He ground his teeth. “Given how long she’s held out, how was I to know the nitwit would reach breaking point last week? And then to cap it all by rushing to Cynster for help?” He imbued the name with all the loathing he could muster.
But Cynster had stepped in and, no doubt, was even now reaping the rewards that should have been Ramsey’s. That he, Ramsey McDougal, had worked for. Although he hadn’t dallied to find out, he assumed Cynster had rescued Niniver and was, even now, basking in the glow of being her hero.
It wasn’t fair. Cynster didn’t even need the money.
Ramsey did.
Quite desperately.
Sipping the last of his whisky, eking out the last drops, he circled the question of what next. It was possible Cynster, being Cynster, was simply helping Niniver out of the goodness of his heart, as it were. Ramsey couldn’t imagine behaving so himself, but he understood the concept. Noblesse oblige, and all that. He’d been born into similar circles, so he comprehended the notion but considered it vastly overrated. “However,” he murmured, “that might mean that, if I simply hold off and wait, Cynster will take care of things and then return to his own interests.”
Leaving the route to Niniver Carrick open once more.
That, Ramsey judged, was entirely possible.
Unfortunately, an essential element in such a plan was a commodity he was running short of—time.
If, as seemed likely, he couldn’t afford to wait for Cynster to withdraw, then…he would have to find some way to remove Marcus Cynster so that he could claim lovely Niniver for himself.
INTERIOR ARTWORK
CHAPTER 8
I nearly died this afternoon. And yet, thanks to Marcus, I’m still breathing.
As late afternoon faded into evening, those words circled in Niniver’s head, carried on waves of shock, amazement, and realization. Every time she remembered those last moments on Oswald’s back, terror rose up as Death stared her in the face.
Then she would blink and realize that Marcus was still sitting beside her, his arm around her, his hand holding hers.
His warmth—contrasted by the icy water about her ankle—and the solid reality of his body against hers reassured her that she was, very definitely, still alive.
Time and again, relief poured through her, twining with heartfelt gratitude.
Ultimately, inevitably, the disturbing recollections subsided. Her mind moved on, and relief and gratitude were superseded by a broader comprehension, a deeper appreciation of life, of what it meant to be alive—as if the events of the afternoon had expanded her emotional horizons in every direction.
Finally, Marcus shifted and withdrew his arm from around her shoulders. She was about to protest the loss of his warmth, of his wordless comfort, when a sound at the door had her glancing that way.
Marcus rose as Hildy and Edgar entered. The pair had obviously conferred and come armed with what they’d decided she would need—a towel to dry her foot, a pair of knitted stockings, and a bandage to bind her ankle.
She let them fuss. Not only was it easier, but it was what they—not just Edgar and Hildy but the rest of the clan—needed; they needed to feel they’d taken care of her to whatever extent they could. While Hildy patted her foot dry and debated with Edgar how best to fashion their binding, Niniver wondered how many in the clan had, by now, heard the news. From what she remembered of the incident, the shot had come from the Carrick side of the road. The shooter had almost certainly been standing on Carrick land.
That said, she found it impossible to believe that said shooter was a member of the clan. So who could it have been? And what had driven them to it? Shooting her wasn’t in anyone’s best interests, not that she could see.
Marcus stood before the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze on Edgar and Miss Hildebrand as they tended to Niniver. Now that sufficient time had elapsed and his roiling emotions had settled somewhat, now that he could see with his own eyes that she had survived, that she was reasonably well—certainly not dying—he could more coolly and calmly recall, observe, and assess the incident, and its outcome.
One thing he would never forget was the way she’d clung to him after he’d hauled her from her saddle. When horror had stripped all the normal barriers of civilization away, and she’d looked at him… He’d seen her emotions, raw, real, and true, in her wide eyes.
Whether she consciously knew it yet or not, she trusted him. With her life, with her person. She’d turned to him and clung, and she’d known he would hold her. That he would protect her.
Just as he’d held her hand over the last hour, and she’d accepted and been reassured by his nearness.
The hurdle of gaining her trust—at least her unconscious trust—had been cleared.
And another hurdle had been cleared as well—the clan now saw him as a necessary hero, one who could and would protect their lady in ways they, individually and collectively, could not. Niniver herself had recognized that no clan member could have assisted her in dismissing McDougal. But he could, and he had. Likewise, enough clan members—Sean, Mitch, Fred, and doubtless others, too—knew that only a rider like him on a horse of the quality of Ned could have ridden Oswald down in time to save Niniver.
If he hadn’t been the one with her, she would, at the very least, have been badly injured; most likely, she would have died.
And the clan would have been devastated, and soon it would have disintegrated.
He hadn’t just saved her. He’d saved them, and they knew it.
Another hurdle well and truly cleared.
He hadn’t expected to get so far so quickly, yet incidents seemed to be raining thick and fast. He had the sense—a hunter’s sense—that there was some urgency to this affair; although he couldn’t yet see from where the pressure was coming, he knew it was there.
