Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  She smothered a tiny scream; she felt like she was flying. As if previously he’d held back, but now they were waltzing free.

  Hildy noticed and played even more vigorously.

  Soon, Niniver was laughing, and so was he.

  She let him whirl her on, giddy with a species of effervescent delight, and gave herself over to simply enjoying, to sharing the moments freely, openly, without restraint.

  And if, in some dark corner of her mind, caution raised its head, she—as she had ever since she’d initiated their intimacy—pushed it back down with the admonition that, given that their liaison would inevitably end, most likely sometime soon, it was only sensible to seize and embrace every moment of wonder and joy that came her way—every minute of those simple pleasures he and she delighted in and shared.

  * * *

  Hours later, Marcus lay on his back in Niniver’s bed, with her a warm bundle snuggled against his side. Satiation lay heavy upon him, a relaxation so deep it reached to his marrow. But before he succumbed to sleep, the nebulous sense of needing to press ahead and secure Niniver’s hand pushed him to reassess yet again. Could he ask her now? Had he waited long enough?

  Had she fallen in love with him yet? At least enough to agree to wed him?

  He felt he was operating on borrowed time, yet he wasn’t entirely sure why. The pressure from her clansmen had vanished, along with all potential threat from them. As for any threat posed by Nigel and Nolan’s friends, that would evaporate the instant she agreed to marry him. Without being overly cocksure, he doubted any local gentleman would seek to tread on his or his family’s toes; once their engagement was announced, she would be shielded from such men.

  He had to confess he was somewhat surprised that Ramsey McDougal hadn’t spread the word that she was out of mourning. That would have effectively declared open season on her…which perhaps explained why McDougal had kept mum. If he still had designs on her himself…

  Despite the grip satiation had on him, he felt himself tense. He hadn’t yet heard from Glencrae, but even letters took time to travel that far. And Dominic might not have known enough himself, might have had to send deeper into the Highlands for information… It could be days yet before Marcus heard back. Days before he could weigh the issue properly and decide if McDougal warranted a private visit.

  After all he’d seen and learned over the past days, he wasn’t above a little direct intimidation.

  He remained astounded by what he’d seen in the clan’s accounts—the degree to which, courtesy of her brothers, Niniver had been pushed financially, yet she’d never given up, and had struggled, above all, to meet the needs of the clan.

  By hook, crook, and, in many instances, sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, she’d pulled it off.

  As far as he could tell, she would soon be out of the woods with the estate. It would take years before the clan was anything like financially strong, but she’d kept their collective heads above water, and the clan was almost on a stable footing once more. If no other financial problem threatened, she would lead the clan onto the road to prosperity, thus fulfilling the essence of her vow to her father.

  If she married him, then not even any financial threat would deflect the clan’s march toward better times, because as her husband, he wouldn’t allow it. He could, and would, ensure that any lingering weaknesses were shored up, either via advice and guidance—or, if necessary, through direct financial aid. But he wasn’t going to allow consideration of his value to the clan to figure in any way into her deliberations to marry him—not if he could help it.

  Not if he could outweigh and overwhelm all such thoughts with something more powerful.

  With love.

  Better than most men, he knew what it was, but not even he fully understood it.

  Unlike most men of his acquaintance, he was attempting to invoke love, to establish it and use it to his advantage—to help induce her to marry him. He was willing to commit wholeheartedly to loving her if only she would love him in return.

  Yet he still couldn’t tell what she thought—what she was feeling.

  Whether she loved him or was merely delighted to be engaging in an affair with him.

  He’d never tried to read a woman’s mind before, had never had occasion to need to. Now…

  Actions spoke louder than words. He knew that was true, so…

  If that was true, then given the tenor of their engagements over the past nights, culminating in the interlude tonight, she had to be, if not already in love with him, then on the cusp of it. Or so he judged.

