Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 13

  If he knew anything of country ways, the story of his intervention the previous night, reinforced by his actions at the barn, would already be making the rounds of the clan’s farmhouses and cottages, passed from neighbor to neighbor, from father to son around the hearths.

  Good.

  He was conscious of a certain satisfaction that other men would know that he was now there, by Niniver’s side, and that, therefore, she was off-limits—that they should stay away from her. He wrinkled his nose. Possessiveness was a trait every man in his family knew well enough to mute and, whenever possible, conceal; he would need to be careful not to let that side of his emotions show.

  A soft sound reached his ears. A footstep?

  He turned in time to see Niniver round the corner of the house.

  As she walked toward him, the moonlight paid homage to her pale hair and fair skin and left the svelte curves of her slender body lovingly clothed in shimmering silver, and for a moment, he wondered if his over-lustful mind had conjured the vision. But then, beneath the silver-gilt of the moonlight, he recognized the blue of the gown she’d worn that evening, the bracelet and necklace of aquamarines gracing her wrist and throat.

  She was real; the moonlight simply made her appear even more ethereal, even more like some moon goddess come to earth to tempt mere mortals.

  To tempt him, at least.

  He felt the undeniable tug as she halted before him.

  Head tilting, she studied him. “I wondered where you’d got to.”

  Clearly, she’d made no attempt to change and prepare for bed. He pushed that observation—and the obvious conclusion—to the back of his mind. “I’ve been checking the security of the house. You—the clan—need to change the tradition of leaving the manor’s doors unlocked at night. In this day and age, it’s too risky.”

  She wrinkled her nose and, like him, turned to look out at the darkness. “I feel the same, which should be no surprise, but it’s been a clan tradition for so long…” She gestured vaguely.

  “We don’t have the same tradition in the Vale—but then, that’s always been run by a lady.” His mother was the current Lady of the Vale. “Even if the custom had been suggested, I can’t imagine any consort would have stood for it.”

  “Apparently,” she said, “the custom dates from an incident long ago—and not even from around here. Somewhere in the Highlands, a crofter family came to seek shelter at their clan’s keep during a winter storm, but the keep’s doors were barred and they couldn’t raise anyone inside. The family froze to death on the steps of their clan’s house. Out of that came the decree that clan doors should never be barred.”

  Dryly, he said, “That was before doorbells were invented.”

  She gave a little smile. “True.” After a moment, she sighed and raised her head. “I’ll speak with Ferguson—”

  “No. Let me.” When she glanced at him, he went on, “It’s something I can do, and you have more pressing concerns—I’ll speak with Ferguson, and we’ll sort it out.” He clamped his lips shut on a plea to be allowed to lift that burden, at least, from her shoulders. She’d either agree, or she wouldn’t.

  After a moment, she inclined her head. “All right. I’ll leave that to you.”

  The surge of triumph he felt was ludicrous—entirely out of proportion to the deed. Still…

  He looked out at the surrounding fields, then he looked at her. He waited until she turned and met his gaze; he briefly searched her eyes, then—compelled by the need to know—asked, “What brought you out here?”

  There was no point trying to avoid the issue; aside from all else, he was coming to realize that she—and her stubbornness—wouldn’t allow it.

  She considered him for a moment, then said, “I realized I hadn’t made any…payment for your protection last night, with Jem Hills.”

  He stared at her. Payment? Then he realized what she meant.

  Protecting you comes with a price. His words—and oh, how tempting it was to allow her to continue to believe the interpretation she’d placed on them, but…lies never worked well, and behind everything else, this was Fate he was dealing with. The Lady alone knew what might happen if he didn’t correct her misapprehension. Yet how to explain?

  He hauled in a breath, held it for an instant, then said, “That wasn’t what I meant. I didn’t mean that you had to pay anything—give anything. Not at all.”

  She frowned at him; he could see in her eyes that she was replaying that moment in the barn. “If you didn’t mean that…what did you mean?”

  He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and forced his lips to form the words “It’s me who has to pay the piper, so to speak.”

  Her frown just grew blacker. “I don’t see why. Or, indeed, how.”

  He didn’t want to discuss the how. “It’s an outcome—a result—of being moved to act to protect you. It’s not how I feel before or during, but what the consequences are…” He fought down the urge to run a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

  Niniver eyed his closed expression. The tone of those last two words was unquestionably meant to put an end to the discussion, but she hadn’t come down to the terrace just to be turned away. So she tried to see things from his male point of view. Tried to imagine what it might feel like were she standing in his shoes. “So…this price you have to pay is like a debt—a demand—that comes into being after you act to protect me—as you did with Jem last night, and even more after dealing with those three at the barn.” Her gaze on his face, she widened her eyes. “Is that correct?”

  His eyes had darkened. The tension in his features, that invested his whole frame, suggested he would rather she pull his teeth. But eventually, he nodded. “Close enough.”

  His voice had deepened and grown rougher; she wondered if he knew.