Miss Hildebrand had brought flat-soled slippers for Niniver to wear. They’d removed her other boot, and she had the slippers on. Marcus had grave doubts about the wisdom of encouraging her to put weight on her injured foot so soon, but Edgar and Miss Hildebrand took her hands and drew her upright.
Marcus quit his position before the fireplace and returned to Niniver’s side—just as, balancing on one foot, she accepted the canes Edgar had brought down.
The idea had been sound, but Manachan had been significantly taller than Niniver; the canes were the wrong length for her.
She tried to find a different way to hold them, but when one slipped from her grasp, causing her to list and put weight unexpectedly on her injured foot and she gave a sharp cry, Marcus waited no longer. He stooped and lifted her into his arms.
She blinked at him, then turned her head and extended the cane she still held to Edgar. “Perhaps tomorrow. I can almost use them as crutches.”
Holding one in each hand, Edgar frowned at the canes. “I’ll see what else I can find.”
Ferguson had appeared and now hovered in the doorway. Marcus directed a look his way.
“Dinner is served, my lady. Sir. Miss Hildebrand.”
“Excellent.” Miss Hildebrand stepped back and waved at Marcus to lead the way.
He carried Niniver through the hall, down the corridor, and into the dining room. Ferguson held the chair in which she usually sat. Gently, Marcus set her down. She shifted, settling her skirts, then he eased the chair in for her.
Claiming the chair next to hers—now his customary place—he glanced up the table to the huge carver at its head. “You don’t sit at the head of the table.” His tone made the observation a question.
Flicking out her napkin, she shook her head. She glanced at the chair in question. “Perhaps one day I might, but…not yet.”
Glancing across the table, Marcus saw that Miss Hildebrand was directing a look—a very pointed, meaning-laden look—at him. As Ferguson circled with the soup tureen and then they settled to sup, Marcus tried to imagine what, in Niniver’s eyes, might preclude her from claiming…her father’s place. Was that it?
&nb
sp; As they ate their way through the four courses, he replayed her previous comments about her father’s legacy, about how she wished to preserve it. He was fairly certain the matter of the chair was somehow connected with that.
Niniver and Miss Hildebrand chatted about the various errands Niniver had run in Ayr, leaving him free to follow his thoughts. To revisit and assess each little snippet Niniver had let fall through the prism of his instincts.
There was something there, something she hadn’t yet told him—perhaps hadn’t told anyone else—about the clan’s situation. He was more than qualified to help her with whatever it was, but she would have to make the decision to tell him, to ask for his help in that arena, too.
He hoped she did, but he couldn’t push. That much he understood and accepted.
It seemed that, just as he’d hoped—just as, in her usual nebulous ways, Fate had promised—there was more for him to do as Niniver’s champion beyond the obvious aspects of the role. Protecting and defending her from physical attack was one thing, but there were other encroachments on her peace that rightly also fell to him to deal with. Or at least help with.
He slanted a glance at her, then looked further up the table at the empty chair.
Now there was a clear-cut goal. He would work until he saw her sitting there, secure in whatever way she needed to feel to fully claim her rightful place.
Dessert, a charlotte russe—apparently one of Niniver’s favorites—distracted him; while she consumed the sweet concoction, her face lit with pleasure.
There was, he realized, no sign of lingering strain. She’d said that, as long as she wasn’t standing on her ankle, it didn’t hurt, and there was, in truth, no hint of pain in or around her eyes, much less about her luscious lips.
He was reminded again of the conundrum she posed. She looked like a porcelain doll—fragile, delicate, and easily damaged—but she was flesh and blood, and much stronger and far more resilient than she appeared.
Despite the trials life and the rest of her family had thrown at her, she hadn’t broken yet. She hadn’t even cracked.
Out of nowhere, Lady Osbaldestone’s voice rang in his head, and he grinned at the aptness of her words.
Niniver caught his grin. She considered it, then she captured his gaze, briefly studied his eyes, and arched a brow. “What?”
His grin deepened into a smile. He held her gaze for a moment, then admitted, “I was thinking of how the grandes dames of London—specifically the arch-grande dame of them all, who I happen to know—would describe you.”
She looked skeptical. “Do I want to know?”
Still smiling, he tilted his head. “She would say that you’re ‘made of stern stuff.’ It’s a compliment—and, from that particular lady, one of significant weight.”
Faint color tinted her cheeks. “Why, thank you. I think.” Immediately, she looked across the table. “Are we ready to retire?”
Miss Hildebrand confirmed they were. Still grinning to himself, Marcus rose. Niniver turned to him, but before she could speak, he stated, “No, I don’t want to sit and imbibe—I’ll come to the drawing room with you.”
He and Ferguson eased her up from her chair, then he swooped and hoisted her into his arms once more.
Riding, acquiescent, in his hold, as he paced down the corridor, she sniffed. “I smell dreadfully of horse.”
“So, no doubt, do I.” He caught her eyes when she glanced at him. “Changing for dinner would have been difficult for you, and I elected to keep you company. As Miss Hildebrand hasn’t complained, I believe we’re excused.”