  Every night they came together, their connection—the way they spoke to each other with lips and tongue, with touches and caresses, and ultimately with their bodies—deepened and expanded, becoming ever more powerful, and also more nuanced.

  More a communication in a language they were both still learning, still exploring the limits of what they could say—of what that particular language allowed them to reveal, to share.

  It was both exhilarating and frightening, in the way the best adventures were.

  And they were in it together, adventuring together; he didn’t doubt that.

  Tonight, they’d reached a level of openness—of emotional exposure and unfettered sharing—that had left him wrung out on every level, yet at the same time, more deeply fulfilled, more buoyed and awash in emotional glory than he’d ever imagined he could be.

  Without restraint, she’d shared herself, not just her body but, as he’d sensed it, her heart, and he’d matched her through every gasp, through every moan. They’d been together in every sense, on every plane.

  She had to love him—at least enough.

  Enough for him to ask for her hand.

  He let that conclusion drift through his mind to see how it settled.

  Almost, but not quite. Yes, it was time he took the plunge, set himself at the final fence and threw his heart over, but there was one last thing he should do to set the stage. One last thing he could do to shore up his chances of hearing her say: I will. I do.

  CHAPTER 12

  “I was wondering…” Marcus caught Niniver’s eye as he rose and drew out the chair beside his at the dining table. He waited until she sat; when she glanced at him inquiringly, he resumed his seat, picked up his fork, and poked at his kedgeree. “I should drop in at Bidealeigh—just to check that there’s nothing I need to attend to there—and I wondered if you’d like to ride over with me?”

  Just to check… Niniver swallowed the protest that had leapt to her tongue, along with the imminent smothering disappointment, and smiled with, she hoped, enough genuine delight to hide her immense relief. “Yes, of course. I’d love to.” Her smile turned to a silly grin that she seemed incapable of muting. Switching her attention to her own mound of kedgeree, she added, “I haven’t any meetings today, and with all the accounts done, there’s no reason I can’t take the time. And I haven’t been to Bidealeigh—well, to the Hennessy farmhouse as was—since old man Hennessy grew so cantankerous. Well, except when I came to call on you, that is.” She was babbling, but she was so happy she didn’t truly care.

  He wasn’t leaving. That was all that mattered. She didn’t need to know why he still felt he needed to continue at the manor; as long as he intended to return with her and remain for the immediate future at least, she was content.

  She didn’t want to end their liaison, not when there was so much she’d yet to learn. Last night, she’d felt as if, together, he and she had teetered on the brink of some fabled wonder.

  It gripped her so hard, so unrelentingly, the glory that together they gave birth to. She couldn’t bear to lose it—not yet.

  She made short work of her breakfast. Raising her teacup, she sipped, then swiveled in her chair to glance out of the window. “It’s another fine day—not that we’re riding far.”

  “I thought, if you have the time, that we might go a touch further and check on my hounds.” He pushed away his empty plate. “I should give them a quick run, too
.”

  She swung to face him. “I’d like that. I haven’t seen your pack—not since that time we met up on the ridge, and even then you only had a few dogs with you.”

  “I don’t have as many as you do.” He leaned back in his chair and, over the top of his coffee cup, met her eyes. “I’ve concentrated on only two breeders and brought in sires from outside.”

  She didn’t have to feign her eagerness. “I would love to have a chance to look them over. Who knows? Perhaps we should consider crossbreeding?”

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing if either of my lines have any of that air-scenting ability.”

  She nodded. “We’ll assess them.” She set down her cup and pushed back from the table. “I need to change. Shall I meet you in the stable yard?”

  He smiled. “I’ll have the horses saddled and waiting.”

  She knew she was beaming brightly—positively radiantly—as she left the dining room and walked quickly through the front hall and back up the stairs. On reaching her room, she shut the door, then, buoyed on a wave of happiness, she spun and waltzed her way across the room to her armoire.

