Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Niniver whistled the hounds into formation. He joined her, and they walked back through the trees and headed down the ridge, circling back toward the horses.

  They tramped downward by way of narrow valleys they hadn’t used on the way up. And saw no sign of the elusive roe deer.

  He kept a close eye on the hounds. The simple pleasure of the day should have been reward enough, yet… As they started down another narrow fold in the land, he murmured, “I’m going to feel quite lacking if we return to the manor with nothing to show for the day.”

  Niniver glanced sidelong at him, then shifted her gaze back to her hounds. “It was a lovely day, regardless. No one will think—”

  The dog in the lead halted. Head up, he looked to their left. Over a lip, the land fell away, and the trees grew more thickly. Whatever the dog had sensed, she couldn’t see it.

  The pair of bitches joined the lead dog, both scenting the air…both also froze, focused on the thicket.

  Without a word, Marcus shrugged the bag from his shoulder and held it out to her. She took it, then watched in silence as, using the hand signals she’d trained the dogs to obey, he chose the lead dog and the oldest bitch to go with him, instructing the other three hounds to stay with her.

  Then he angled toward the thicket and stalked, soundlessly, into the trees.

  She waited. A minute ticked by, then she heard a panicked crash, almost immediately followed by the sharp retort of the rifle. Another, slower, set of crashing noises followed, and then all fell silent.

  She crouched and called the three remaining hounds to her, distracting them while she unlaced the rolled canvas from the hunting bag. Then she hefted the bag over one shoulder and, with the canvas in her hands and the hounds eagerly crowding near, went into the trees.

  Marcus had brought down a nice-sized roe deer doe; he was trussing the dead animal’s hooves when she reached him.

  She’d long ago accepted that, as the deer were plentiful and people had to eat, taking the occasional animal was no crime against nature. She also recalled that Marcus, along with his family in the Vale, followed a rigid code regarding the taking of life on The Lady’s lands.

  He glanced up when she halted beside him. Seeing the canvas in her hands, he nodded. “Thank you. Can you help me roll her up?”

  Between them, they wrapped the deer in the canvas, leaving the trussed legs, front and rear, free.

  “Does your cook know to use all of the kill?” Marcus asked.

  She nodded. “We follow the same creed as in the Vale.” Now she thought of it… Straightening, she frowned. “That must hail from times past, when there were more links between the manor and the Vale.” She met Marcus’s eyes. “I know Algaria was a connection of Papa’s, so there must have been a closer link between the households at some point.”

  “Perhaps.” He bent and hoisted the animal so that the body lay draped across his shoulders, with the trussed legs hanging to either side; he gripped the lashed hooves, shrugged the body into position, and held it there. “But more likely, it’s because the manor lands, and even the land we’re on now, all lie under The Lady’s rule.”

  She bent to pick up the rifle; he’d already ejected the spent shell and had, no doubt, pocketed it. “How do you know? About the manor lands being under The Lady’s rule?”

  He met her eyes. A second passed, then he said, “I can feel it.” He turned and started to walk back through the trees to the path they’d been on.

  She followed. When they were once more pacing along, slower now that he was carrying the dead weight of the deer, she asked, “Feel how?”

  He thought before he replied, “I’m not like Lucilla. She… It’s almost as if she can open some sort of direct channel to The Lady. For me, I have to be walking the land to sense Her. She’s a presence—like when your senses tell you someone is watching, only in the case of The Lady, it’s not watching so much as being.”

  “Can you sense that—Her—when you’re riding?”

  “Yes, but less certainly.”

  There were times she forgot that he was somehow connected to the land. It was all a trifle mystical, yet The Lady’s power seemed so rigidly benign, she saw no reason to fear it—indeed, to do anything other than welcome it. She and the clan could use all the help they could get. “Even Papa…” She realized she was speaking her thoughts aloud, but when Marcus glanced at her, she continued, “I don’t think he believed, as such, yet he was always very…respectful of anything to do with The Lady. I remember him saying that he saw no reason to get on Her bad side.”