  “And this price—this demand.” She stepped closer, and he turned, putting his back to the balustrade as he shifted to face her. She kept her gaze locked on his. “Judging from what happened in the barn, then payment—satisfying that demand—is something that flows from…for instance, a kiss.”

  Instantly, she knew, from the lines of his face, from the tightness about his lips, that he wasn’t going to respond to that—not yea or nay, not in any way. That didn’t matter; his silence was all the confirmation she needed. And the thought that she, little Niniver Carrick, could affect him, of all men, to the extent of needing to kiss her to appease his own driven desires…such power. So tempting, so alluring.

  She smiled softly, not as a challenge, then looked down. “So I was correct in saying that you are still owed…recompense for dealing with Jem.” She edged closer still, placing her toes between his. “And, of course”—now at close quarters, she looked up and met his dark gaze—“there’s convincing Ferguson about locking the doors.”

  “I haven’t done anything about that yet.”

  “True. But”—she grasped his lapels and, using her grip to anchor her, leaned into him, tipping up her face and bringing her lips to within an inch of his—“is there any reason we—you and I—can’t make a down payment?”

  The question surprised a laugh from him, but then he sobered. He raised his hands and closed them about hers, pressing them to his chest. He studied her face for a moment, then beneath their hands, his chest rose.

  Quietly, he asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

  “No. But I am quite certain that I want to find out.” Stretching up, she closed the last inch, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him.

  A heartbeat passed, then he parted his lips and kissed her back—took control of the kiss and supped at her lips, then dove deeper.

  His lips were commanding, demanding, and she was only too ready to give. To surrender and tempt him to go further. To take more.

  To demonstrate just how much he desired her—her, the woman she was, the woman she could be.

  The woman she sensed she had the potential to be, at least when w
ithin his arms.

  His lips and tongue plundered, and she rejoiced, following eagerly wherever he led. The heat of the exchange, the prelude to intimacy, beckoned and lured.

  Then he muttered something unintelligible, and the warmth of his hands around hers vanished, then his arms closed around her. He straightened from the balustrade and drew her against him. Angling his head, he captured her senses in a scalding kiss, then he whirled her into the flames.

  And although neither of them moved, she was whirling again, her senses spinning giddily, greedily, as they revolved through a landscape of heat and desire, of passion and yearning.

  He laid it all out before her—showed her the path, the way to all she wanted—and she saw, and knew, and clung.

  Then she got her mental feet under her, steadied, and observed—then she released his lapels, pushed her hands up and over his shoulders, over the strength of muscle and bone, slid her palms about his neck, and held him to her. Then she kissed him back with all the eagerness and enthusiasm burgeoning inside her.

  He desired her. The hard ridge of his erection pressing against her belly assured her that was so.

  And she desired him—she had forever, and now, at last, she was free to show him.

  To let him know how much. How deeply she craved him and all he could show her. All she could experience with him—with him and no other.

  He was her only chance to be who she could be—to learn who that woman truly was, the reality underpinning her wild fantasies.

  Easing one hand from his nape, she touched his lean cheek, stroked her fingertips down in wordless entreaty, then redoubled the invitation in her kiss.

  He shuddered as if her onslaught had breached his outer walls. Then one of his hands slid from her back to her side; he briefly gripped her waist, then his hand swept up, up, until his palm cradled her silk-clad breast.

  She moaned softly, the sound trapped between their lips. Barely able to believe the wanton impulses coursing through her, she pressed closer yet, sinking against him, flagrantly encouraging him to claim.

  He did, and she lost all ability to breathe. She certainly couldn’t think, not with the sensations cascading through her—the heat of his palm over her breast, the strength in his long fingers as he gently kneaded, then the sharpening pleasure as those wicked fingers circled her nipple, then captured it and gently squeezed…

  She nearly broke from the kiss as pleasure lanced through her. In desperation, she speared the fingers of both hands into his thick hair. Startled at the feel of the silky locks, she rumpled them, then clutched again, holding tight as his fingers squeezed again, and she surrendered to rapturous delight.

  Marcus couldn’t think. Not that he needed to; he’d been along this road before. But never before had he suffered from such an inability to control…anything. She had her own agenda—clearly. But hers seemed to subvert his. She seemed able to do what no other woman ever had and completely override all his inner safeguards—all the well-honed machinations that, with any other woman, left him in control.

  Caressing her breasts should have reduced a novice like her to passionate surrender—and it had. He hadn’t expected the minor advance of claiming her breast, just by touch through multiple layers of silk, to so rock him. To so effortlessly release the clawing, hungry demon of desire that lived within him.

  She and that raw desire combined to create a ravening force.

  Mere expertise had no power to stand against it—against the open ardor she so blatantly laid before him and his own driving need.

  And that need—his deepest wanting—wasn’t just hungry for her. It was hungry for this—for her and him together, reaching and searching, exploring their passions without restraint on either part. Without the slightest thought for safety.

  Ah, gods—he needed her. But that couldn’t be. Not yet. Not tonight.

