A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Ferguson accepted the heavy key with a nod. “You’ve done your bit. Now leave the rest to us.”

  With a dip of his head in reply, Marcus started up the cellar steps—into the light, into the gaiety.

  To his love who was waiting for him to return to her side.

  * * *

  Niniver couldn’t think of any more perfect way to end her day.

  The clan celebration finally wound down, and the families piled into carts and drays and rattled away into a crisp, clear night.

  Marcus was waiting to lead her upstairs. Hildy climbed the stairs alongside them but, as usual, headed up to her apartment with a cheery “Sleep well, my dears.”

  Niniver walked beside Marcus along the gallery toward their rooms. Her smile deepening, she glanced at his face, then caught his hand and drew him on—to her door, to her room.

  She set the door swinging, then laughed as he twirled her through. She whirled, and he followed, closing the door before swooping to catch her and sweep her on. He halted by the window. He released her, framed her face between his hands, and tipped it up to his.

  He looked into her eyes; his were dark, his gaze intense as it held hers. “I love you.”

  She closed her hands over the backs of his. “And I love you.”

  For one long moment, they listened and understood, and gloried in the truth and unflinching reality of those words.

  Then he bent his head and she stretched up on her toes, and their lips met.

  Brushed, settled, then melded and merged as they slid into the kiss, and let it claim them.

  Let desire rise up and wrap them in heat.

  Let passion spark, then erupt into flame.

  Let it take them, rack them, wreck and remake them.

  They gave themselves up to the ineluctable heat, to passion’s beat, to the driving urgency. To the bliss of their joining, of a connection strong and true that reached so much deeper than skin and touch, carried on sensations so much more intense than simple emotions.

  They surrendered and claimed anew the connection that linked their souls.

  Later, when they lay sated and spent in each other’s arms, relaxed and floating on oblivion’s golden sea, Marcus brushed his lips to her temple and whispered the words that, above all others, now ruled him. “I love you.” Wonder, acceptance, and an evolving understanding colored the words.

  Niniver’s lashes flickered, then rose. Brilliantly intense cornflower-blue eyes met his. “And I love you in exactly the same way.”

  Marcus felt his lips curve. He shifted his head enough to touch his lips to hers, then lay back and closed his eyes. She was fairylike and fragile, delicate and womanly weak, yet even in the power of their love, she matched him. He harbored not a single doubt that in her he’d found his destiny.

  His true and fated love, now and forever.

  * * *

  The following morning dawned bright and clear. When Niniver woke, late, courtesy of Marcus’s idea of how best to celebrate the dawn—a ritual with which she had absolutely no argument—she discovered that he’d already risen and gone down.

  No doubt he was famished; she certainly was.

  After washing and dressing, she went down to the dining room and, sure enough, found him seated in his usual place, addressing his customary pile of kedgeree. She couldn’t stop smiling inanely as she called a cheery “Good morning” and went to the sideboard to fill her plate. She felt ridiculously domestic—something she’d never really thought she would feel.

  Marcus had grunted a reply, but when she turned back to the table, he rose and drew out—not her usual chair to his right, but the huge carver at the head of the table.

  Her father’s chair.

  Her plate in her hand, she hesitated, staring at the ornate chair that had for generations been occupied by the head of Clan Carrick. Then she drew in a breath, raised her gaze to Marcus’s—read the encouragement in his eyes. Ferguson was standing back by the sideboard, watching but saying nothing, yet…

  She swallowed and walked forward. She set her plate down in the place at the head of the table, then drew in her skirts and sat in the chair.

  Marcus pushed it in for her, then returned to the chair on her right.

  Niniver looked down the table, then she looked at Ferguson. Then she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup.

  EPILOGUE

  May was blooming on the day they were married in the tiny church in Carsphairn village.

  Every last man, woman, and child in Clan Carrick attended the simple service; even though the number of Cynsters and connections attending had been kept tightly controlled, the church was still packed. But it was very much a family wedding on both sides, more relaxed in tone and manner than Lucilla’s grand wedding had been.

