Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Sir Godfrey arched his brows. After a moment, he looked at Richard.

  Richard returned his regard. “What if we took Nolan’s suicide as a confession? Which, in effect, it was.”

  “And,” Thomas said, “there’s no need for a trial, given the murderer has taken his own life. He’s no longer here to be punished.”

  “Ah.” Sir Godfrey looked more hopeful. After a moment’s cogitation, he nodded decisively. “Yes, indeed. That will work.”

  In the end, it was agreed that, without any fanfare, Sir Godfrey would reopen the cases of her father’s and the Burns sisters’ deaths, and exonerate Nigel of the crimes by virtue of Nolan’s confession and the subsequent confirmation that it was, indeed, he who had been the villain in all three cases. Catriona, who, through her position as Lady of the Vale, maintained a close connection with the local minister, volunteered to explain matters to Reverend Foyle, thus easing the way for the clan to arrange the appropriate funeral and burials.

  By the time all was settled and Niniver had waved everyone off, exhaustion dragged at her, but she had one more meeting yet to face.

  Thomas had been the last to take his leave of her. He was seven years older than she; they had never been close, yet she had always seen him as a true Carrick, a man in the mold of her father. After helping Lucilla into the carriage and shutting the door, Thomas had turned to her, met her eyes, then taken her hands in his. He’d held her gaze levelly. “This is the end of a dark time for the clan, and for the family.”

  She’d seen understanding in his amber eyes; he’d foreseen the inevitable consequence of the day, just as she had. All that was left was for her to deal with it, to chart her way forward through whatever eventuated.

  Regardless of whatever happened, she would, forever and always, be clan.

  She found Norris in the library. He was standing at the long windows looking out over the darkening landscape. She suspected that he, too, knew what was coming, and had been waiting to speak with her.

  Stifling a sigh, she sank onto the arm of one of the armchairs.

  Norris turned. Through the deepening shadows, he met her gaze. After a moment, he asked, “What now?”

  She straightened her spine and raised her head. “Now we call a meeting of the clan to elect a new laird.” She held his gaze. “Will you stand?”

  He laughed, a hollow, faintly derisive sound. “No. I have no wish whatsoever to lead the clan.”

  She’d expected nothing else, yet she’d had to ask and hear him state it. From the moment of his birth, he’d been ignored, not just by their father but by the clan, too. She was the only person he had ever been close to; she was the only person he didn’t ignore back. He had no friends locally, no interests locally; his interests and ambitions were entirely academic, and thus had always lain far beyond clan lands.

  “So what will you do?” She was still his sister; she still cared about him, and she knew that, inside his hardened shell, he cared for her.

  “I didn’t expect to be free to choose so soon, but there’s nothing for me here. There never was.” Sinking his hands into his breeches pockets, he shrugged. “Truth be told, I’ve always felt there was never meant to be. I don’t belong here.”

  She said nothing, simply waited.

  Half turning, he glanced out of the window, looking to the east. “I need to carve out a life for myself. I’m going to go—I need to leave, once and for all. Forever. I won’t be coming back. And other than what I inherited from Papa, I won’t expect to draw on clan funds—do tell them that.”

  She’d been expecting something of the sort, yet still… “Where will you go?”

  His shoulders lifted again. “St. Andrews, perhaps. I can look for work there—as a tutor, perhaps as a researcher. Who knows? I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  So soon? She drew a tight breath and rose. “So you’ll just ride away?”

  Norris brought his gaze back to her face. “Without a single backward glance.”

  She almost opened her lips to point out that meant he’d be leaving her behind, too, leaving her to cope with the disintegration of life as they’d known it, but…no. It was pointless to try to hold him. And, indeed, his leaving tomorrow would be an unequivocal statement of his relinquishing all claim to the lairdship. She forced herself to nod, then walked toward the desk. “Don’t go without saying goodbye.”

  She felt his gaze on her but didn’t meet it. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  With that, he walked to the door, opened it, and left.

