Something in him tightened. Gently holding her to him, he pushed the covers, currently tangled beneath them, down, then drew them up over their cooling bodies. Reaching out, he turned down the lamp, then gathering her closer, settling her in his arms, he propped his chin against her head, closed his eyes, and let the moment draw him in.
Let himself wallow.
He must have sunk into satiated slumber. When he woke, the angle of the moonlight slanting through the window suggested several hours had passed.
She was sleeping soundly, a warm armful of feminine curves tucked against his side.
Exactly where she was supposed to be.
His inner self knew that without question, accepted it without quibble.
This was, he supposed, Fate at her finest.
Claiming Niniver in every way had been an intrinsic part of his ultimate goal. After the events of the day, he’d needed—with a compelling ferocity he did not, even now, fully understand—to have her beneath him, wanton and open, to hear her breathy cries of surrender as he buried himself in her body and made her his.
And he had. Now, she was his.
And, yes, he could see that that also made him hers.
It seemed a fair exchange.
So Fate in the form of some idiot with a rifle had pushed him into her bed, propelling them into intimacy. Thus succeeding in linking them irrevocably, because now more than ever he was never going to let her go.
Well and good. His next step along this ever-evolving path was, quite obviously, to get her agreement to marry him.
A proposal seemed…possibly too precipitate. While he would be happy to utter the appropriate words the instant she woke up, how would she respond to such a sudden offer?
Glancing down at her fair head, he frowned. He really had no idea what she would think if he uttered those fateful words now, immediately.
He had sisters. He had female cousins. He knew well enough that the customary male notion that if a well-bred virgin gave herself in passion, then she probably had marriage on her mind, while most likely true, was never a wise assumption to admit to. Even in the most straightforward circumstances, wise men trod warily around that point.
With Niniver, the circumstances were anything but straightforward. She assumed that her position as clan leader made marriage too risky, and he could see her point. Her stance was correct, were it any man but him.
He was no threat to her or her position. And he never would be.
For him, marriage to her would never be about that—about what she could bring him. First and foremost, for a man like him, marriage had to be about what he would bring her—namely security, protection, and help in easing life’s burdens from her shoulders.
He knew his role.
But she didn’t.
She thought he was like most gentlemen she knew, and he wasn’t.
She was attracted to him, and she had wanted him enough to take him to her bed, although how much of the urgency behind her actions had been due to her near-brush with death he didn’t know and couldn’t guess.
More, she’d embarked on the engagement having already informed him of her decision never to wed, so although she might be happy to continue an affair, the passion they’d shared didn’t mean that, overnight, she would change her stance on marriage.
Simply asking her to marry him now wasn’t likely to yield the result he wanted. Worse, any too-precipitate declaration might work against him, painting him as a threat. He suspected that, no matter any private feelings, she was more than capable of banishing him for, as she would see it, the good of the clan.
The more he thought of it, the more it seemed clear that proposing to her immediately would not be a wise move.
That didn’t mean he had to wait overlong—just long enough to expand and ultimately correct her view of him and his expectations of their marriage.
His easiest way forward might well be to make her fall in love with him. His father and Thomas had achieved a similar goal, so that shouldn’t be beyond him.
He spent the next half hour devising a strategy.
Gradually, sleep crept closer, luring him back to slumber.
As his mind started to drift, he remembered McDougal. He’d seen off the man in Ayr, and Niniver had made her preference plain. McDougal hadn’t been happy, and he could have guessed they would be returning along the highway later that afternoon.
Could McDougal have been the one who had shot at her?
At her?
Or had McDougal shot at him?
The latter seemed a more likely possibility, yet surely such a suspicion was far-fetched.
Still, he knew McDougal hailed from the Highlands, and he had an excellent contact up there. Easy enough to ask for information.
He yawned and sank deeper in the bed. “Even if just for my own peace of mind.”
He closed his eyes and let sleep drag him down.
CHAPTER 9
Hours later, Marcus was seated at the dining table, working his way through an extra-large helping of kedgeree, when Niniver breezed into the room.
She halted, and their gazes collided. For one finite instant, they both looked into the other’s eyes, then she flashed him a brilliantly bright smile. “Good morning.”
He inclined his head and murmured a more cautious “Good morning” back. From her wide-eyed look and that over-bright smile, she was skittish and unsure how to react. How to behave with him, now that they’d been intimate. He let his gaze skate downward. “How’s your ankle?”
She appeared to be moving without restraint.
“Much better.” She headed for the sideboard. “The binding helps. I can walk on it normally, and it doesn’t hurt.”
While she helped herself from the dishes arrayed on the sideboard, he addressed his attention to his plate. He’d forced himself to leave her clinging warmth and return to his room before she’d woken to spare her the inevitable awkward moment. Also to ensure she didn’t tempt him to engage with her again. Now that he’d experienced the wonder, just the thought of the heated clasp of her body was enough to arouse him to a painful degree. When it came to her, to engaging with her, his will had been eroded and was now distinctly weak; if she pushed, if she demanded, he would follow wherever she led.