  Niniver’s gown, a frothy concoction formed of layers of ivory lace, was the perfect outfit for what she thought of as her fairytale wedding, and the cornflower-blue sapphires that were Marcus’s wedding gift graced her throat and wrist, the ring glowing on her right hand, all echoing the hue of her eyes.

  Lucilla stood as Niniver’s maid of honor, and Thomas was Marcus’s best man—the two had grown close over the years since Thomas had married Lucilla. The wedding party stood as ample testimony to the close connection that now existed and would continue to exist between the neighboring estates.

  Norris had returned to give Niniver away. She’d been glad to welcome him home again, even if only for a short stay. Norris had, it seemed, found his niche in academia; he was more confident, more certain of himself, than Niniver had ever seen him. After several relaxed discussions between him, her, and Marcus, she no longer felt the need to feel anxious over Norris’s ability to manage out in the world on his own.

  Everything seemed to be falling into place perfectly; looking back, she could even bless McDougal and the clansmen he’d enlisted to pester her. If they hadn’t, she might never have found her path to where she now stood, looking forward to a future with Marcus Cynster by her side.

  He had always fascinated her, and during the service, from the instant she’d stepped into the church and seen him waiting at the end of the aisle, she’d had eyes for no other. He’d commanded her attention—and if the way his midnight gaze had rested unwaveringly on her was any guide, she’d commanded his. Which only seemed fair.

  Then he’d placed a simple gold band on her finger, and her heart had soared.

  Now, the music swelled, growing even more celebratory and triumphant as, with all the formalities finally concluded, they turned and, as husband and wife, started their walk up the aisle, into their joint future.

  When they emerged from the church, it was to cheers from the crowd that had spilled onto the lawn ahead of them, to bright spring sunshine and a flirting breeze that scattered hawthorn blossoms over them—Nature’s benediction.

  Niniver gave herself over to the glory of the day, to the pride and possessiveness that shone in Marcus’s eyes, and gladly went with him down the steps and into the milling throng to greet their guests.

  In the center of the lawn, they came upon Lucilla and Thomas standing with several others of Marcus’s family.

  Niniver paused to give both Chloe and Christina, one in Thomas’s arms, the other in Lucilla’s, a kiss on their foreheads.

  Marcus tightened his grip on her hand—she sensed in encouragement—as he drew her to face the others in the group, two tall gentlemen and a lady. “Allow me to introduce my cousins—I don’t think you met them at Lucilla’s wedding.”

  The taller of the gentlemen—a strikingly handsome man with black hair, aristocratic features similar to Marcus’s, and distinctive pale green eyes—glanced sidelong at Marcus, his lips twisting cynically. “You mean you made sure we didn’t meet her then, so we couldn’t steal a march on you.”

  Unperturbed, Marcus arched his brows back. “It worked.”

  He turned to Niniver, but before he could speak, the gentleman smoothly captured her hand, bowed, and, as he straigh
tened, smiled at her. “Sebastian, Marquess of Earith, my dear. Welcome to the family.”

  Niniver was suddenly very glad that she was safely married to Marcus. Even though Sebastian very correctly released her hand and she sensed no predatory interest, much less intent, and therefore no threat whatsoever from him, there was just something about him, some element in the aura that hung from his broad shoulders like an invisible cloak, that screamed to any female with operating senses: Danger!

  Up until then, she’d considered Marcus to be supremely distracting, but her senses were informing her in no uncertain fashion that Sebastian, Marquess of Earith, was without question the most disturbingly attractive man she’d ever met.

  Somewhat to her relief, once Sebastian had released her hand, he turned with a certain languid laziness to the gentleman standing beside him.

  She lifted her gaze to that gentleman’s face, and blinked. He, too, was exceedingly handsome—clearly that trait ran in the family; it was purely the fact that he was standing next to his brother, the marquess, that had kept her from noting him. That they were brothers was apparent; their faces held the same autocratic cast, even though the second gentleman’s hair was dark brown and his eyes were a plain dark brown, too.

