Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 10

  Protection and defense first, lifting of burdens later.

  “Is there some other room—a study or estate office—that I could use for the moment?” He didn’t say for what; she didn’t need to know.

  Her almost eager expression as she glanced up at him forced him to hide a too-predatory smile. As she was so skittish, he would take himself out of what was patently her favorite space and let her relax. For now.

  “There’s a small study down the corridor.” She pointed with her pen. “Nigel used to use it when Papa was alive. No one uses it anymore.”

  “That will do admirably.” He nodded at the books. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  He turned and headed for the door. He didn’t need to see the gratitude in her face to know he’d made the right move.

  He stepped into the corridor, drew the library door closed, paused to consider his next move, then he went off to find the study and take the next step in establishing his position as Niniver’s champion.

  * * *

  The small study contained a desk with a large chair behind it, two narrow straight-backed chairs before it, and two tall bookshelves against the side walls. The shelves contained a few old journals and nothing else; the room was devoid of any ornamentation or amenity beyond the brass lamp that sat on one corner of the otherwise bare desk.

  Seated behind the desk with a window overlooking the stable yard at his back, Marcus regarded Ferguson and the housekeeper, a Mrs. Kennedy, who were sitting on the chairs facing him. “As I see it, my role here is to shield Lady Carrick from any threat, physical or otherwise. She will not be molested. She will not be upset. She will not be preyed upon in any way whatsoever. I will take it unkindly if she is inconvenienced.”

  Both Ferguson and the matronly housekeeper looked, if anything, quietly thrilled.

  Marcus studied them, then went on, “Last night, we sustained a midnight visit from Jem Hills, who thought Lady Carrick would welcome a serenade. I spoke with him and corrected his misapprehension.”

  Both Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy frowned.

  “I”—Ferguson glanced at the housekeeper and received a distinct shake of the head—“ we didn’t hear anything of that.”

  “Precisely. Your rooms face in the other direction, so you were unaware of what was happening on Lady Carrick’s side of the house. Which illustrates why I will continue to occupy the room next to Lady Carrick’s. She patently needs protection night and day.”

  The butler and the housekeeper were less happy about that, but neither argued.

  Marcus felt fairly certain that both would do all they could to support and protect Niniver; they were another pair of would-be defenders who, like Sean and Mitch, hadn’t been able to act effectively. He was not above taking advantage of any lingering feelings of inadequacy to gain support for his own role. They might be constrained by clan loyalties and politics, but he was not. He could act where they would be forced to equivocate, and when it came to dealing with the likes of Nigel and Nolan’s friends, he was significantly more able than any in the clan.

  “After the interlude last night, I’m hoping Jem will spread the word that Lady Carrick is no longer alone, and that anyone seeking to interfere with her life will find themselves facing me. In short, I intend standing as her champion.”

  He paused to let that sink in, then continued, “I’m sure all the household are aware of what a treasure the clan has in Lady Carrick. I would appreciate it if all of you would also spread the word that your treasure now has a guardian. One who will take a very dim view of any further infractions.”

  The relief that infused both lined faces was impossible to mistake, yet instead of nodding and agreeing, the pair paused, then exchanged a long look.

  Ferguson finally turned to Marcus. “We appreciate—very much—you being willing to come and act for Miss Niniver.”

  “We surely do.” Mrs. Kennedy’s gray curls bobbed, but her expression remained serious.

  Ferguson dragged in a breath. “Howsoever, you’re not clan, and we’re all very fond of Miss Niniver, and as there’s no longer anyone to ask for her, well…” Bravely, Ferguson met Marcus’s gaze. “We feel we have to ask what your intentions toward Miss Niniver—Lady Carrick—herself are.”

  He’d expected the question; indeed, he would have thought less of them, of their devotion to Niniver, if they hadn’t asked.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was the visceral reaction that rose through him in response—adamant and final. But snarling “She’s mine,” while accurate, wasn’t an appropriate reply. Maintaining his relaxed demeanor, his expression of unruffled calm, he stated, “That will be entirely up to her—as it should be.”

