A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  The flames within her surged, then roared; passion erupted and spilled down her veins.

  And with every long, raspy lick, every scalding suckle, the conflagration only grew.

  She felt her nerves begin that telltale coiling, and yet, yet…

  It took several seconds for her to define what was not quite right. To realize that she wanted, with an unforgiving craving, to have him inside her.

  Summoning every last ounce of her remaining will, she curled her fingers in his hair and tugged. She couldn’t find words enough to demand.

  But he understood. Perhaps he felt the same. Setting her on her feet, keeping his steadying hands on her hips, he rose.

  If the steely rod of his erection was any indication, he wanted what she did, every bit as urgently.

  His face was graven, the austere planes etched with passion. His gaze, dark as the midnight sky yet ablaze with heat, locked on her face.

  Her hands tensing again on his skull, she moved into him—as he drew her closer.

  Their bodies met, heated flesh to burning skin. He bent his head and she stretched up, and their lips, their mouths, fused again.

  Hotter, more urgent, more desperately intimate, the kiss seared.

  She felt his hands ease down and slide around, then he gripped and raised her. Instinctively, she parted her thighs, clamped her knees to his flanks—and then he was lowering her. She gasped as she felt the engorged head of his erection breach her entrance. He lowered her further, fraction by fraction, and forged steadily in.

  Filling her.

  She lost the last of her breath on a gasp as he seated himself fully within her. The sensations… She clung to him, to the kiss, as tactile stimulation overran her mind.

  But then he raised her—until she almost protested, expecting to lose the thrilling sensation of him buried so deeply within her, but at the last moment, he reversed direction and lowered her again—and she realized, accepted, and let the flames rage.

  He raised and lowered her, and she clung and they burned, the heat of the engagement beyond scorching. She concentrated on using her inner muscles to caress him—and was rewarded with the sound of his fracturing breathing, with the tightening of his grip on her bottom, and the feel of his muscles turning to steel.

  Yet although the shifting of his chest against her swollen breasts was another senses-stimulating rasp, she craved his weight—and with him, in this sphere, she’d given herself permission to demand all and everything she wanted.

  Dragging her lips free of their kiss, she panted, “The bed.”

  From under heavy lids, his eyes touched hers. He held still for an instant, then, still holding her, he turned and walked to the bed.

  The shift of his erection within her as he paced across the floor made her moan.

  He reached the side of the bed, but instead of laying her down upon it, he turned and sat. Grasping her thighs, he rearranged her legs so that she straddled him. His gaze, the smoldering dark of his eyes half hidden by his long lashes, locked with hers. He eased his grip, and his large hands traced upward, cruising over her hips, up the planes of her back to her shoulders, then he slid his hands down her arms and fell back on the bed.

  She tipped forward and caught herself with her palms on his chest. Bracing her arms, she blinked down at him as her body adjusted to the new position, to the altered angle. The feel of him high within her impacted even more strongly on her senses.

  For a second, she closed her eyes, absorbing the reality, then she looked at him, licked her swollen lips, and managed, “Now what?”

  He held her gaze. “Now you ride.”

  When she stared at him, unsure, he grasped her hips and raised her, then let her slowly sink back of her own accord… Her lids lowered, weighted by sensory pleasure, but she saw him close his eyes, clearly involuntarily. Instinctively, she tightened about him, and a guttural moan slid past his lips.

  She didn’t need further encouragement or instruction. She’d ridden all her life; she quickly learned the knack of rising and sinking down—it truly was like riding. And this time, the reins—their reins—were entirely in her hands. She experimented with pace, with angle and pressure.

  He reached up and captured a breast in each hand, kneaded, then plucked her nipples.

  When, eyes closing, she gasped and writhed, changing the way she rode him, he grunted and stroked the tightly furled buds again.

  Heat flared, and the now-familiar flames rose up, licking over her flesh and his, leaving them dewed with the sheen of desire.

