“Ah.” Quinn blinked, several times. Then he drew in a breath and, looking again at her, dipped his head. “My apologies, my lady. I wasn’t aware. I hope you will excuse my clumsiness—it was entirely inadvertent, I assure you.”
Marcus decided that, appearances aside, he approved of Quinn. Not many men would have moved so adroitly to retrieve their position.
“Apology accepted, sir.” Niniver waved at Quinn to continue. “If you could explain your company’s interest in our goats? I admit we haven’t previously been approached about their hides.”
“Indeed? Well, Waltham and Sons is keen to establish new sources of supply. The company…”
Marcus listened as Quinn explained his company’s position in the world of glove manufacture, and their consequent interest in the Carrick goat herd, small though it was. When the fussy little man realized that Niniver not only knew which breed the Carrick flock was comprised of, but also the exact number of animals raised and slaughtered each year, he grew positively eager. Marcus hid a smile; from his attitude, Quinn was now seeing Niniver not as any delicate and fragile lady, but as the owner of a goat herd he and his company would very much like to be able to buy from.
When it came to discussing the details of the putative deal, Niniver needed no help—and Quinn was no longer in any danger whatsoever of dismissing her or her acumen. A certain amount of haggling ensued. Marcus was quietly amazed at the price Niniver finally persuaded Quinn to agree to—per goat. The arrangement struck appeared pleasing to both parties; from Niniver’s perspective, it would ensure a very welcome addition to the clan coffers this year, and in the years to come.
With his business successfully concluded, Quinn packed up his satchel, then rose and, beaming, held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Carrick.”
Niniver rose and briefly shook his hand, then Quinn nodded amiably to Marcus, and turned for the door.
Marcus fell in at Quinn’s heels and showed the man out. Closing the library door, he reflected that, despite her stated wish for support, in dealing with Quinn, Niniver had needed no help.
Her next visitor, however, was of a very different stripe. Fifteen minutes after Quinn had departed—minutes Marcus and Niniver had spent reviewing the state of the goat herd and discussing the potential for expanding it—Ferguson knocked and, after being commanded to enter, he opened the door and announced, “Mr. Rafferty from Carter Livestock, my lady.”
Marcus uncrossed his legs and rose. Niniver came to her feet more slowly; one glance at her face, and he got the distinct impression that she didn’t like Rafferty.
Again, her instincts were sound. Although they’d never met, Marcus recognized the man; his father had long ago pointed him out as one agent a wise man wouldn’t trust. Tall and originally of rangy build, Rafferty was now expanding about the middle, yet he walked with a confident swagger, and his eyes were hard.
“Mr. Rafferty.” Niniver’s tone held a touch of imperious distance. She waved to the chair Quinn had vacated. “If you would be seated.”
She sat, and waited only until Rafferty’s breeches touched the chair’s seat to state, “I’ve reviewed the prices we’ve received from Carter Livestock over the past several years. I understand you wish to lower them.”
Although they’d never been introduced, Rafferty recognized Marcus, which left the agent uncertain how to proceed. He studied Marcus, once again seated at his ease, from under lowering brows. “If I may make so bold, sir, I’ve always dealt with a Carrick with regard to the Carrick cattle. I understand that Lady Carrick is now head of the clan.”
“Indeed.” Marcus smiled with an amiability that did not reach his eyes. “As you so rightly note, I’m not a member of the clan, but in this, you may consider me”—he vaguely waved—“her ladyship’s assistant.”
Rafferty nearly choked trying to smother his snort. But after a second’s debate, he transferred his gaze to Niniver.
She caught his eye and arched her brows. “Mr. Rafferty—I’ll be frank. I see no reason to lower the price the clan will accept for our animals. There has been no change in commercial conditions. If Carter Livestock cannot come up to our mark, then we will need to find some other company to deal with.”
“Oh, you won’t do that.” Rafferty leaned back and tucked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “I can assure you that you won’t find any other company willing to offer as much as me and Carter Livestock—that’s why your dad did business with us for so long. And as for reasons—well, the market’s next to flooded, isn’t it?” Without pausing for any response, Rafferty rolled on, elaborating on what he insisted was a glutted market.