  She sank into the chair behind the huge desk. Once Norris left, she would be alone. The clan would meet and elect a new laird from another clan family. To her would fall the duty of overseeing the transfer of all the clan holdings—the estate, the manor, all except the Carrick family’s personal wealth, a relatively meager amount that would be divided between herself and Norris. Everything else belonged to the clan—the furniture, the books surrounding her, even her deerhounds. Everything that made this place her home.

  So what would she do once the transfer was complete?

  She sat and stared at nothing as night closed in outside the windows and the shadows inside deepened.

  Norris might be leaving, but in doing so, he was accepting the challenge of making a life for himself. She needed to do the same, but she was the opposite of him—she didn’t want to leave clan lands. Her roots were here, sunk into the soil in a way she couldn’t explain. She’d always felt connected, both with the gently rolling fields and even more with the people. She’d grown up immersed in clan, and she simply couldn’t imagine ripping herself free—couldn’t imagine any reason why she might wish to.

  “So I’ll remain,” she murmured to the darkened room. “Whatever happens, I’ll work out some way to stay—perhaps whoever moves in will let me reopen the disused wing and stay there?”

  She tipped her head, considering it, then lightly shrugged.

  Aside from not having any inclination to leave clan lands, there was the overriding matter of her vow to her father—a vow she had yet to fulfill.

  Unlike her brothers, she believed in clan, in right and wrong, in fulfilling obligations, and in keeping solemn vows. In giving back to those who gave to her.

  Placing her palms on the desk, she pushed to her feet. “One way or another, I will find a way.”

  Throughout her twenty-four years, whenever disruption had threatened, she’d fallen back on that tenet as her guide. It would steer her this time, too.

  * * *

  They buried Nigel and Nolan three days later. The atmosphere was more that of a witnessing than an honoring. The ambiance was strikingly different from that which had prevailed at their father’s funeral—but then Manachan had been revered by the clan and respected throughout the community, while Nigel and Nolan had been tolerated purely on the basis of being Manachan’s sons. As for acquaintances within the wider community, theirs proved to be limited to young hellions of similar ilk to themselves—irresponsible males intent on enjoying a hedonistic life with nary a thought for anyone or anything else.

  Several of the latter unexpectedly turned up, driving curricles and phaetons, and greeting each other raucously.

  The clan ignored them.

  Initially, Niniver had been surprised by how many of the clan had chosen to attend. Then she’d realized that, for them as for her, the somber service marked the end of two years of uncertainty and unrest—two years of confusion, of not knowing what was going on, and of lost faith in the clan’s leadership.

  Nigel was buried next to their father and mother in the Carrick family plot.

  Nolan was buried in a far corner of the graveyard—rejected and disowned by all.

  It was she who cast the first sod on Nolan’s coffin. Stony-faced, the clan elders followed her lead.

  And then it was done.

  No one felt any need to linger; everyone was glad to turn their backs and walk away.

  As the gathering dispersed
and the clan returned to the carts and drays that had brought them there, several of Nigel and Nolan’s friends surrounded her and attempted to press their patently insincere condolences on her.

  She avoided society—in part because of just such men—but she’d long ago perfected one social art, that of keeping her feelings concealed and maintaining a mask of unruffled calm. Yet to be invited to join several would-be dandies on a picnic and, when she politely declined, to have her words ignored…

  Luckily, Thomas intervened, and with several cutting words and a black scowl, he sent the horde packing. Together with Ferguson, Thomas escorted her away; she allowed them to lead her to her carriage, help her in, and shut the door.

  Sean set the horses trotting, and the carriage pulled into the road, and finally, it was over.

  She rested her head against the squabs and closed her eyes, holding in the tears that, suddenly, threatened to overflow.

  Her family was gone—all of them. Thomas was her nearest blood relative, and he had his own place, his own role as consort to the future Lady of the Vale.