  Marcus snorted. “That sounds like Manachan.”

  Memories of her father rolled over her—not the more recent memories of the few years before his death, but memories from her childhood, when he’d stood, a larger-than-life figure, all but filling her world.

  She felt Marcus’s gaze touch her face more than once, but he said nothing more, and neither did she. They walked down to where they’d left the horses. Marcus tied the deer to the rear of his saddle, then he lifted her to her saddle; she called the hounds as he swung up to his. Then they turned their horses’ heads for old Egan’s farm.

  * * *

  The following day, Marcus accompanied Niniver on what, she’d informed him, was a regular and routine ride about the estate.

  He’d been quietly pleased that she’d invited him to go with her. He would have ridden out with her regardless, but not having to insist that he couldn’t protect her if he wasn’t with her had been a boon. Especially as formulating any coherent explanation of who he might be protecting her from was no longer as easy as it once had been.

  Her would-be suitors from within the clan, those whose actions had originally driven her to seek his help, had openly ceased their pursuit of her. And although all the clan elders had been as concerned as he over the shooting, no trace of the shooter had come to light, and it was increasingly looking as if it truly had been a stray shot from some errant hunter.

  All of which suggested that there wasn’t any real and present threat to her, and therefore nothing against which she needed his protection.

  That didn’t mean he would—or, in fact, could—countenance her riding about the estate alone.

  They rode east from the manor, then circled south, halting along the way to speak with any men they saw in the fields, and stopping at the various farms and cottages.

  He followed Niniver inside the homes, ducking under the lintels to stand behind her shoulder. It rapidly became apparent from the quick, covert glances cast his way that the clan members—like the clan elders—saw his hovering presence as a clear indication of his interest in her.

  Well and good, but luckily for him, as Niniver chatted and talked, she remained transparently oblivious of the expectations he saw so clearly in all her clan members’ eyes.

  When they called at Egan’s farm—this time to actually go into the farmhouse and not just the barn-cum-kennels—he discovered the old man lived with his daughter, her husband, and their two sons, one of whom was married and whose wife had recently given birth to twins.

  A twin himself, he felt a tug of connection. But when the mother—who clearly knew Niniver well—pressed one swaddled bundle into Niniver’s arms, he had eyes and senses for no one and nothing else.

  Niniver’s expression as she smiled down into the baby’s face, as she laughed and let the infant bat at her curls, held so much love and devotion it literally stole his breath.

  The sight held him transfixed.

  And in that instant, he saw precisely why the clan had elected her as leader. Contrary to what she thought, it had nothing to do with her family name, but had everything to do with her capacity to care. With all her heart, with all her soul.

  He’d already noted that she was one of those who gave to others gladly, who more or less lived to do so. What he saw revealed now, as she jiggled the baby in her arms and, smiling like a madonna, cooed softly and made the child gurgle and smile, was a quality of unconditional lo
ve he’d seen in no other, a sight that shook him to his soul and left him humbled.

  He closed the distance between them, drawn by some invisible force, wanting, without knowing how, to touch that shining joy.

  She glanced at him, smiled, and he felt as if that golden glory spilled onto him.

  Fearing that his overwhelming fascination would be showing in his face, he forced himself to look down at the baby.

  “Here.”

  Before he could stop her, Niniver was unloading the infant into his arms. As a recently minted uncle, he knew how to hold the child and instinctively did, cradling the bundled form in his arms.

  The proud father drew near and stroked the child’s cheek with a blunt but gentle finger. “Real little terror he’ll be, no doubt.”

  Somewhat to Marcus’s surprise, he found himself responding; within seconds, he’d become a part of a humorous joint attempt at predicting the future for the two babes.