  “Michael Cynster, my dear Niniver.” The gentleman—Lord Michael, she realized—bowed as elegantly as the marquess over her hand. “And as Sebastian said, you’re a very welcome addition to the family circle.”

  Standing opposite Michael, Thomas snorted. “Odd. I don’t recall you expressing quite the same delight at my joining the Cynster throng.”

  Straightening, Michael arched his brows, but before he could respond, the dark-haired lady beside him—who had waited with what Niniver sensed was rising impatience—crisply put in, “That’s because you’re a male.”

  Locking eyes of the same strangely compelling pale green hue as the marquess’s on Niniver’s face, the lady grinned impishly. “We need more females of the right caliber to counter this lot—not more males of the same ilk. The Cynsters are all too good at breeding those.”

  Marcus, Sebastian, and Michael scoffed, but the bright-eyed lady paid them no heed. She took Niniver’s hand, but instead of simply pressing her fingers, she stepped closer and enveloped her in a scented embrace. “Welcome to the family, Niniver. And if you ever need help, we’ll always be here for you.” She cut a laughing glance at Marcus as she stepped back. “And for Marcus, too.”

  Resuming her position beside Michael, opposite Niniver, the lady added, “Oh—and I’m Louisa, in case you hadn’t guessed.”

  Niniver found it hard not to laugh, not to respond to the light in Louisa’s eyes. “I had guessed, as it happens.” Marcus had given her a list of his closest relatives, and she’d studied it in preparation for today.

  “But speaking of ladies of the right caliber”—Sebastian waved to a group of three who were strolling up to join them—“here we have a situation of two against one.”

  Louisa glanced around, then shifted to make room. “But only one of said ladies is not one of us—and even she is the equivalent of a sister to you lot, and so no help. We need ladies able to take noblemen like you in hand.”

  To various dismissive snorts and a deep murmur of “only in your imagination” from Sebastian, the three newcomers joined their circle and were introduced as Prudence Cynster, a second cousin, Christopher Cynster, another second cousin, and Lady Antonia Rawlings, who was no relation at all but who had grown up with the Cynster brood.

  Christopher proved to be a raconteur; he quickly had them all laughing.

  As the animated conversations rolled on, Niniver realized that all the other ladies in their group were older than she, yet other than Lucilla, all were unmarried. She didn’t think any of the others were quite thirty—she remembered hearing that Lucilla was the oldest female in that generation, and her new sister-in-law wasn’t thirty yet—but for so many patently well-bred and well-connected young ladies to have reached their late twenties unmarried seemed distinctly odd.

  She’d thought that, at twenty-five, she had already been on the shelf.

  Standing beside Niniver and rocking Chloe in her arms, Lucilla noticed Niniver’s puzzlement and, with typical acuity, correctly guessed its cause. Tipping her head closer, she murmured, “Most of the Cynster young ladies—and others, like Antonia, brought up in much the same circles—are having difficulty finding gentlemen able to accommodate their characters. In a way, it’s the obverse of what Louisa was referring to—while our men are difficult to tame, our females are difficult to match.”

  Straightening, Lucilla met Niniver’s gaze; her smile serene, she continued, “You were lucky—you found one of our males already predisposed and trained to share.” She glanced at Marcus, then her gaze moved on to Sebastian and Michael. “Most gentlemen of such ilk don’t, or won’t. They need to be brought to it, and that’s not an easy task, as Prudence, Antonia, and even more Louisa—and indeed, all the females of our generation—are discovering. For our generation, a successful marriage is going to be…perhaps not a bigger challenge than it was for our parents, but certainly a different one—a goal not at all easily attained.”

  Chloe caught one of Lucilla’s trailing red tresses and tugged, demanding her mother’s attention.

  Noting the baby’s stubborn expression, Niniver laughed.

  A moment later, Marcus twined his fingers with hers, and they excused themselves and wandered on, tacking their way through the many other guests.