  She…was alone. Completely alone. She had no place, no role—no life.

  She was the one left behind.

  But she knew the clan wouldn’t throw her out; she would have a place, a role, within it, even if she didn’t yet know what that would be.

  She told herself to remain positive, or at least to keep her thoughts focused on what she yet had to do that day, on what lay immediately ahead.

  The clan meeting to elect a new laird.

  She sighed, opened her eyes, and glanced out of the window. “One way or another, I will find a way.”

  * * *

  She had accepted that, at the end of the clan meeting, she would need to witness the transfer of all clan property from the Carrick family’s control to that of the clan family to which the newly elected laird belonged. To that end, she’d summoned the clan solicitor from Glasgow.

  When she reentered the house, a footman told her that Mr. Purdy was waiting in the drawing room. Her mask firmly in place, she went to greet him.

  Mr. Purdy was a dapper older gentleman with shrewd hazel eyes. After shaking her hand and accepting her invitation to reclaim his seat on the sofa, he asked, “Do you know to whom the clan will turn?”

  Settling on the sofa opposite, she shook her head. “There are several clan elders who might take the role. I felt I should remain aloof from whatever discussions have been taking place. In the circumstances, I don’t feel the decision of the new laird is one I should in any way influence.”

  Her family had let the clan down, and the loss of the lairdship was an appropriate justice.

  Mr. Purdy frowned. “You have another brother, if I recall correctly. He must be…twenty-two years old?”

  “Norris. He declined to stand for the lairdship and has already left to forge a new life elsewhere.”

  Purdy pursed his lips, then nodded. “As he didn’t desire the position, him leaving might be for the best.”

  She’d come to the same conclusion. Whether he’d intended it or not, Norris’s departure had eased the clan’s way; that much she’d heard.

  The door opened, and Ferguson looked in. He saw her, and relief softened his features. “There you are, miss.” Ferguson recognized Purdy; a frown passed fleetingly over his face. He inclined his head to the solicitor. “Mr. Purdy.” Then Ferguson returned his gaze to her. “If you would, miss, the clan’s all gathered and waiting in the library.”

  She’d assumed there would be no need for her to attend the clan election, that it would be better for the clan if she wasn’t present, but apparently, they wanted her there. Perhaps as the sole remaining Carrick to represent the family whose name the clan carried. She rose. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought…” Turning to Purdy, she managed a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?”

  Purdy had risen as she had; curiosity in his eyes, he inclined his head. “Of course, Miss Carrick. I’ll wait here.”

  Wondering what had pricked Purdy’s interest, she allowed Ferguson to usher her from the room. He led her to the library and held the door for her.

  She walked in. Determined to maintain her composure, she looked around, and found every eye in the room—that of every man and woman in the clan—fixed on her. She blinked, but her mask didn’t slip. Glancing around, she searched for a place to sit. Every chair was occupied and people lined the walls, several bodies deep.

  Behind her, Ferguson cleared his throat. When she looked his way, he waved her on—to the chair behind the big desk.

  It was the only vacant chair in the room—and, apparently, had been reserved for her. Keeping the frown in her mind from her face, she made her way down the long room. That particular chair—behind the big desk that her father, her grandfather, and all the lairds before them had used—should have been reserved for the new laird.

  Ferguson slipped past her and around the desk, then held the chair for her. Perhaps they meant to have some sort of ceremonial moment to signify the handing on of the lairdship.

  She sat, then looked around. To one side stood Bradshaw, a strong man who had demonstrated his willingness to act for the good of the clan. But he was a touch belligerent. Forrester, another of the clan elders, stood alongside with his wife and family; he was a quiet but solid man. Perhaps too quiet. She scanned the rest—Phelps, Canning, and all the other possible candidates—searching for some sign…

  Out of nowhere came the thought that the French aristocrats must have felt like this, waiting for the guillotine to fall.

  Her gaze landed on Sean, and the head stableman made a get-on-with-it gesture.