  Even as she and his desire combined to drag him deeper into the rising flames of the passion they’d mutually created, mutually stoked—as their kiss grew incendiary and he realized his other hand had slid down to cup her bottom and he was holding her, molding her, to his rigid length—in desperation he searched for something, for some anchor…and realized it had been there all along.

  She was it. To him, she was a nymph of irresistible temptation, but she was also the tender, caring, devoted woman he had sworn to protect.

  And protectiveness always— always—trumped possessiveness.

  The core of him steadied. Even with the tide of desire swelling and rising around them both, clarity returned, and he knew what to do.

  Gradually, bit by bit, notch by notch, he drew them back to solid earth. Not too fast, not abruptly. Not in a way that left either of them too tight, too tense, too unappeased.

  They still kissed, their lips still melded; they touched, but the force that had driven them was subsiding with every not-quite-steady breath.

  The vortex of their combined desires slowed, its power waning…for now.

  She didn’t know enough to counter him in that; she followed where he led, and by the time she realized he’d changed direction, they were too far along the path to turn back. Their flames had cooled to embers.

  Smoldering, perhaps, but without his active participation, she couldn’t fan them into a blaze again.

  Not tonight.

  When he finally raised his head and their lips parted, he looked into her face—watched as her lashes fluttered, then her lids slowly rose, revealing eyes lit by starlight and the fading remnants of their passion.

  She looked at him—and there was enough question in her eyes to prompt him to offer in exculpation, “We can’t go further yet.”

  She tipped her head slightly, those wonderful eyes steady on his.

  “Not yet. Not tonight.”

  That was what she’d wanted to hear. Her lips curved in a small smile of feminine confidence—one so vulnerable and real it made his breath catch.

  He set her on her feet and drew his hands from her.

  She dipped her head and murmured, “All right.”

  The fine shawl she’d worn draped over her shoulders had slid to her elbows. She resettled it, then looked at him. “Are you coming upstairs now?”

  The movement felt wooden, but he shook his head. “No. There’s something I want to check before I do.” He jerked his chin toward the front of the house and the door through which he assumed she’d come. “You go up. And…just for my peace of mind, will you lock your bedroom door—just for tonight, until I speak with Ferguson?”

  Her brows faintly rose, but then she nodded. “Very well.” She hesitated for two heartbeats, then murmured, “Good night.”

  He watched her walk away. He stayed where he was until she’d passed out of his sight.

  Then he shook his head, as if he could thus clear away the clouds of fascination that still lingered. Gads—how could he have known a siren lived inside her?

  And now he’d lured her out? Her rising sexual confidence didn’t bode well for his step-by-step approach.

  Still, she’d gone inside, and hopefully by now she’d be well on her way up the stairs to her bed. In her room, the door to which she would dutifully lock.

  So that even if he changed his mind—even if his baser self somehow overcame his wiser self—he wouldn’t be able to follow her. She would be safe, even from him.

  He thought about that for a moment more, then he swore beneath his breath and set off to circle the house. Clan tradition be damned, he was locking every door.

  * * *

  Niniver was still awake, lying in her bed, when Marcus returned to his room. She heard his footsteps approaching along the corridor, then the door to his room opened and shut. She listened to the sounds of him moving across the floor. Imagined him undressing, then the bed creaked, and she heard no more.

  Not yet, he’d said. She could live with not yet.

  But not for much longer.

  If they were to have a liaison—and after today, she was determined they woul
d—then it needed to commence soon. How long he would remain at Carrick Manor was uncertain; he’d intimated he would stay until her clansmen accepted that she wouldn’t be marrying any of them, and she trusted he would—but how long would that be?

  However long he stayed, that was all the time they would have. She knew herself well enough to feel fairly certain that, once he returned to Bidealeigh, she wouldn’t have the courage—the self-confidence—to get on Oswald and ride over there…for a few hours, or a night.

  She was the Lady of Clan Carrick. Ladies of clans did not openly have affairs, and her riding to Bidealeigh—or him riding to the manor—would quickly become common knowledge.

  While he remained at Carrick Manor, they could indulge, and only her most trusted staff would know—and they would keep silent.

  She hadn’t imagined the prospect of having a liaison with him would ever arise—that he would prove to be as attracted to her as she was to him. But he was; she wasn’t such a naive innocent that she didn’t comprehend just what he’d wanted to do with her—the evidence had been impossible to mistake.

  And his “not yet” meant he was willing, but perhaps he’d felt as blindsided by the strength of their passions as she and had wanted to take matters more slowly.

  She could understand that, but now that the chance to experience all she otherwise never would—that because of her position as lady of the clan she would otherwise have to forego forever—had arisen, she was going to seize it with both hands.

  She was determined to learn everything she could about the woman she could be when she was in his arms.

  CHAPTER 6

  The next morning, Niniver joined Marcus at the breakfast table. She swept into the room, smiling enthusiastically. “Good morning.”

  He was eating, and inclined his head in response.

  Feeling unprecedentedly bright and energized, she went to the sideboard and helped herself to her usual two slices of toast.

  Courtesy of yesterday and those moments in the barn, in the drawing room, and on the terrace, today held infinite promise—at least for her.