Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Read online

  In something that was approaching blatant demand…

  He—they—had to stop.

  Which meant he had to somehow find their reins and haul very strongly on them.

  Now, before matters spiraled completely out of control.

  Beyond his control, anyway; in terms of control in this sphere, he wasn’t yet sure she had any.

  But until the last minutes, he’d had no idea a simple kiss could… explode like this. Could swell and grow so quickly, until it was all but brimming with the promise of red-blooded passion. Compelling beyond belief.

  Yet the very emotion that had led them to this was the same emotion that, at that very moment, was insisting he bring the exchange—glorious and thrilling though it was—to an immediate end.

  Protecting her meant he couldn’t ever harm her, and continuing with this kiss, with its escalating heat and skyrocketing passion, was now the definition of dangerous.

  If he didn’t end this soon, they would be rolling in the straw in one of the unused pens…no.

  The thought was enough to have him hauling on his own reins. With soul-deep reluctance, he eased back from the kiss, from the slick, silken depths of her mouth…from her.

  It took effort, but he had expertise enough to ease them both back, until, eventually, their lips parted. She softly exhaled, and he lifted his head.

  And looked into her upturned face. Her eyes were still closed, but desire had laid a soft rose tint over her pale cheeks. Then her lashes flickered and rose. Eyes the color of cornflowers under the sun met his. And passion was there, a rose-gold glint in the blue.

  It was enough. He told himself that as he pushed away from the gates and forced himself to step back from her. They needed to grow closer before they took things further; he wanted her to want him as he wanted her—with deliberation and need, not just momentary passion.

  Her gaze held his—and suddenly, he didn’t know what to say. Again, he let the words come as they would. “Thank you. I…needed that.”

  Her lips curved in a smile more confidently feminine than any he’d seen from her before, but she immediately ducked her head and turned for the barn doors. “We should get back—we’ll be very late for luncheon.”

  She led the way out of the barn, then waited while he swung the doors shut and lowered the heavy bar into place.

  They’d left their mounts tethered in the field nearby. He lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his own and let her lead the way back to the manor.

  CHAPTER 5

  For Niniver, the rest of the day passed in a mental whirl. That kiss…changed everything.

  It had opened a door she’d thought closed to her forever.

  A door to dreams that, a year ago, she’d resigned herself to never exploring.

  But that kiss meant…

  As she went down the stairs that evening, she finally admitted to herself that she didn’t know exactly what that kiss portended.

  Yet, clearly, Marcus desired her.

  As a woman.

  She’d longed for a man to desire her for herself—as a woman—for all her adult life. And if she’d had her choice of which man it would be, she would have nominated him.

  She was still reeling at the prospect of having her most secret dream come true.

  Here. Now. In the flesh.

  Hard, hot, wonderfully muscled flesh.

  She couldn’t marry, but they could have a liaison.

  The thought—the possibility—sent her sweeping into the drawing room with more anticipation than she could remember feeling ever before.

  Marcus was already there, elegantly seated in one of the armchairs angled before the fireplace. He rose as she appeared.

  His dark blue eyes locked on her face. She felt her heart stutter—actually flutter—as she met that watchful, focused gaze, then she remembered the touch of his lips on hers, remembered the avidness with which he’d kissed her. Confidence welled, and she smiled and went forward to claim the other armchair.

  Hildy was seated in her usual position on the sofa. Her shrewd eyes shifted from Niniver to Marcus, but then she looked back at Niniver and calmly said, “Mr. Cynster mentioned there was a ruckus of sorts at the kennels today.”

  “Yes, but”—she shot him a quick glance—“it was resolved quickly, and the hounds took no harm.”

  “Actually”—his drawl drew Hildy’s attention—“I’m still in awe at the thought of air-scenting hounds.” He caught Niniver’s gaze. “What first alerted you to the possibility in your pack?”

  She smiled and readily recounted the incidents that had first raised her suspicions.

  The topic, and his genuine interest in her answers, carried them into the dining room and through most of the meal. She then had the happy thought of turning the subject back on him by asking about his hounds, and any particular characteristic he’d noted in them.

  Hildy must have been supremely bored, but surprisingly, Niniver’s erstwhile governess made no attempt to steer the conversation into more general spheres.

  At the end of the meal, Marcus eschewed the decanters in favor of returning to the drawing room with Niniver and Miss Hildebrand. Earlier, he’d come down before the first gong had sounded, hoping to get a chance to speak with Miss Hildebrand before Niniver joined them. Fate had smiled, and he and Niniver’s chaperon had had time to share several observations. Such as that Niniver loved to dance—to waltz, especially—but so rarely had the chance. Also that Miss Hildebrand was competent at the pianoforte and ensured her fingers remained nimble by keeping up with the latest tunes.

  Now, his hands clasped behind his back, he prowled along the corridor in the ladies’ wake, an eagerness of a sort he hadn’t felt in years coursing down his veins.

  That kiss—their first and as yet only—had opened his eyes. If that was how fast and furiously their flames were going to flare, then if he wanted them to get to know each other better in the usual way before they ventured further, he needed to make the most of every opportunity.