  She blinked, then swung slightly to look up and back at Ferguson.

  The big man opened his eyes at her, clearly expecting her to…lead the meeting?

  She drew in a breath and glanced around again; everyone was waiting for her to speak. Clasping her hands on the desk, she cleared her throat; her voice sounded a trifle husky, but her memory supplied the right words. “In keeping with clan custom, we’re gathered here today to elect a new laird.” She glanced again at Ferguson; he had retreated to stand to the side with old Egan. “Do you have the list of nominees?”

  Ferguson replied, “There’s only one name on the clan’s list.”

  “Only one?” While that would make matters easier, she’d felt sure the position would be hotly contested between at least three families—the Bradshaws, the Phelpses, and the Cannings.

  Ferguson’s gaze didn’t shift from her face. “We’ve been talking for the past days, ever since your brother took his life—and, truth be told, even before that. But when it came down to it, there’s only one person all the clan families will agree to follow—so that’s the person we need to lead the clan, and no other.”

  Glancing around, she saw Bradshaw, Forrester, and all the others—and their wives—nodding in earnest agreement. “Well.” She drew in a breath. “That’s excellent. We won’t even need to vote.” And whoever it was would know they took the job with the unequivocal backing of the entire clan. She looked at Ferguson. “So, the name?”

  Ferguson held her gaze. “Niniver Eileen Carrick.”

  It had been a decade at least since she’d been addressed by her full name. She blinked. “Yes?”

  Ferguson’s gaze bored into hers. His lips compressed, then he stated, “That’s the name on our list.”

  She stopped breathing. She felt her eyes grow round, then rounder still. Her lips parted… She forced in a strangled breath and said, “You want me to be the laird…the lady?”

  Emotion crashed into her; the realization—the confirmation she received as she looked once more around the room—was almost too great to assimilate. For a long moment, she let the impact roll over and through her. Given her vow to her father, given the clear support of the entire clan…

  Moistening her lips, in a quieter tone, she asked, “Why me?”

  Somewhat to her surprise, they told her.

  She’d had no
idea that all her life they’d been watching, that they’d seen not just the quiet girl-child, not just the young woman she’d grown to be, but the woman she truly was inside. They’d seen, they’d understood, and they’d chosen her.

  She was touched, she was…slain by their faith, empowered by their trust, anchored by their confidence.

  And she couldn’t refuse them, couldn’t say no.

  She had no choice—and no other inclination—but to swallow the lump in her throat, summon the inner strength that had long been hers, and say clearly, “Thank you. I accept.”

  And with those simple words, she became the Lady of Clan Carrick.

  CHAPTER 1

  March 1850; nearly a year later

  The Carrick Estate, Dumfries and Galloway

  Niniver leaned low over Oswald’s neck and let the big bay gelding run. The wind of their passage whipped over her cheeks and tore tendrils of hair loose from the knot on the top of her head. She didn’t care; she just wanted to fly before the wind and forget about everything else.

  The thunderous pounding of Oswald’s heavy hoofs, the bunch and release of the horse’s powerful muscles, filled her mind—and pushed out the frustrations that had threatened to overwhelm her. While she raced over the fields, she had no room in her head to dwell on the irritations, annoyances, petty nuisances, and simply idiotic behavior that had provoked her to near-fury.

  What were they thinking? Were they even thinking? Or were they simply reacting to a situation they didn’t know how to interpret?

  She’d ridden east from the manor, over the flatter fields, wanting—needing—to gallop. But the clan’s lands ended at the highway. Ahead, beyond the edge of the fields, the ribbon of macadam glimmered. Normally, she would have slowed at that point, drawn rein, and come around.

  Not today.

  Crouching low, she let Oswald thunder on.

  Because today she needed more than just exercise. Today, she needed something akin to an exorcism—before she lost her temper and blasted her importunate clansmen in a way that would shrivel their manly confidence forever.