  As a well-known twin, he was appealed to for advice, first by Niniver, and then by the parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. He and Niniver were offered and accepted tea and scones, but then, clearly reluctantly, she dragged herself—and him—away. But as they rode on, side by side through the sunshine, he knew the interlude was one he would never forget.

  The thought of Niniver with his son in her arms, smiling at the child just like that…

  Three of Ned’s long paces, and he pushed the conjured vision deeper into his mind. They had a lot more riding yet to do.

  As they circled the manor, halting at each clan family’s home, Niniver felt a degree of relief as it became increasingly clear that Marcus’s interest in their engagements was genuine—that he wasn’t simply following at her heels because he felt obliged to. As they rode between farms, she wrestled with the question of how she might inveigle him to stay, to remain at the manor so their liaison could continue.

  They’d only just become lovers, and she felt there was so much more she’d yet to learn, to experience, to know. She wanted as much as she could seize—of him and of them being together. But for that she needed him to stay, and now her clansmen had withdrawn their suits, and she knew of no others of Rafferty’s ilk she was likely to have to deal with…

  A possible answer slid into her mind as they drew rein outside the Bradshaws’. She put it from her while they were greeted by the burly farmer and his wife, and they chatted about the prospects for the harvest. Bradshaw was one of the clan elders and spokesman for the clan’s crop farmers. His support within the clan was crucial, and she had always been surprised that he’d thrown his considerable weight behind her.

  Given the financial shoals she was navigating in trying to keep the clan’s finances above water, Bradshaw was someone whose reactions she noted more carefully than most.

  But when they left, he returned her parting admonition that he should let her know if there was any farm matter with which she could help with a grave nod. “You take care of yourself, too, my lady. Don’t think we don’t appreciate all you do.”

  Bradshaw transferred his gaze to Marcus and nodded in farewell.

  Wheeling Oswald, she saw Marcus incline his head in reply, then he turned Ned and, side by side, they thundered back toward the manor.

  It was nearly time for luncheon, so they didn’t dally, which gave her time to think.

  When they slowed to enter the stable yard, she caught Marcus’s eye. “I haven’t been approached recently by any of Nigel and Nolan’s friends.” She fought to keep her eyes innocently wide. “I was wondering if McDougal will spread the word that I’m out of mourning, or will he keep it to himself, do you think?”

  Marcus blinked, but she’d timed the question so that the appearance of Sean and Mitch and the fuss of halting, handing over reins, and waiting for Marcus to lift her down—something she quite looked forward to now, and which was quite the best consequence of her wrenched ankle—negated any chance of an immediate reply.

  Thus giving the seed time to sink into Marcus’s mind.

  Once they were free of the horses and walking toward the side door, she slanted a questioning glance his way.

  His expression was impassive, as difficult to read as ever, but as his gaze met hers, it felt dark and stormy. “I wouldn’t like to guess what a man of McDougal’s ilk might do, but”—he opened the door for her—“no doubt we’ll see.”

  She stepped into the house, and he followed.

  We’ll see. She felt her spirits rise.

  He closed the door and fell in beside her as they walked down the corridor toward the front hall and the dining room beyond. Looking down, a slight frown on his face, he said, “Since seeing you in Ayr, McDougal hasn’t made any attempt to contact you. Perhaps he’s taken the hint. However, if I recall correctly, there were other cronies of Nigel’s and Nolan’s who have shown an interest in you.”

  He glanced at her, and she nodded decisively. “Yes. Several. At least three came around. I avoided their calls by clinging to the excuse of mourning.” Briefly, she glanced at him. “But I can’t do that any longer. If they call, I’ll have to see them. Most are sons of well-connected local families—refusing to meet them would be seen as a slight.”

  Marcus looked up as they reached the open door of the dining room. He waved Niniver inside, and hoped his response to the suggestion of her being forced to entertain Nigel and Nolan’s dissolute friends was sufficiently well concealed. “Let’s see what transpires. I’m sure if any of them arrive and find me here, in residence, they’ll reassess any notion they might be entertaining of pressing their attentions on you.”