  She gloried in all she felt, in the repetitive penetrations of the thick rod of his erection, the clamp and release of her sheath about his iron length. Most of all, she reveled in the urgency that built and built between them, that had his hips lifting to meet hers in an impossible-to-control response.

  His hands fell from her breasts to her hips. She leaned forward and rode harder. Her hair flailing about her shoulders and flicking again and again across his chest, she whipped them both on.

  All too soon, she’d reduced them both to desperation.

  To where they had to have more, and more, and more. To where their senses were screaming and their nerves were so tight that just one more ratcheting turn would shatter them.

  And then they were there—flying apart as the force of their mutual passions flayed them.

  As sensation exploded in a supernova of pleasure and ecstasy claimed them.

  She screamed, soft and breathless; his fingers digging into her hips, he held her down and groaned loud and long as he shuddered beneath her.

  Her spine, all her bones, turned to jelly. Her strength drained away, and she slumped upon his chest.

  Marcus raised his arms, wrapped them about her, and held her close. He listened to her gasping pants, to his own tortured breaths. Heard their hearts thud in unison.

  Completion had never been so acute—so earth-shatteringly intense.

  So meaningful.

  So binding.

  He held her and, eyes closed, let his senses absorb everything. Let them catalogue the glory of this reality, of their joined and sated state. Let his mind revisit the journey from the time she’d walked in and reached for him, and their lips had met—every little touch, every caress, every shared look.

  The taste of her still lay like ambrosia on his tongue—heady, addictive. The velvet softness he’d licked now clasped his member while the satiny softness of her breasts and belly lay like a sensual blanket over him.

  She’d stated that she wanted him, that she wanted more of what they’d shared the night before. In falling in with her plans, he’d hoped to gain some insight into how she felt about him, not just in this sphere but on a broader emotional plane. He’d hoped to get a glimpse into her heart, to learn if he’d made any inroads there—if she might have started down the road to loving him.

  He’d looked, he’d watched, yet all he’d seen was her unshielded and unrestrained embracing of physical pleasure with him. She was breathtakingly open in letting her delight and her appreciation show, yet of her heart, he hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse.

  He had no idea whether he’d even touched her in that way, whether any of what they’d shared had made any impression there.

  She gave a little shiver; their bodies had started to cool. He lifted her from him. Together they wrestled the covers down, crawled beneath, then slumped once more into each other’s arms.

  Lying on his back with her cradled against his chest, he breathed deeply, letting the scent of her, of their lovemaking, sink to his bones—a reassurance on that level, at least. As satiation rolled over him, he wondered, fleetingly, how he was ever going to learn what dwelled in such a heavily shielded heart.

  He fell asleep still wondering.

  Niniver listened as Marcus’s breathing slowed; she listened to him slide into sleep—and marveled at the emotional tide that rose within her. The feeling—the raw emotion—was so much more powerful than she’d ever imagined such a feeling w
ould be.

  She knew what the feeling was, knew what powered it, what fueled and governed the overwhelming, almost smothering sensation as it gripped her lungs and tightened about her heart.

  But she forced herself to accept and not react. To simply let the feeling rise and wash through her.

  One day, most likely soon, he would deem her safe and wish to return to his life at Bidealeigh. And when he did…she would have to smile lightly and let him go. She could not cling. She could not—would not ever—let him see that her heart had become so deeply ensnared, so irrevocably enamored. It wasn’t his fault that he was the one and only man who had ever truly seen her, who had ever appealed to her in a physical way.

  She’d begged for his help, and he’d undertaken to protect her from external threats. From the first, she’d understood that it was her duty to protect her heart. That she hadn’t done so had been her own decision, one she’d made with full knowledge of the consequences. It would be fundamentally wrong to try to bind him to her because of her own waywardness. And in recompense for risking her heart, she’d already gained more than a reasonable reward. Yes, her heart would ache after he left, but if she hadn’t grasped the nettle and pushed to explore intimacy with him—the one man she could imagine exploring intimacy with—she would never have known the wonders she’d already experienced.