But protecting her was a task with many aspects, and one of those involved protecting her from unnecessary hurt, even if brought about by her own actions.
On top of that, he wasn’t sure how she now viewed their activities of the night. For him, the heated moments had been more intense than any in his previous, rather extensive, experience. As she was his fated bride, he’d all but expected that; rather than being a surprise, the intensity had been a welcome confirmation. But she’d been a novice, and despite her passionate nature, untried; while he knew he’d pleasured her, he couldn’t tell whether the reality with him had lived up to her expectations.
Some part of him was frankly aghast that he was even in the vaguest way doubting his own performance, and if she’d been an experienced woman, the notion wouldn’t have entered his head. But she hadn’t been experienced, so she would have no yardstick against which to measure the night—no previous standard to which to compare him.
As she approached the table, making for a place opposite him, and a footman stepped forward to hold her chair, Marcus studied her face, her features—and inwardly admitted he was nearly as uncertain over how to behave as she. Now she’d had a chance to think, to evaluate, had she enjoyed being intimate with him…or not?
He’d never in all his adult years suffered from such a lack of confidence. From such an excruciating vulnerability. With any other woman, the question wouldn’t have been so important, yet with her, it was crucial.
It was also, he judged, not a question to which he was destined to get an answer anytime soon.
Niniver arranged her toast on her plate. She could feel Marcus’s gaze on her face, but she didn’t meet it. How did one interact with someone one had spent the night with, nake
d? She was certain he would know how to proceed, but she didn’t. When she’d woken and found him already gone from her bed, from her room, she’d told herself the wisest course would be to assume that nothing in their outward behavior should change…yet now she was facing him across the dining table, she didn’t see how that could work. Something fundamental between them had changed, and every nerve she possessed knew it.
“Here.”
She glanced up. He was holding out the pot of marmalade. She reached for it. “Thank you.”
Their fingers brushed. Instead of the sharp spike of skittering awareness she’d felt in days past, this time she felt a reassuring warmth. Setting down the jam pot, she drew in a deeper breath, then glanced from her plate to his. “Perhaps I’ll try a little of the kedgeree.” Now she thought of it, she felt ravenous.
He looked down at the small mountain he was intent on demolishing. “It’s excellent. Your cook—Gwen, isn’t it?—knows her kippers.”
She wriggled her chair back, then rose and returned to the sideboard. “I gather she’s partial to kippers herself, so she’s very particular.”
A minute later, she returned to the table, sat, and tried a forkful of the kipper, rice, and egg dish. Swallowing, she nodded. “You’re right. It is very good. The seasoning’s just right.”
After a moment of watching her eat—was it her imagination, or was he faintly amused?—he murmured, “I gather Gwen makes kedgeree most mornings. Haven’t you tried it before?”
Without raising her gaze, she considered, then replied, “I definitely ate kedgeree when I was younger, but I don’t think I’ve tried it since Gwen became cook.” She swallowed another mouthful and declared, “Hers is different.”
He returned to eating. “I suppose each cook makes her own version.”
“Well”—she waved her fork—“just think how much difference there can be in something as simple as scrambled eggs.”
“True. I once had some made with truffles. Odd.”
They continued trading stories of breakfasts they’d known; somewhat to her surprise, the moments passed more easily than she’d expected, and then they were rising from the table—and if she didn’t yet feel confident that she’d found the right way to interact with him post-intimacy, she got the distinct impression that he, too, wasn’t entirely certain of the reverse, either.
The latter observation made her a little less nervous. They walked side by side into the front hall. Again, her nerves no longer leapt at his nearness; instead, they seemed to hum, while her senses purred.
She forced her mind to focus—to remember what she needed to do that day. Halting, she glanced at him. “I’ve estate business I must attend to. I’ll be in the library.”
He waved her down the appropriate corridor. “Lead on.”
She did, and he prowled almost languidly in her wake. On reaching the library, she opened the door and headed down the long room toward the desk at the far end. How was she going to concentrate on the reports, accounts, and letters she had to deal with if he was hovering?
But how could she get rid of him? Did them being intimate give him new rights? Or, at least, new expectations?
She rounded the desk, halted before the old admiral’s chair, and looked down at the plethora of documents arranged on the desk’s surface, all awaiting her perusal. He’d prowled to a halt by the desk’s side and was watching her and taking in the same sight, when a tap on the door he’d closed behind them had both of them glancing that way.
“Come.”
At her command, the door opened, and Ferguson leaned in. “If you’ve a moment, my lady, there are several members of the clan who would like to speak with you.”
She shook her wits to attention. “Yes. Of course.” She debated whether to sit and decided against it. She was short enough as it was, and whatever her clansmen wanted to speak with her about, she’d do better standing. To Ferguson, who had paused as if to give her time to compose herself, she said, “Please show them in.”
As Ferguson turned to summon whoever was waiting in the corridor, from the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus move; he came further around the desk to halt a little way behind her left shoulder. His stance had altered from moments before; he was no longer relaxed, and somehow, he looked distinctly forbidding. Not quite projecting menace, but with an unsubtle promise that menace was only a blink away.