When Niniver gave no sign of weakening, much less collapsing and begging him to take the clan’s cattle at the low price he repeatedly stressed was the very best any agent would offer, Rafferty grew increasingly belligerent.
Marcus tensed, but held himself back. Niniver’s expression had grown stony and remained unyielding.
Finally, his gaze locked on Niniver’s face, Rafferty leaned forward, gripping the front of the desk as he concluded, “So, you see, you really should accept my price.” He searched Niniver’s face. “So do we have a deal?”
Niniver looked him in the eye. “No.”
Rafferty blinked, then he surged to his feet and leaned threateningly over the desk. “What—”
Quicker than thought, Marcus was on his feet. “Rafferty.” He didn’t need to lower his tone to menacing; it was already there. When Rafferty glanced his way, he continued, his voice even, his diction precise, his gaze locked on Rafferty’s flushed countenance, “The Lady—that’s Lady with a capital L—said ‘no.’”
For an instant, Rafferty glared at him; unmoved, Marcus stared steadily back.
Niniver looked from one to the other; when it came to intimidation, Rafferty was significantly outclassed. She allowed the stand-off to continue for a moment more, then she rose, drawing Rafferty’s attention. “Thank you, Mr. Rafferty. Should the clan decide to continue our association with Carter Livestock under the terms you’ve outlined today, we will be in touch.”
Rafferty blinked. He looked from her to Marcus. Then he straightened and tugged his waistcoat into place. “I can tell you, you won’t get any better price—”
“Thank you, Mr. Rafferty. You’ve made your position quite clear.” She stared evenly back at the man—something she found relatively easy to do with Marcus standing beside her. She nodded in curt dismissal. “Good day, sir.”
Rafferty had no choice but to grit his teeth, turn on his heel, and stalk to the door. He opened it and walked through, leaving the door swinging.
Marcus stirred, then ambled down the room. He shut the door and prowled back to the desk.
She blew out a breath and sank into her chair. “Dreadful man.”
“Indeed.” Marcus halted. He reached out and pulled the chair he’d used back around to face the desk.
Once he sat, she met his eyes. “I haven’t heard even a whisper about the price of cattle falling, have you?”
He shook his head. “And I certainly wouldn’t trust Rafferty’s—or, indeed, Carter Livestock’s—word on the matter.”
She sighed and looked down. After a moment, she asked, “Do you know of any other agency we might approach to sell our cattle?”
She glanced up and saw his gaze grow distant, but then he refocused on her face. “If I were you, I’d write and ask Thomas. Two years ago, and I would have been certain who was best for you to deal with, but since Thomas married Lucilla and came to the Vale, I’ve been working exclusively with sheep. However, I did hear that Thomas found some new and better avenue for our herd, and from memory, your herd, although smaller, derives from much the same stock as ours.”
She nodded. “Yes, they’re much the same.” She considered, then opened a side drawer and drew out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll write to Thomas.” Picking up a pen, she continued, “I’ve a suspicion Rafferty will be back, and I would
so like to be able to tell him we’re sending our cattle to someone else.”
Marcus grinned. He watched her bend over her letter and decided the morning had gone rather well.
* * *
After an uneventful afternoon and evening—and a far from uneventful night—Marcus succeeded in tempting Niniver to take out her pack of deerhounds and go hunting through the hills with him.
Just him. They didn’t need anyone else—an arrangement she’d agreed to quite happily.
As they tramped over the rough grasses of the lower slopes and passed into the shadows of the taller trees, he allowed his mind to apply the right word to his actions. Wooing. Perhaps not in conventional style, but wooing nevertheless.
Wooing Niniver.