  Laughing at herself, she pulled the double doors wide, reached in, and drew out her riding habit. She tossed the heavy skirt with its matching under-trousers and the fitted velvet jacket onto the bed, then crossed to her chest of drawers to find a suitable blouse.

  Quite why she was so happy she didn’t know. But happiness was an emotion she hadn’t felt for so long that it seemed like a minor miracle to have it return, and in such overwhelming fashion.

  He and their liaison—all they shared, not just through the nights but through all the hours of the days, too—made her happy.

  Made her heart light, made it sing.

  Made her believe in life again—that there would be good times as well as the bad, as well as the times of struggle and worry.

  Swiftly climbing out of her morning gown, she donned her chosen blouse—one with ruffles that made her feel extra-feminine. The trousers and skirt took a few minutes more, then she shrugged on her jacket. She found her boots, toed off her house slippers, and sat to pull the boots on.

  Struggle and worry had been all she’d known for the last several years, concern and anxiety, even desolation, devastation, and fear.

  Now…while she knew problems still remained, that there were hurdles yet to be overcome, she felt…empowered. Uplifted and so much more confident that, come what may, she would find her way through.

  That she would save the clan and fulfill her vow to her father.

  She stood, stamped her feet to settle the boots, then quickly checked her hair—already in a sufficiently tight bun. Then she swiped up her riding gloves from the top of her bureau, opened the door, and headed for the stairs.

  Another day of learning more about Marcus. Another day of learning more about herself and about all life had to offer her.

  Smiling, she clattered down the stairs.

  * * *

  “So when are you going to pop the question?”

  Marcus raised his head and stared, stony-faced, across Ned’s back at Sean.

  Sean shrugged. “The clan’s been talking—she is our lady, after all. So we want to know.”

  Marcus looked down and cinched Ned’s girth. His first impulse was to tell Sean—and the clan—to mind their own business, yet they had supported him… If Niniver were in his shoes, she’d probably think the question entirely reasonable. “I want to give her time to get to know me better, rather than appear too precipitate. Ladies like to be wooed.”

  Sean snorted. “You’d know, I suppose.”

  Marcus bit back the reply that he’d never wooed any lady before—no need to point out that he was a novice in that sphere. Although he hadn’t discussed marrying Niniver with anyone, he wasn’t surprised that the clan was watching—and, apparently, taking a close interest; why else had they moved to clear his path of her would-be suitors? And he fully expected the clan as a whole was, by now, aware he was sharing their lady’s bed. In local terms, that called for a handfasting at the very least, which, for the likes of him and Niniver, meant a betrothal.

  They’d been saddling and bridling Ned and Oswald in the cleared space just inside the big stable. Sean checked Oswald’s scarred flank, then turned the bay and started leading him to the open stable door. “Just as long as the knot gets tied—and soon.”

  Grasping Ned’s reins, Marcus led the big gray in Oswald’s wake. “I assure you, it will be.” Perhaps later today, after he’d shown Niniver over Bidealeigh. After he’d impressed on her the material assets he would bring to their union and, perhaps, tempted her with his hounds—maybe then he’d put his luck to the test.

  He knew why he’d decided to take her to Bidealeigh; the depth of their sharing last night had left him feeling that the moment to ask her was almost upon him, and he needed the reassurance.

  The fact that he did was a niggle in his mind.

  Leading Ned, he followed Sean and Oswald into the stable yard.

  A sunny smile on her face, Niniver was walking their way. Seeing Sean with Oswald, she waved him to the mounting block to one side of the yard and changed direction to join them there.

  Marcus halted Ned, set his boot in the stirrup, and swung up to the saddle. Only as he settled and lifted the reins did he realize he’d missed the chance to lift Niniver to her saddle. Watching her scramble up, then settle her boots and skirts, he inwardly shrugged; they were, no doubt, past the stage of needing to seize every chance to touch.