Before she could decide what she felt about that—about his clear signaling that he supported her—her attention was drawn to the men—a small procession of them—who came tramping through the library door.
Her instincts twitched as she saw who they were. Jed Canning was followed by his younger brother, Stewart, then came John Brooks, Ed Wisbech, Jem Hills, Liam Forrester, Martin Watts, Camden Marsh, and, bringing up the rear, Clement Boswell.
All the clansmen who had made her life a misery in recent months.
She fought to keep a frown from her face.
“Your would-be clan suitors?” came a deep dark rumble from behind her.
She nodded curtly but didn’t glance around. He’d spoken too softly for anyone but her to hear. Ferguson had led the men in. They formed up in a loose line across the library, facing her down the length of the room. Sean followed Clement Boswell in, closed the door, then took up a stance before it.
She looked at Ferguson inquiringly.
“They want to tell you something.” Ferguson looked at the line of men, all of whom glanced at him. Every last one looked supremely uncomfortable.
Then Liam Forrester lifted his head, cleared his throat, and stated, “We—each of us—wanted to say that we’re sorry. For all the things we’ve done while, well, trying to get you to choose one of us.” Carefully, he dipped his head. “We wanted to apologize and promise we’ll never bother you again.”
“Aye.” Jem Hills was nervously clutching his hands. “We won’t come singing beneath your window o’ nights.”
“Nor yet get into your flowers,” Stewart Canning offered. “Not anymore.”
“And me and Clem”—not to be outdone by his younger brother, Jed Canning spoke up, glancing at Clement Boswell, who nodded in agreement—“we want to apologize for scaring you with our fighting. We didn’t mean to frighten you, nor say the things we did.”
“We got carried away, like,” Clement growled.
Unmoving and unmoved, Marcus listened as each of the men tendered their abject apologies to Niniver and promised never to, as they put it, bother her again. Well and good, but there was more to their embassy than that.
Every man, after tendering his apology, looked—pointedly—at him. Throughout the performance, Ferguson and Sean constantly looked his way, checking that he was listening and that he was hearing the real message they’d all come there to convey.
He did understand. They were stepping out of his path—resigning the field, as it were, to him.
They were also indicating in the clearest way they could, short of a verbal declaration, that they would support him in winning Niniver’s hand.
All of which was heartening, encouraging, and also a trifle unnerving. He hadn’t realized he’d been that transparent, but apparently his intentions regarding Niniver had been sufficiently well understood and, as happened within clans, promulgated widely. But what was most unnerving was that Niniver’s clansmen would—quite clearly—now be watching, waiting, all but looking over his shoulder while he pursued her…
Jaw firming, he told himself that at least none of them would be getting in his way, and if he needed anything arranged, he had no doubt that all in the clan would now rush to aid him.
And, of course, she would no longer be distracted by her clansmen’s antics.
All in all, it seemed that Fate had, again, moved to clear his route forward.
He ignored the prickle of wariness that tickled his nape and slid down his spine.
Niniver stood behind the desk, her gaze dutifully locked on her idiot clansmen, and fought to keep her thoughts from her face. With
every bumbling apology, her heart sank lower. Blast them! Couldn’t they have waited even a few more days?
She’d only just discovered—only tasted just once—the pleasures to be found in Marcus’s arms, and here they were, systematically removing his reasons for remaining at Carrick Manor. For him to stay under this roof, so that he and she could continue to explore the landscape they’d discovered last night.
First, they’d driven her to frustrated distraction by their ridiculous acts, and now, when she’d finally managed to wring some good from the situation, here they were undermining her again!
Aargh! She felt like screaming, but of course, she couldn’t. She had to keep her temper reined; she couldn’t even snap at them.
The last to tender his full apology was Clement Boswell, who admittedly had committed more sins against her than any of the others. Reaching the end of a lengthy recitation of his actions, Clement sent a commiserating frown along the line of his peers. “I knew as we never should have listened to that bloke.”
The others nodded, most gloomily, some grimacing—clearly at their own foolishness.
“What bloke?”
The question from Marcus nearly made Niniver jump. So silent had he been throughout the performance that she’d almost forgotten he was there.
Clement directed a careful look up the room. “A swell—a gentleman, I suppose he was, a bit down on his luck. He used to drink regular at the inn in the village.”
“Aye,” Jed Canning said. “It were he gave us the ideas for how to approach you, m’lady.” Jed shrugged. “Seemed a good idea to us to follow his advice, seeing he was a gentl’man and all, and more likely to know what you’d like.”
Niniver was stunned. Before she could find her voice, Marcus asked, “What did he look like, this gentleman? Do you know his name?”
The men glanced at each other, then Jed looked at Marcus. “He was tallish, but not as tall as you. Browny hair.”
“Brown eyes,” Liam Forrester put in. “And his clothes weren’t as nice—a bit shabby around the edges, if you know what I mean.”
A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 19