  After they’d ridden back to the manor and consumed a late luncheon, Niniver had taken herself off to the library, stating she needed to work. Deeming that an excuse to think and to quiet her nerves—to come to grips with that eye-opening kiss—he’d let her go and, instead, had spent his afternoon planning.

  Walking into the drawing room alongside Niniver, Miss Hildebrand declared, “Your efforts last evening were quite inspiring.” She swept on toward the pianoforte. “I believe it’s my turn to entertain you.”

  Niniver halted in the middle of the room, staring at her chaperon. Marcus drew level with her and touched her arm. When she glanced at him, he tipped his head at the armchairs. “Shall we?”

  She allowed him to seat her. As he sank into the armchair opposite, the strains of a sonata filled the room.

  Miss Hildebrand was, indeed, an accomplished performer; it was no hardship to sit and let the music flow over them. He kept a covert watchful eye on Niniver and saw the effect of the music take hold; her lashes lowered, and tension eased from her face, eliminating the slight furrow in her brow that, these days, seemed rarely absent.

  That afternoon, he’d had another talk with Ferguson in the privacy of the study. As he’d started to suspect, Niniver had, indeed, taken on the full weight of responsibility for the clan’s businesses, for the estate and the clan’s finances. By all accounts, she’d been succeeding better than either of her brothers before her, but the strain on her was apparent to the clan elders, and something of a concern.

  That was another arena in which he fully intended to contribute—to lift some of the burden from her slender shoulders—but, again, his role in that sphere would need to be carefully scripted so that he didn’t impinge on her dignity or damage her status within the clan. Every time he saw her head for the library, he wanted to follow and ask to help, but even though he was acutely aware of the need to accelerate his campaign to win her, it was still very much a case of one step at a time.

  All he c
ould do was take each step faster.

  As he and Miss Hildebrand had arranged, the third piece she played was a waltz. Smoothly rising, he crossed to Niniver. She’d heard the telltale opening chords and had turned to gaze in surprise at Miss Hildebrand. As he neared, she swung to face him.

  He bowed. Straightening, he held out his hand. “If you would grant me the honor of this dance, Lady Carrick?”

  A laugh bubbled up, delight dispelling her surprise. Eyes alight, she inclined her head and placed her fingers in his. “Thank you, Mr. Cynster.” She rose as he drew her to her feet. “I would be delighted.”

  He smiled and gathered her into his arms. “Indeed, I believe you will be.”

  She chuckled, and he spun her into the dance, sending them revolving down the large room.

  Niniver kept a bright smile on her face, but she immediately feared she would never catch her breath—would never regain the ability to breathe past the sudden constriction squeezing her lungs, not before she fainted dead away. The heat of his hand at her back was one step away from scalding—as if there weren’t four layers of silk between his hand and her skin. On top of that, sensation was layered upon sensation—the grasp of his fingers firm and strong about hers, the unyielding steeliness of the arm that held her to him, the effortless way in which he steered her. All that was distracting enough, but the sheer closeness—the occasional brush of his evening coat against the silk of her bodice, the press of his thigh between hers as he drew her closer and swung them through a tight turn, the overwhelming sense of maleness he exuded, and the reality of being captive in his arms…was it any wonder she couldn’t breathe?

  But then instinct kicked in, and she hauled in a breath, and another, yet—although the constriction eased and she no longer felt the least bit faint but rather on the brink of exhilaration—her senses still whirled dizzyingly, intoxicated by the barrage of delights.

  The simple pleasures claimed her, whispered and seduced with the promise that there was no danger here, that all could be enjoyed without restraint, that all would be well and she didn’t need to worry while whirling in his arms.

  She discovered it was surprisingly easy to set aside her innate caution, for not only was she waltzing, she was waltzing with him. With Marcus Cynster, the man of her dreams.

  He was so much taller than she that he initially reduced his steps to accommodate her, but she’d never been a lady who placed much store in ladylike restraint—she was accustomed to striding about in her riding boots. He quickly realized she was willing and able to be more adventurous, and he stepped out more freely—and with a smile on her lips and a laugh in her eyes, she matched him stride for swinging stride.

  They whirled, faster, more powerfully, swirling through the turns—giddy and delighted, and openly, undeniably, pleased with each other.

  They egged each other on, and then he was laughing, too. They swept through one last turn, and he brought them to a swirling halt. Releasing her but retaining his hold on her hand, he executed a flourishing bow. Smiling in appreciation, she sank into a curtsy.

  Straightening, he raised her, then released her hand, and they both turned to applaud Hildy.

  She beamed and raised her brows at them. “Another?”

  Niniver glanced at Marcus. Their gazes met for a fleeting instant, then they both turned to Hildy and together said, “Yes, please.”

  Hildy obliged with another sweeping, rollicking waltz, but she followed that with a slower, more sedate piece.

  The slower pace gave Niniver a chance to catch her mental breath, to refocus her senses—until then distracted by the energy of the dance—on other things. Like him. Like the intensity of focus in his midnight-blue gaze, echoed in the austerely handsome planes of his face and the assured set of his features, and in the reined-in strength of his arms, in his long, elegantly muscled frame. The grace with which he moved registered anew, a grace that underscored the inherent physical power he so effortlessly controlled, and so effectively wielded.