  That was the true and honest answer, even if it didn’t match the violence of his feelings. Those, he continued to keep well hidden.

  Both Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy exhaled and nodded, their relief palpable. They knew who he was, knew his word could be trusted. His declaration had erased their anxiety, removed all reason for resistance, and cleared the way for these two, and all the staff they commanded, to fall in behind him and support his shielding of Niniver.

  Ferguson met his eyes again, then rose. The butler bowed. “Thank you, sir. From all of us.”

  Mrs. Kennedy came to her feet and bobbed a curtsy. “We’ll be happy to do whatever we can to help—anything to ease the weight on Miss Niniver’s shoulders.”

  Marcus smiled and rose, too. “Indeed. I’ll let you know of any further ways in which you and the rest of the staff might assist.”

  After the pair had seen themselves out, he sank back into the chair. After a moment, he swiveled so he could stare out of the window.

  He was happy with the way the interview had played out. He wasn’t surprised by the result, yet negotiating to get the staff on his side might have taken much longer; he was pleased that it hadn’t.

  What had surprised him was just how violently his inner self had reacted to Ferguson’s question. Or, more precisely, to the implied suggestion that Niniver was not already his.

  His in the primal sense, which was the only sense his inner, baser self understood.

  He wasn’t the least surprised that he would feel that way about his fated bride, but that such a degree of possessiveness already lived inside him… that was a touch disconcerting.

  It was less than twenty-four hours since he’d accepted that Niniver was his fated bride, the central figure in his true and fated destiny; he’d expected to go through several progressive stages of increasing possessiveness before reaching the She’s mine and no one else’s moment.

  Apparently not so. Apparently, his baser self had leapt far ahead and was already at the end of that road, straining at the leash to forge on.

  Which could be a problem given that Niniver, as her skittishness testified, as yet had no real notion of his direction, much less of the role she was fated to fill in his life. Indeed, while she might suspect in a distant fashion, she couldn’t know, because he’d taken extreme pains to hide everything he felt for her for years.

  He stared unseeing at the stable yard as the minutes ticked by. Finally, he swung back to face the room.

  Given the truth both his rational self and his baser self accepted and understood, it would undoubtedly be wise to escalate his campaign to persuade Niniver to be his wife. As a hunter, he could be patient, but in the present circumstances, patience was unlikely to stretch all that far, not with his baser self already so deeply engaged.

  That said, he could foresee another complication arising. Although he might convince her to be his, he couldn’t, in fact, ask for her hand until after he’d dismissed all the threats against her, physical and otherwise.

  If he didn’t wait, his request for her hand would risk sounding like a demand for payment for services rendered…

  The very thought made him squirm.

  Sounds from beyond the window had him glancing outside. In the stable yard, Johnny, his groom, had just ridden in and was dismounting. One of M
arcus’s traveling bags was tied to Johnny’s saddle.

  Marcus got to his feet and headed for the door.

  One step at a time.

  * * *

  He was in the room he’d accepted would be his, unpacking the bag Johnny had brought, when he heard Niniver come up the stairs. She rounded the gallery and went into her room.

  He heard her moving around, heard what sounded like a shoe hitting the floor.

  Several minutes later, her door opened and, boot heels striking firmly on the runner, she came his way. He turned to the open doorway as she reached it.

  She saw him and smiled. “I’m going to spend the rest of the morning training our deerhounds. I wondered if you would like to come with me.”

  “Of course.” Did she even need to ask? She knew he shared her interest in hounds.

  She’d changed into her riding habit. He was already wearing shirt, breeches, and boots; deserting his half-unpacked bag, he walked to the bed, swiped up the hacking jacket he’d left there, and shrugged it over the fresh shirt he’d donned. “Where do you keep the hounds? I recall Thomas mentioning you’d moved them out to some farm on the estate.”

