far from the Auld Brig o’ Doon.

  While they walked in public, Marcus kept Niniver by his side, where he could protect her from any potential threat. But after ushering her through the door into the fishmonger’s shop, he shifted to stand behind her; although the fishmonger recognized them both and, after greeting Niniver, glanced at him, with his gaze he was able to direct the man’s attention back to Niniver.

  When the fishmonger went to find his order book, she glanced back at him, but she didn’t make any comment. After she left the manor’s order and they quit the shop, he looped her arm in his again and, feeling decidedly smug, allowed her to direct their steps back to High Street and on to the haberdashers.

  They progressed down High Street, stopping at this store, that shop. Strolling down the pavements with her on his arm, he felt increasingly domesticated. And when his new tack of standing directly behind her continued to bring about the desired results, he felt ridiculously pleased.

  One small detail he’d figured out; one small hurdle overcome.

  When they neared the Wallace Tower again, he glanced up at the clock. “It’s half past twelve.” Looking down, he caught Niniver’s eye. “Are you ready for luncheon yet? I asked the inn to hold a table for us.”

  The Ta
m O’ Shanter Inn was the best in town, and as it stood at the end of High Street closest to where the road from Carsphairn entered the town, it was the inn Marcus and his family patronized; aside from all else, the inn’s stable was up to scratch and deemed suitable for housing Cynster horses.

  Niniver surveyed her list. “Only two more things to get, but we can get them after lunch.”

  “Excellent.”

  They continued strolling; the inn lay a little way ahead on the same side of the street. As always, the town center was busy and bustling; as well as the river traffic, there was a major seaport at the river mouth, and, consequently, a significant amount of commerce and trading went on within the town.

  Marcus was studying the lines of what he suspected was the latest style of phaeton as its driver made his way up the street when Niniver slowed. He glanced around. They’d drawn level with the window of a jeweler’s shop.

  Obligingly halting, he followed her gaze to see what had drawn her attention; he’d already noticed she had a penchant for unusual pieces, although nothing she’d yet worn, even to the balls at which he’d seen her in the past, could be classed as significant.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what she had focused on; a suite comprised of a delicate necklace, earrings, and a ring lay displayed on black velvet. The settings, although fine, were relatively plain, the stones all circular yet expertly cut. But it was the color of the stones that caught the eye. At first he thought they must be aquamarines, but then he saw a small sign stating that the set was composed of cornflower-blue sapphires mined in faraway Ceylon.

  The stones were the color of Niniver’s eyes.

  A small sigh escaped her, then she turned from the window. “Pretty.” She glanced at him, smiled, and stepped out, drawing him along. “Come on—I do hope they kept us that table.”

  He walked beside her past two more shops, then they crossed the mouth of the alley that led to the stable behind the inn. As they reached the inn’s door, he released Niniver’s arm and grasped the knob. “Why don’t you go in and tell Mac we’re here.” Mac was the innkeeper. “I’m just going to check on the horses—Ned was playing up earlier. I want to make sure he settled.”

  She nodded. “All right. I’ll take possession of our table.”

  He smiled encouragingly and, with a bow, swept her inside. Then he closed the door, checked through the glass panes to make sure she was on her way deeper into the inn, then he turned and strode back to the jeweler’s shop.

  * * *

  Mac greeted Niniver with a wide smile and, with his usual genial air, conducted her to the table he’d reserved for her and Marcus—a more private one at the rear of the inn’s dining parlor, beside a window that looked onto a small garden behind the inn.

  After settling at the table, Niniver drew off her riding gloves and set them in her lap. The action focused her attention on her hands.

  She studied her ringless fingers. That cornflower-blue sapphire would have looked lovely on her hand, but she could imagine what price the jeweler would be asking—far more than she could afford. Not while she was still struggling to repair the damage her brothers had wrought on both the family’s and the clan’s finances.

  “Lady Carrick—well-met!”

  She looked up to see a dark-haired gentleman, handsome in a coarse, windblown sort of way, standing beside the table. His attire was a touch too negligent for her taste, and while his features were regular enough, any claim to male beauty was marred by the lines dissipation had etched about his nose and mouth. The latter gave her the clue she needed as to his identity. She conjured a weak smile. “Mr. McDougal.” She knew next to nothing about Ramsey McDougal other than that he’d been a close crony of Nigel’s and Nolan’s over the last few years; to her mind that made McDougal no friend of hers. But she had to be polite. “I take it I see you well?”

  “Yes, indeed. In the very best of health.” Without any by-your-leave, McDougal pulled up a chair and sat at the table to her right. “I’m delighted to have the chance to inquire how you go on. Nolan’s unhappy demise, let alone all it revealed, must have quite shaken you.”

  When McDougal looked at her as if expecting an answer, she said, “It was nearly a year ago—I’ve put it behind me.”

  “So I see.” McDougal beamed. “No more mourning, which is a happy day for us all. It’s good to see you out and about, my dear. Tell me—can we expect to see you at the Hunt Ball?”

  “Possibly.” She had no intention of attending any ball, not with so many men showing interest in claiming her hand—and the clan.