  There was, and always had been, so much about him that spoke to her—to the real woman within. She’d always known that, but now, there, whirling slowly in her own drawing room, the reality—the physicality—of that connection wrapped about her, surrounding and impinging in ways she wasn’t sure she fully understood.

  Her breathing had grown slower, yet deeper; her senses were alive and so full of him.

  In that moment, she felt she could set aside all the rest of the world and be, purely and simply, the woman she would prefer to be—there, waltzing in his arms.

  Marcus sensed the change in her—and in him. He didn’t know exactly what it was that had altered. Their gazes had remained locked for most of this last, slower dance; the depths of her cornflower-blue eyes had grown…not dreamy so much as richer, deeper. A blossoming, a flowering of some kind, one he instinctively recognized as desirable, as a part of what would come to link them—and something in him had shifted to meet that change, to match it. To connect with it, ultimately to hold and secure it.

  Another strand in their deepening relationship.

  And with that deepening came a wash of heat—not the rapid rush of desire they’d unexpectedly provoked earlier in the day, but a steady wave of escalating heat, of burgeoning need.

  He saw the signs in her—in the luster of her eyes, the inviting softening of her luscious lips—and felt the complementary, answering changes in his own body.

  He recognized the symptoms all too well, knew beyond question where this was leading—where the growing, swelling tumult in their veins would ultimately land them—and the temptation to simply let it happen, to let their passions sweep them to the inevitable end, waxed strong, yet…

  Too far, too fast.

  He knew that in his bones. He’d only agreed to stay and help her yesterday, and already they were running headlong into passion—the potential complications were simply too great to ignore.

  Yet ignoring the beat already thudding through his veins took all of his resolve—not least because he didn’t want to dim or deny it, not in himself and certainly not in her.

  Encouraging that nascent link had been his purpose in arranging these waltzes; he’d intended to seduce her—he hadn’t expected to be seduced himself, yet he couldn’t now back away. And he didn’t want to.

  But he had to call a halt to this now, while he still could.

  The instant Miss Hildebrand’s fingers struck the last chord, he drew Niniver to a halt and forced himself to release her. He bowed, and she sank into a curtsy. Straightening, they both turned to applaud Miss Hildebrand.

  The ex-governess smiled and inclined her head—then directed a swift glance his way.

  Infinitesimally, he shook his head. No more.

  Miss Hildebrand’s smile didn’t dim as she closed the pianoforte and rose. “That’s enough for this evening. It’s time for tea.”

  Niniver cast him a glance but obligingly crossed to the bellpull. Ferguson must have been on his way; he wheeled the trolley into the room less than a minute later.

  Marcus sat and sipped. He could still feel his pulse in his fingertips, and from the covert, somewhat assessing glances Niniver threw his way, she, too, was still affected. That last, slower waltz had been a tactical mistake.

  Then again, how could he have known that their passions—those deeper, more powerful compulsions that ultimately would land them naked in some bed—had been swimming so very close to their respective surfaces?

  He hadn’t expected that; he was still somewhat surprised it was so. Had proved to be so. An unexpectedly fiery kiss was one thing, but this? This was something he knew well enough was going to take effort to control.

  Their tea consumed, they rose and left the drawing room.

  He stood in the front hall and watched Niniver and Miss Hildebrand ascend the stairs. From the glance Niniver threw back at him, she wanted to pursue what was growing—so rapidly—between them, but he—they—were definitely not going down that path, not yet.
r />   On reaching the landing, she paused and looked down at him. “Aren’t you coming up?”

  To the room next to hers?

  Lips tightening, he shook his head. “I want to check on a few things first. I’ll come up later.”

  Tipping her head, she studied him for a second, then a faint smile curved her lips. “All right.” Turning away, she murmured, “Good night.”

  He echoed the words, watched until she and Miss Hildebrand had passed out of his sight, then he shook aside the lingering threads of temptation, frowned and refocused his thoughts—and lit on just the right exercise to simultaneously cool his ardor while furthering his determination to keep her safe.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he leaned on the balustrade of the terrace that ran along the ground floor of the disused wing. Staring into the blackness, he considered how best to address the long-established but now unacceptable practice of leaving the doors to the manor unlocked, even at night.

  He appreciated the concept that a clan house should always be open to clan members. He just didn’t see why the Carricks couldn’t view the doorbell as an acceptable means of gaining entry.

  Regardless, the external doors needed to be locked. In that day and age, with decent highways making access to the estate relatively easy, let alone the prospect Niniver had raised of a clan member, or even someone else, seeking to seize control of the clan by forcing a marriage…

  The very thought made him tense, but it was undeniably true that the clan itself was courting a massive risk in leaving Niniver so exposed, so vulnerable.

  That, he decided, was the tack he would take in getting the practice revised. Altered. Reversed.

  Straightening, he scanned the area around the manor, listening rather than trying to penetrate the inky blackness of the country night. No sound disturbed the stillness. No would-be serenaders had yet appeared, and it was already approaching midnight.