  “Right, then?” Niniver called across the yard. When he inclined his head and waved her toward the stable yard gate, she started Oswald walking. “It’s faster via the path through the fields. You lead—I’ll follow.”

  “All right.” He swung Ned’s head for—at least as the horse thought of it—home. As he set off, Ned’s big hooves clattering down the drive, with Oswald’s hooves striking in counterpoint close behind, Marcus realized his own inner compass had already shifted; for him, Bidealeigh was no longer home.

  * * *

  The ride from Carrick Manor to Bidealeigh, especially through the fields, didn’t take long. Throughout, Niniver kept Oswald a length behind Ned. When they crossed the highway, Marcus glanced back, and was surprised to see that, far from being sunny and happy, Niniver’s expression was closed, almost bleak.

  He’d never previously felt his heart plummet, but in that instant, it did—and he had no idea why, because the instant he caught her eye, she brightened and flashed him a brilliant smile.

  He smiled back, then had to face forward. As he and Ned soared over the next low stone wall, he told himself there was nothing to worry about; she must have been thinking about some business matter, something she and he hadn’t yet dealt with. He would find out what it was later, and they would sort it out. No insurmountable concern, and no real difficulty between them.

  They rode into the yard before Bidealeigh’s stable. Johnny came walking out. His face lit with a smile when he saw who it was. “Good day to you, sir. It’s good to have you back.”

  Marcus reined Ned in. “I’m only back for the day, so if there’s anything you need me for, come up to the house later.”

  “Och, aye—all’s well.” Johnny dipped his head to Niniver. “I won’t be needing to trouble you.”

  Marcus swung down from Ned’s back, handed the reins to Johnny, and turned—to see Niniver slide from Oswald’s back to the ground. It was a practiced maneuver, one she could patently accomplish with relative ease, yet recently she’d been waiting and allowing him to lift her down.

  With a smile, she held out her reins to Johnny. “Thank you,” she said as he took them.

  Then she turned to survey the house—all without meeting Marcus’s eyes.

  Johnny led the horses away. A graveled path led from the stable yard over clipped lawns to the narrow front porch.

  Marcus walked up to Niniver.

  As he drew level, she glanced briefly his way and waved toward the h
ouse. Her lips were curved, but, again, she didn’t raise her gaze to his eyes. “Shall we?”

  “Indeed.” He went to take her hand, but she started forward.

  He fell in beside her, and she made a production of drawing off her riding gloves. It gave her an excuse to look down, and with the difference in their heights, that effectively hid her face from him.

  As they walked toward Bidealeigh’s front door, Marcus felt a chill touch his soul.

  What the devil had gone wrong?

  He had no idea, but clearly, something had.

  But he couldn’t fix whatever had gone wrong without knowing what it was.

  He had to trust her to tell him—eventually. They’d already got over that hurdle. She’d trusted him enough to tell him about her private vow to her father; surely, once she’d assimilated the ramifications of whatever the issue was, she would tell him. She knew he would move heaven and earth to help her, so…

  There was nothing he could do but wait.

  And not push.

  Her confidence would always have to be given freely; it would always be hers to give. Her right; her choice. Even once they were married…it would still be her decision.

  Just another little challenge in being the husband of the lady of a clan.

  He was, he told himself, up to it.

  They stepped onto the porch and he reached past her to set the door swinging wide. “Welcome to Bidealeigh.” The words felt stiff and formal.

  She inclined her head and walked into the front hall. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Flyte came bustling up from the kitchen. “Oh, it’s you, sir. Welcome home.” Seeing Niniver, Mrs. Flyte smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “My lady.” Mrs. Flyte glanced at Marcus. “Will you be wanting anything, sir?”

  “Ah—not at the moment.” He glanced at Niniver, but she was, apparently, studying the paneled walls; she gave him no sign. “We’re here for the day. Perhaps, after I check my correspondence, we might have some tea.” He looked back at Mrs. Flyte. “In the living room, I suppose.”