  “I had to hide them or Nigel would have sold them.” She shrugged. “Or Nolan—I’m no longer sure who was behind what.”

  “But you saved the hounds.” He joined her at the door and she stepped back. Side by side, they headed for the stairs.

  “I managed to hide the best of them.” She strode beside him, evincing no sign of her earlier consciousness. “The pack is still out at old Egan’s place—he had a barn he wasn’t using, and as he was the kennel master in Papa’s day, I’ve left them with him. Two of his nephews help him with the work. I think he’s pleased to be able to hand on his knowledge.”

  They started down the stairs. “Incidentally, I can’t protect you from importuning would-be suitors if I’m not with you.” He caught her wide blue gaze when she glanced at him. “So, if you please, I would appreciate you agreeing not to leave the house without telling me first.”

  She considered him for a moment, then faced forward. “All right.”

  He would have preferred to extract a promise along those lines, but she seemed genuinely amenable, and as long as she consented to tell him of any outing, accompanying her on excursions such as this one was akin to killing two birds with one stone. Not only would his presence by her side be noted by all who saw them—and, with luck, commented upon far and wide—but spending hours by her side out of the house would afford him the opportunities he needed to introduce her to the notion of becoming his wife.

  In the stable yard, Niniver waited in the sunshine while Sean, Mitch, and Marcus saddled their horses. Marcus’s gray was proving fractious; when he finally led the big gelding out, the horse tossed his head and looked ready to race. Somewhat to her surprise, Marcus handed the reins to Fred. With a curt “Hold him” to Mitch, who was leading Oswald out, Marcus came striding her way…

  Oh, no. She only had time to think the words before Mitch brought Oswald alongside her.

  Halting before her, Marcus smiled and reached for her waist.

  He hoisted her to her saddle as if she weighed less than a feather; to him, she probably did. The sensation of his hands and fingers locked about her waist threatened to scramble her wits, but then he released her and stepped back. Breathless, she ducked her head and busied herself settling her boots and skirts. Finally hauling in a breath past the constriction banding her chest, she managed a weak “thank you,” and was relieved when, apparently satisfied that she wasn’t about to topple off her perch, he turned and strode back to his horse.

  He mounted in one fluid motion, all strength, power, and grace. Despite a half-hearted injunction not to look, her witless senses drank in the sight.

  But then he swung his gray’s head toward the stable yard gate, and she dragged in a deeper breath, straightened her spine, lifted Oswald’s reins, tapped her boot to his side, and joined Marcus in riding out.

  This was what she’d wanted, after all; he was clearly taking his commitment to repel her suitors seriously, and obviously intended to remain at the manor for a few days at least. She would simply have to get used to his nearness, and grow accustomed to all the little touches that were simply a part of polite interaction between a gentleman and a lady.

  She’d suggested visiting the hounds because she knew it was an interest they shared, and that he would enjoy being with the pack as much as she would. A few hours of shared enjoyment was a gift she was able to give him in return for his help.

  The steady thud of their horses’ hooves calmed her. To her, riding was as easy as breathing—easier, at least when Marcus was near. She loved the motion, loved being outside, adored the feel of sunshine on her face and the wind tugging at her hair.

  She felt Marcus’s gaze touch her face, but didn’t turn her head to meet it. From the corner of her eye, she saw a slight, rather satisfied smile curve his lips…

  Don’t look! Don’t look!

  This time, she obeyed. Keeping her eyes fixed forward, she led the way on.

  * * *

  Two hours later, she stroked the head of her favorite bitch, then glanced up—smiling unrestrainedly—at Marcus. “I suppose we should get back.” Reluctance colored her voice; even she could hear it. Hardly surprising; the past hours had been an even greater delight than she’d foreseen. Sharing her passion for deerhounds with someone who not only understood but felt the same abiding interest in the big, intelligent dogs had been…more than a thrill. It had been cathartic. She hadn’t realized for how long she’d gone without sharing anything with anyone.