  And if they didn’t, he would be only too happy to explain matters.

  His lips curved as he followed Niniver across the room and drew out her chair. She’d just handed him another reason to press his own suit as fast as he dared, plus the perfect counterargument should she question his continued presence by her side.

  * * *

  On the evening of the following day, Marcus walked behind Niniver and Miss Hildebrand as they made their way back to the drawing room after dinner. Life was good. The only thing that could make his day better was if Niniver would agree to marry him.

  He was starting to view his campaign of wooing her as a matter of weaving multiple threads with which to link her to him. Their day out hunting had drawn them closer on a personal level; today, when she’d retreated to the library after breakfast to deal with the financial accounts and a missive from the clan’s bank, he’d presumed on her earlier trust and had followed. He’d had to employ a little subtle encouragement, but he’d been rewarded by her, initially tentatively—almost as if she’d thought she was the one presuming—asking for his opinion. He’d given it, and when she’d relaxed and grown more open and encouraging in return, he’d added his advice.

  They’d spent all day in the library with the accounts. He’d learned a great deal more of the details of the clan’s finances—and had ended even more amazed that a gently bred young lady with no formal training in estate management, much less in dealing with finances, had been able to comprehend the intricacies and achieve so much.

  Every time he learned more about her, he grew yet more…fascinated, intrigued, but also respectful and proud.

  He’d managed to have a quick word with Miss Hildebrand before Niniver had joined them in the drawing room before dinner. Now, reentering the drawing room, Miss Hildebrand made straight for the pianoforte. “You need some gaiety after all your hard work with those accounts, my dear. I’ll play, and I’m sure Mr. Cynster will be happy to oblige and partner you.” Miss Hildebrand drew in her voluminous skirts and sat on the piano’s bench. She opened the instrument and looked up, her gaze limpidly innocent. “A waltz, I think?”

  “Indeed.” Marcus halted beside Niniver. As she turned to him, he bowed, then offered his hand. “If you will grant me the honor of this dance, Lady Carrick, I will count myself forever in your debt.”

  She laughed, but readily laid her fingers across his. “I�
��m not at all sure, Mr. Cynster, that you have that right.” As he drew her into the curve of his arm and she laid her small hand on his shoulder, the blue of her gaze deepened. “For all of these past days, it is I who am forever in your debt, and if you wish to dance, then I’m more than delighted to be your partner.”

  He stepped out; holding her gaze, he whirled them down the room. At the far end, as he slowed to turn, his eyes still locked with hers, he said, his voice low, just for her, “These moments are not about payment, recompense, or even reward. For me, moments like this, and those we’ll enjoy later in the night—all those moments when we laugh and enjoy—have nothing to do with anything beyond ourselves. Beyond you and me enjoying ourselves, enjoying each other. Enjoying being together.”

  Niniver studied his eyes, his expression, and saw nothing but complete sincerity. And when she thought back over the past days and nights, she had to admit that for her, too, those moments of sheer enjoyment, of simple pleasures, of intimate delight, had been…just that. Moments when he and she had shared the pleasure, the experience. And that sharing had only heightened the joy.

  He whirled them back up the room. His eyes still on hers, he tilted his head slightly. “Please tell me you feel the same.”

  There was nothing flippant or flirtatious in his tone; indeed, it hinted at vulnerability. She let puzzlement show in her eyes. “I do feel the same.” After a moment, she confessed, “I’m not used to having anyone with whom to share anything, let alone the moments we’ve been sharing. That’s partly what makes me…sometimes unsure.” As they swept through another turn, she briefly waved between them. “I’m not even used to having a partner to dance with.”

  His lips curved at that, and she sensed—indeed, felt—him relax. “In that case”—he fleetingly grinned, and in the next second, stepped out with even greater energy—“we should make the most of this.”