  He took her on a circuit to pay their respects to his family’s older generations. His grandmother was both kindly and terrifying; Niniver had no idea how the dowager duchess managed to be both simultaneously, but she left the old lady feeling relieved, but also as if the matriarch’s patent approval had conferred a very special benediction.

  As, arm in arm with Niniver, Marcus strolled through the crowd, none of whom showed any inclination to quit the gathering just yet, he looked about him with an ever-deepening satisfaction, not just in his own achievements but in hers, in theirs. Over the last month, he’d worked diligently alongside her to reorganize and reform the Carrick estate practices to make the most of the clan’s lands, improve the clan’s financial position, and bolster the health and welfare of the clan’s people. For their part, the clan’s farmers and elders had given them nothing but openhearted support; it was clear they were ready and willing to follow her into the next phase of rebuilding.

  Although much of the funds flowing into the estate were coming from him, along with many contacts from him and Thomas, Marcus had made sure that it was Niniver who led—who made the final decisions, declared the changes, and drove their implementation. He might be beside her every step of the way, but she was the lady of the clan, and it was important for the future that her position remained not just clear but unequivocal.

  The outcome of their labors lay all around them. He could see it, sense it, in the ready laughs and smiles, in the real joy buoying all the clan. His own people at Bidealeigh were slowly merging with the Carrick clansmen; eventually, at some point, they would come together as a whole.

  That was still in the future, but for today…the uplifting swell of confident joy carried all before it.

  “We’ve started, haven’t we?” she asked. As he glanced down, Niniver looked up and caught his eye; her cornflower-blue eyes glowed with the same satisfaction he felt. “We’ve got ourselves and the clan moving together down the road to prosperity.”

  He remembered what she’d told him of her vow to her father. “Indeed, we have. We’ve reached that road and started down it, and we will keep marching on.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. Her eyes brimmed with love. “Together.”

  With his eyes, he gave her back the same emotion. “Together.”

  They held that shared look—basked in the promise of their love—for several moments, then they raised their heads and walked on.

  * * *

  The crowd on the lawn was only just sta
rting to thin when Niniver slipped away.

  Leaving Marcus chatting about horses with Thomas, Sean, Mitch, and Fred, she circled back through the crowd toward the church, then slipped along its side into the graveyard.

  Her father’s grave lay under the shade of a tree just bursting into full leaf. She halted at the foot and looked at the tombstone: Manachan Randall Carrick, Laird of Clan Carrick, with the dates of his birth and death beneath.

  She remembered the day they’d lowered his coffin into the ground. Heard again in her head the words of the solemn vow she’d made.

  Her eyes on the tombstone, she drew in a deep breath, then quietly said, “We’re not there yet, but we’ve made a start. And neither Marcus nor I are the sort to back away from a challenge. We will see it through. We’ll do whatever we need to do to move the clan forward, to walk the road to prosperity all the way to the end.”

  Tilting her head, she smiled softly. “You never saw me properly while you lived. I wonder if you can see me now you’re dead? If you can…I think you would be proud of what I’ve done. And I think you’ll be pleased by what’s yet to come.”

  She stood looking at the grave for several seconds, then, still smiling, she turned and walked away.

  Ahead, she saw Marcus waiting at the opening of the path to the graveyard. Smile deepening, she quickened her pace, the silk and lace of her wedding gown’s skirts susurrating about her.

  As she neared, he held out a hand.

  Without hesitation and with welling joy, she laid her fingers in his and felt his close, warm and sure, about them.

  His gaze on her eyes, understanding in his, he raised her fingers to his lips, brushed a kiss across her knuckles, then he wound her arm in his, turned, and led her on.

  Into their future, one colored by the promise of hard work and commensurate satisfaction, with the certainty of shared joys and likely shared sorrows.

  One that shone with togetherness, with yearning, with happiness.

  A future that glowed with love.

  Behind them, the graveyard quieted. The tree over the grave of the last laird of the Carricks quivered in a sighing breeze.