  And she would never have known what it was to love, either.

  To love and lose—hadn’t someone written that to do so was better than never to love at all?

  Whoever it was, they’d had it right.

  And along with the welling warmth in her heart, she was also truly grateful for all he’d shown her, revealed to her, of herself. Of the woman she’d always suspected lay within, but who she’d never let out before—had never been able to allow to fully manifest.

  With him by her side, every day, every night, she was gaining more confidence in being that woman. And that was making her stronger, ultimately better able to care for the clan.

  Lulled by the waves of warmth lapping about her, drawing her senses toward sleep, soothed by the thud of his heart beneath her cheek, her mind drifted, imagining…recoiling and rejecting.

  She knew what sort of man he was. She had to make sure she never let him guess how she felt about him. She had to cling to her pride and keep her guard well up—because the very last thing she ever wanted to face was to have him offer his hand and his name because he felt he had to, because of honor or social pressure.

  She couldn’t bear that.

  Eyes closed, she reached inside and touched the golden warmth that now lived inside her—the source of those overflowing feelings.

  She would know it, explore it, even revel in it, but she would keep it close—close enough that he would never guess.

  * * *

  “Damn!” Ramsey McDougal shut the door of his room. He walked to the chair beside the table and slumped into it.

  He stared into space for several seconds, then glanced at the latest bottle of cheap whisky sitting by his glass on the table. He debated, but didn’t reach for the bottle. He needed a clear—clearer—head.

  Leaning his forearms on the table, he tapped the fingers of one hand on the surface.

  He was running out of time.

  “I knew it would come someday, but three weeks?” His whisper echoed in the sparsely furnished room.

  His most pressing creditor had hunted him down—or rather, the man’s lackeys had. The pair had cracked their knuckles menacingly while informing him that he needed to repay his sizeable loan—with interest—in just twenty-one days.

  He didn’t have the money. He had less than a guinea to his name.

  After several minutes of blankly staring into space, he straightened and reached for the bottle. He poured himself half a glass, then recapped the bottle, lifted the glass, and, narrowing his eyes, sipped.

  He continued sipping as his plan for financial relief took shape in his mind. He’d long ago realized that, for his purposes, Niniver Carrick was his best bet. “I wouldn’t have to marry her inside the three weeks—the announcement of an engagement will be enough to hold the vultures at bay.”

  He didn’t particularly want to return to the area so soon. If at all possible, he would prefer not to cross paths with Marcus Cynster—at least not unless he, rather than Cynster, was calling the shots.

  Yet given the connection he’d seen between Cynster and Niniver, could he afford to waste even a day?

  He swallowed a mouthful of the rough whisky, ignoring the nasty burn. Then he curled his lip. “Do I really care if Cynster tempts her into his bed?” The answer, in reality, was no. He cared nothing for Niniver herself, not in the greater scheme of things. She was pretty enough to excite his interest sufficiently that bedding her would be no hardship, but whether she was a virgin or already well broken in, he didn’t care. “Just as long as it’s me she ties the knot with, that’s all that matters.”

  Gradually, the facets of his plan took shape, sliding into place one after another until he had something that resembled a workable whole.

  He drained the glass, swallowed, and grimaced. “It might be a touch harebrained, but harebrained worked for Nolan. Even if he lost his wits later, his plan worked perfectly.”

  Ramsey didn’t intend to lose his wits. Features set, he reviewed the plan, then nodded. “Wild and unexpected it might be, but that’s probably what I need to win against a Cynster.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcus was waiting for Niniver when she appeared in the dining room the next morning. He intended to open a new front in his campaign. Despite the nebulous urgency he still felt over gaining her agreement to wed him and his resulting impatience, he was too experienced to cram his fences. He smiled and inclined his head to her. “Good morning.”