She humphed but said nothing more.
He carried her to the sofa.
Niniver settled back against the cushions. To her surprise, but also her delight, Marcus went to the pianoforte and proceeded to entertain them. He really was an excellent pianist. She relaxed against the cushions and let the music wash over and through her.
Several pieces later, she realized he was playing by heart, and also from the heart—simply playing whatever piece his mind alighted on. There was strength in his music, and passion, and a sense of energy—of life. He played to exorcise his emotions and, in so doing, exorcised hers.
The tea trolley arrived, but he refused a cup and continued playing. She sipped, closed her eyes, and let the music speak to her and fill her mind.
By the time he finally reached an end—and his fingers stilled on the keys, the notes faded, and she opened her eyes and their gazes met and held—she felt a tangible connection. A link borne on his music, recognized by their senses, carried in that gaze, yet so real it impacted like a touch.
A caress.
He broke the connection and looked down. Then he closed the instrument and rose.
“Thank you, Mr. Cynster.” Tugging her shawl about her shoulders, Hildy got to her feet. “That was an impressive performance.”
Impressive, indeed. Niniver drank in the sight of him as he accepted Hildy’s praise with a dip of his dark head, then he straightened and came toward her.
It was his focus as he looked at her that, as always, struck her. That thrilled her at some feminine level she was only just learning to recognize. To appreciate.
She was dimly aware of Hildy following him across the room.
“Are you ready to go up, my dear? I do think you would be wise to retire and rest that ankle.” Hildy studied her, then glanced at Marcus. “Can you manage, do you think?”
Her gaze on Marcus’s face—on his carefully guarded expression—Niniver replied, “I’ll manage well enough, Hildy. You go up. Mr. Cynster and I will follow.”
Suspicion bloomed in Marcus’s eyes, and as she’d anticipated, he bent and, with senses-stealing ease, lifted her into his arms.
He nodded at Hildy. “If you would open the door?”
Hildy led the way from the room, up the main stairs, and around into the gallery. But when they reached the stairs that led to the next floor and her apartment at one end, she halted. “I’m sure Ella will be waiting in your room, so I’ll bid you a good night, my dear.” Hildy inclined her head approvingly to Marcus. “Mr. Cynster.”
In unison, he and Niniver chorused a good night; she wondered if it was her imagination, but Marcus seemed a trifle disconcerted to be left alone with her in his arms.
She almost grinned. Silly man; everyone in the house trusted him. Most especially with her.
And they trusted her. The entire clan trusted her to make the right decisions. That trust was something she’d earned over the years, not just recently. And, tonight, she had every intention of making the right decision.
He carried her to her door. He paused before it, and she leaned down, grasped the knob, opened the door, and pushed it wide.
He strode in.
“Wait,” she said, and he halted.
Stretching back, she caught the edge of the door and sent it swinging shut.
The soft thud and the click of the latch re-engaging reached them. As she relaxed back into his arms, he was scanning the room.
The lamp by the bed shed warm light through the room; it lit his face, and also revealed that there was no one else there. His dark gaze now openly suspicious, he looked down at her. “Where’s Ella?”
“Ella never attends me at night, not unless I ring for her, and I rarely do.” She held his gaze for an instant more, then tipped her head toward the bed. “You can set me down over there.”
He looked around again, but there was no other option; setting her down on her dressing-table stool or the armchair by the hearth would be no help at all.
His jaw tightened, then he strode across the room, halted beside the bed, leaned across, and laid her on the covers, her head on the pillows.
She let him ease her body down, but she simultaneously curled the fingers of her right hand into the stock of his cravat.
He felt the material shift, glanced down, and froze. His hands still cradling her curves, he stared at her fist, locked about his neckcloth, then, slowly, he raised his g
aze to her eyes. “Niniver—”
“Remember our earlier discussion about the price of protection?”
His jaw set. “That doesn’t apply here.”
She tipped her head, openly studying his face. “Well, I think it does, if anything more than before—and, really, you aren’t all that good at lying.” Each time he’d picked her up and carried her, he’d held her so gently, so carefully—with such rigid control that it had only served to highlight the fact that he’d really wanted to seize her. To crush her to him, rather than treat her like some delicate flower. She’d felt the tension thrumming through him, had heard it investing the music he’d played.
“But, regardless”—she locked her gaze with his—“I wasn’t talking about you. I discovered today that, quite apart from protection, cheating death has a price, too. And, for me, that price is claiming life.” She knew exactly what she was doing. Using her hold on his cravat, using his strength and unbudging weight for leverage, she drew herself up until her lips were an inch from his. Her eyes still locked with his, she let her lips curve and softly said, “For me, the price is claiming you.”
Lowering her lids, she set her lips to his.
For fully half a minute, he held fast against her, against the entreaty she pressed on him with her lips as well as her words—then he surrendered on a groan.
And seized control of the kiss.
As far as she would let him. She wasn’t of a mind to allow him to think enough to make any honorable stand. To think enough to imagine that he knew better than she, and that this—all she intended—wasn’t the right path.
A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 17