He glanced at her as she strode beside him. She was looking down, watching where she placed her feet. She’d worn a heavy twill skirt, with a simple jacket over her blouse. Like many local women—ladies included, for practicality’s sake—she wore trousers beneath her calf-length skirt and petticoat. Her riding boots showed beneath the hems and reminded him of her injury. “How’s your ankle holding up?” They’d left the horses in the last of the paddocks and had been tramping for twenty minutes at least.
“It’s completely recovered.” She raised her head and shook back her hair. “I didn’t wear the bandage at all yesterday, and I didn’t feel the slightest twinge.”
The words had barely left her lips when she stumbled.
He swooped and caught her in one arm. Holding the rifle he was carrying to one side, he pulled her upright against him.
She exhaled in what sounded like a long-suffering sigh. Then she wriggled.
He eased his hold enough to allow her to turn in his arm and face him.
She looked into his face, then she patted his chest. “It’s all right. Just a rock sliding beneath my boot, and it wasn’t even the same leg.”
He knew his face had set in grim, rather skeptical lines.
She studied his eyes, then smiled, stretched up, and planted a light kiss on his lips. “I’m perfectly all right. Now let me go, and let’s move on.”
He humphed and complied. They’d brought five hounds with them, selected after some deliberation from her pack. Two were her strongest dogs, one was a promising younger dog, and the last two were bitches, sisters from her air-scenting family.
The hounds had come to mill about them, as they usually did, wanting to know what was going on and be a part of it. Once he’d freed her, Niniver shook out her skirts and gave the hounds the order that sent them back into a scouting pattern. Then he and she walked on.
They walked and tramped, scrambled up several narrow valleys, and steadily climbed higher into the foothills. It was the end of the recognized season for roe deer does; they sighted several red deer, but as they’d left the boundaries of the Carrick estate behind and were therefore on Crown land, they complied with the recognized prohibitions, restrained the hounds, and let those deer go.
It had been late morning when they’d left the horses. When they reached the upper limit of the tree line and stepped out into an expanse of wind-ruffled grass, Niniver tipped her head back and studied the sun. “It’s well after noon. Let’s stop for our picnic.”
Marcus had been looking around. “There’s a brook nearby—I can hear it.”
Niniver gave her bitches an order. The pair raised their heads, sniffing the wind—then both turned and looked down a slight slope.
“Very neat.” Marcus resettled the hunting bag he’d carried slung over one shoulder. “Let’s see if they’re right.”
She snorted. “Of course they’re right.”
And so it proved. She set off in the direction the hounds had indicated and, at the base of a nearby dip, found a tiny brook running along a stone-strewn bed.
They spread the canvas Marcus had carried rolled up and lashed to the base of the hunting bag. He set the bag on the canvas, and Niniver busied herself unpacking the repast Gwen had provided. Local cheese, freshly baked bread, slices of ham, and pieces of roast fowl—chicken, partridge, and guinea fowl—plus egg sandwiches and cucumber sandwiches. There was a stoppered bottle of ale for Marcus, and one of the cider Niniver favored. There were also bones and hard biscuits for the hounds.
As she turned to distribute the largesse to the dogs, Marcus let himself down beside her. “A repast fit for a king and his hounds.”
She turned to him and arched a brow.
He grinned. “And, of course, his queen.”
His queen. She held his gaze and wished the midnight blue of his eyes wasn’t quite so impenetrable, yet his expression remained lighthearted, easygoing, with nothing to suggest that he’d meant anything by the possessive pronoun…even though something in the way he’d said it had sent a ripple of awareness through her.
Letting the point slide, she looked into a side pocket of the bag, then reached in. “Peaches, figs, walnuts, and apricots, too.” She displayed her finds, then laid them down with all the rest. “Where to start is the difficulty.”
He unstoppered the bottle of cider and handed it to her. “With whatever your fancy favors.”
Again, she detected an undercurrent of…suggestiveness in his tone. She glanced up and caught the watchful gleam in his eye. She smiled, inclined her head fractionally, and reached for the cider. “Indeed. That’s an excellent place to start.” Raising the bottle to her lips, she sipped.
He chuckled and reached for a chicken leg.