  “And good morning to you.” Her smile sunny, her mood transparently bright, she went to the sideboard.

  When she turned and came to the table, he rose and drew out the chair beside his.

  She accepted the invitation with an openhearted smile, one of such ease, of closeness and unconscious trust, that he felt something inside him swell.

  After settling her, he resumed his seat. He’d already finished eating; he reached for his coffee cup. “What are your plans for the day?”

  She glanced at him, and her smile faded. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you need to return to Bidealeigh?”

  Lowering the cup, he shook his head. “The staff know what they’re doing, and there’s nothing I need to preside over at the moment. And if anything crops up, they know where to find me.” He smiled easily and waved one hand. “If there’s any subject on which you’d like assistance or advice, consider me at your disposal.”

  She debated for only a second. “There’s a new company that has contacted us, wanting to buy our goat hides to make gloves—I haven’t met their representative before. I wouldn’t mind… Well, I would appreciate your presence and any insights you might have as to any deal we might discuss. And later, I have a meeting with the local agent from Carter Livestock. In the past, they’ve taken our excess cattle at a reasonable price, but according to Rafferty, the agent, the prices are well down this year.”

  Marcus arched his brows in surprise. “I haven’t heard anything about prices being down.”

  Niniver’s chin firmed. “Indeed. I’m not at all sure I believe him. Then again”—she shrugged—“who knows?”

  His face hardening, he inclined his head. “When is your first meeting?”

  She glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “Not for another hour. Just enough time to have breakfast and check on Oswald. I told Sean I’d look in on him.”

  * * *

  They returned from the stables, where Oswald appeared to be reveling in all the extra attention occasioned by his injured flank, and stepped into the side corridor in time to hear voices in the front hall. Ferguson and some other man.

  “That must be the man after our goat hides.” Niniver tweaked Marcus’s sle
eve. “Let’s go this way.”

  She led him via the servants’ corridors to the service door toward the end of the library. She quietly opened the door and went in. Marcus followed and shut the door. She went to the desk, sat behind it, then quickly neatened the piles of papers.

  Marcus’s gaze remained on her for several seconds—she felt the warm weight—then he walked to one of the nearby armchairs, picked it up, carried it back, and set it to the side of and a little behind the desk.

  He straightened as Ferguson knocked.

  “Come,” she called.

  Ferguson looked in, smiled to see her—and Marcus, too—ready and waiting, then he announced, “Mr. Quinn from Waltham and Sons, my lady.” He stepped aside and held open the door.

  A short, rather rotund individual, conservatively attired in a jacket of subdued tweed, with thinning brown hair and round spectacles perched on the bridge of an undistinguished nose, came into the room. He walked with an almost mincing gait.

  She rose. “Mr. Quinn.” She indicated the chair facing the desk. “Do sit down.”

  Mr. Quinn advanced. His gaze moved from her to Marcus, then back again. A puzzled frown overlaid his expression. “Good day, my…er, lady.”

  She smiled politely and sat.

  When Quinn again looked his way, Marcus inclined his head and, his expression uninformative, sank into the armchair; from the corner of her eye, she saw him arrange his long limbs in an elegant sprawl, entirely at his ease.

  Quinn, in contrast, rather stiffly subsided and sat very upright in the chair, then placed his leather satchel across his knees.

  She clasped her hands on the desk and regarded him levelly. “I gather you have a proposition concerning goat hides to put to the clan, sir. If you would outline your interest, perhaps we can do business.”

  Quinn’s expression grew uncertain. “I…ah.” Fleetingly, he glanced at Marcus, then refocused on her. “I was hoping to speak with your…husband, perhaps? With the laird of the clan?”

  Marcus stirred, drawing Quinn’s attention. “Lady Carrick is formally the Lady of Clan Carrick. It is she you need to see.” He caught Quinn’s gaze. “She you need to convince of the value of your proposition.”