  Marcus lounged against the side post of the large pen; he returned her smile, but instead of agreeing with her comment, said, “Tell me more about this new air-scenting trait. Do you really think it’ll be passed on?”

  She rose and dusted off her skirts. “I can’t be sure yet.” She nodded at the bitch. “Her pups are still too young to train, or even to test. On the other hand, I’ve only found the trait in any strength in her and her sisters, and to a lesser extent in the males in the same line, so I’m hopeful.”

  They’d spent an hour putting the pack—a remarkably healthy and strong group of hounds—through a series of standard trials and commands. To be useful to hunters, the hounds needed to have the appropriate commands constantly reinforced. Niniver had her own set, but they differed only slightly from those Marcus used; he’d quickly adjusted and had enjoyed helping her work with the older dogs.

  He’d also been diligent in seizing every chance to touch her—a hand on her back as he moved past her, a touch on her arm to get her attention, allowing their fingers to brush when they’d been examining one of the hounds. Entirely innocent touches, although his ultimate aim was anything but innocent.

  But then she’d shown him evidence of the trait she’d been working on developing—the ability to air-scent that she’d detected in one family of her hounds. Deerhounds were primarily sight-hounds; they could sight prey at a remarkable distance and, because of their speed, they excelled in the chase. In addition, the breed could track over ground quite well, as could most breeds of hound. However, only a few select breeds were known to air-scent, and deerhounds weren’t one of those. Yet as far as he knew, trainers had never actively looked for air-scenters among the breeds already long-established as tracking- or sight-hounds.

  Niniver’s discovery was potentially groundbreaking, and he felt honored and deeply pleased that she’d shared it with him. That she’d trusted him enough to tell him of her secret.

  One step at a time.

  As she neared, he straightened from the post. “I can certainly see the advantages in having a mixed pack. Much less chance of losing a scent if you have dogs that can follow through the air as well as on the ground.”

  He reached out and took her hand, steadying her as she stepped out of the straw and balanced to free one boot from the clinging stuff. Then he released her and moved back. While she’d noti
ced his touch, she’d accepted it without any start or sign of sensual skittishness.

  Another inch gained.

  He waited in the long aisle that ran most of the length of the barn while she swung the gate closed and latched it. This wasn’t a purpose-built kennel like his own facility; instead, they’d made do by converting the original barn into a series of hound-holding pens. A small arena had been left just inside the main doors, with a fenced yard beyond in which to exercise the dogs. Despite the make-do construction, as it had been Niniver and, as he understood it, old Egan, the previous kennel master, in charge, the refitted building worked quite well and had all the necessary areas to support an active breeding program.

  And it was Niniver herself who ran that program. Marcus had always wondered, but earlier he’d spent a few minutes with old Egan—the ‘old’ seemed an accepted part of the man’s name; while watching Niniver put ten of the most experienced hounds through their paces, he’d chatted and learned just how much admiration and respect the old trainer had for her.

  After the last hours, he was willing to own to admiration and a healthy respect, too. While watching her work with the hounds, directing the ofttimes difficult beasts, he’d seen another side of her. She was firm, capable, and decisive, and she knew how to get the best from those she commanded. All characteristics of a good ruler of people as well as hounds.

  She was a female of varied and contradictory facets, a fascinating meld of the delicate, fragile, and vulnerable on the one hand, and the strong, steely, and determined on the other.

  After one last look at her hounds, she faced him.

  “Can I take a look at the weaned pups?” He wondered how many she had, and how they would compare in health and vigor to his. He grinned. “I’m prepared to be impressed.”

  She laughed. “Of course, you can see them.” She turned and started walking toward the end of the barn. “They’re this way.”

  He followed, feeling inordinately pleased to have drawn that light, carefree laugh from her. The easy camaraderie they shared over the hounds was precisely the right atmosphere in which to dismantle her prickly walls.