They ate in companionable silence. The shallow dip they were in was more a dimple in the side of the hill; the ground fell away beyond its lip to reveal a wide and distant view stretching all the way to the Rhinns of Kells. It was immensely pleasant sitting in the sunshine, feeling the warmth seep into her shoulders, hearing the soft snuffles as the dogs, satisfied with their snack, settled to doze in shaggy heaps around them.
She hadn’t thought it likely, but between them, they ate everything Gwen had packed; the result of outdoor exercise, she supposed.
Replete, she sighed, then stretched out on her back and stared up at the nearly cloudless sky.
After several moments, Marcus shifted the empty pack, then he stretched out his long legs and lay down beside her, close enough that the shoulders of their jackets brushed, but otherwise not touching.
“I shouldn’t lie here too long, or I’ll freckle.”
He laughed softly. “I hate to tell you, but you already have several freckles across the bridge of your nose.”
“Thank you. I needed to hear that.”
“Actually,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I rather like them. I find myself unexpectedly partial to the sight.”
And what was she supposed to say to that? Instead of attempting any reply, she closed her eyes, drew in a long breath, and slowly exhaled. “I’d forgotten what it’s like—to spend the day just walking, without any real purpose. Without needing to do anything. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it—how…restful this truly is. Thank you for suggesting it.”
Without looking her way, Marcus reached over and closed his hand around hers, raised it, and gently brushed a kiss to the backs of her fingers. “Believe me when I say that the outcome has been entirely my pleasure.”
He was somewhat surprised by how true that was. How deep and real that pleasure. Knowing that, in arranging for this day’s excursion, he’d succeeded in giving her a respite from her cares…warmed him in a way he’d never quite felt before. Intertwining their fingers, he lowered their hands, then simply lay beside her and, as she was, stared up at the endless blue of the sky.
It was tempting, in the drowsy haze induced by a full stomach and the lazy warmth of the sun, to contemplate kissing her—and then exploring what other delights the day might provide—yet…there was something to be said for keeping the day on this plane, one of simple pleasures.
He was conscious, again, of giving weight in his mind to her standing, to her position. They were in the open, and anyone—some of her clansme
n out enjoying the day as they were—could wander by. In planning and plotting, in weighing his options and considering what actions he might take, he was somewhat surprised that the habit of considering how any action of his might impact on her standing as clan leader had so quickly become all but instinctive. If not his first thought in any situation, then certainly his second.
Given the position he coveted—that of her husband—falling into that habit was both reassuring and wise. He would always need to tread carefully around her, wary about damaging her standing with others. As he’d done with Quinn and Rafferty. He hadn’t stepped in—effectively stepped in front of her—until Rafferty had crossed the line and become an overt threat.
Truth be told, he’d felt rather proud of his restraint.
He needed to absorb at the deepest level, to have his instincts comprehend and accept, that his role was to support her, not direct her. To shield, but not isolate.
To leave her with her will, her determination, and her dignity intact, to allow her to lead and act, and never to corral or hold her back.
His father had learned the knack, and his brother-in-law was walking the same path, too. In his case… The truth was he’d been born and bred to do this. To, as many men of their class would see it, play second fiddle to a lady.
His eyes drifted closed; his lips curved. His grandmother Helena had had it right. For men like them, playing consort to a woman took more self-confidence and masculine strength than simply being a dominant male.
To men such as him, dominance came easily, while recognizing, respecting, and accommodating a lady’s strength was a challenge.
One he felt he was meeting.
Minutes later, Niniver sat up. “If we remain here, I’ll fall asleep, and then I’ll burn.”
“In that case”—he sat up, too—“let’s get on.”
The dogs roused and shook themselves. Niniver flicked the canvas free of crumbs, then folded and rolled it up, and handed it to him. Other than the empty bottles, there was nothing of any weight left in the bag. He slung it over his shoulder, shifted it so it hung at his back, out of his way, then he picked up the hunting rifle he’d borrowed from the rack in the manor’s game room.
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 23