  McDougal’s gaze seemed to sharpen, although his expression remained genial. “I take it your emergence from mourning is a recent thing. Do you intend moving about in society—well, what passes for society in these parts?”

  This interlude was a perfect illustration of why she eschewed society, local or otherwise. “Sadly, at the moment, I have a great deal on my plate, what with managing the clan’s affairs.”

  “Ah—yes.” McDougal nodded. “I heard about that. Elected as lady of your clan! Quite an honor, indeed.”

  “Indeed.” What else could she say? She clasped her hands on the table and fixed her gaze on them.

  Instead of taking the hint, McDougal leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. “But if I may be so bold, my dear, such responsibility must be a heavy and onerous weight for such slender shoulders as yours to bear.”

  She only just managed to rein in her temper. Raising her head, she met McDougal’s hazel gaze. “I don’t find it so. Not at all.”

  He searched her eyes—then a shadow fell over the table.

  She looked up, and relief washed through her. She glanced at McDougal. “Allow me to present Mr. Marcus Cynster.”

  “We’ve met.” McDougal nodded rather curtly to Marcus. “Cynster.”

  Marcus’s dark gaze didn’t leave the other man’s face as he inclined his head fractionally. “McDougal.”

  Raising his head, Marcus transferred his gaze to Niniver. The relief in her eyes as she looked at him was blatant—and went a considerable way toward easing the intense possessiveness that had surged through him when he’d walked into the parlor and seen Ramsey McDougal far too close to her.

  McDougal was the definition of a cad.

  He ignored McDougal. His gaze locked with Niniver’s, Marcus smiled—easily, reassuringly—and reached for the chair opposite her. “Have you ordered yet?”

  “No. I was waiting for you to come in.”

  He sat, then caught Mac’s watchful eye and beckoned. The innkeeper immediately picked up his slate and came over.

  Mac rattled off his dishes of the day. While Niniver and Marcus gave their orders, McDougal frowned and fidgeted.

  When Mac retreated to fetch their food, Marcus turned to McDougal and arched a brow. “Was there something you wanted, McDougal?”

  McDougal stared at him then, rather more pointedly, looked at Niniver. McDougal opened his mouth—

  “Mr. Cynster,” Niniver stated, “is assisting me in managing matters within the clan. I fear you must excuse us, sir—we have several matters of moment to the clan that we need to discuss.”

  Marcus felt like applauding but refrained. He couldn’t have got rid of the man faster himself. Not without planting a fist in his face, which wouldn’t have endeared him to Mac.

  McDougal’s gaze swung back to Marcus’s face. “I…see.” After a second’s consideration, he pushed back his chair. “In that case, I’ll leave you to your deliberations.” McDougal rose and held out his hand. Clearly reluctantly, Niniver surrendered hers, and he bowed over her fingers. “Lady Carrick. Please know that, should you require any help at all, I will be only too happy to render whatever poor assistance it’s in my power to give.” He glanced at Marcus. “In memory of your brothers, as it were.”

  Finally releasing Niniver’s hand, McDougal inclined his head to Marcus. “Cynster.”

  “McDougal.” Marcus nodded vaguely and reached f
or the pint of foaming ale Mac had just set on the table.

  Niniver picked up the glass of perry Mac had brought for her and sipped. Marcus noted that she didn’t look up until the sound of the outer door shutting behind McDougal reached them.

  Then she glanced up, confirmed he was gone, and directed a frown after him. “I don’t like that man.”

  “You have excellent instincts.” He paused, then asked, “How do you come to know McDougal?” As far as he knew, she’d been avoiding local society for years, and McDougal had only appeared on the scene three or four years ago.

  “He was one of Nigel and Nolan’s set. Which, of course, does not predispose me to look upon him kindly, although I don’t think he quite understands that.”

  Clearly, he didn’t need to warn her about McDougal; she’d already accurately taken the man’s measure.

  He hoped McDougal had taken his.

  Mac arrived with two plates, one of venison pie for him, the other containing a helping of the inn’s famous shepherd’s pie for Niniver. They settled to eat. After several minutes of comfortable silence, he asked, “So what else do we need to do before we head back?”

  * * *

  “We don’t have to start back yet.” Marcus halted on the pavement outside the hardware store the clan patronized. They’d just completed the last of the tasks on Niniver’s list, placing an order for a new pump head. Drawing out his fob watch, he checked the time. “It’s only just after two.”

  Although the table Mac had given them had been more private than others, the inn parlor had still been a public place; while they’d filled their time with comments about this and that, there’d been little scope for more personal interaction. The feelings evoked by finding McDougal, of all men, hovering over Niniver still lingered just beneath Marcus’s skin. All things considered, he was keen to make the most of the opportunity to further his pursuit of her, especially in surroundings that would hamper any overly enthusiastic foray of hers.

  Indeed, she seemed equally eager to seize the moment. Tucking back the wisps of pale blond hair the breeze had teased loose from her bun, she looked to the west. “Let’s walk past the kirk and the bridge, and then on along Harbour Street to the Esplanade. It’s always pleasant to walk along there when the weather is fine and the sun’s shining.”