Knowing the abilities of the opposition was one of the first requirements for mounting an effective defense—or, as this situation seemed to warrant, an effective offense.
When Sean and Mitch finally wound down, Marcus nodded. “Thank you.” After accepting the pair’s offer to assist in any way they could in sparing Niniver further upset, he walked back to the house.
In coming to him and insisting he fulfill his promise and aid her with this particular problem, Niniver’s instincts had been sound. Now he’d gained a more comprehensive understanding of what she’d been facing, there was no doubt in his mind that, with respect to dealing with this, he was the right man for the job.
He strolled into the front hall and came upon the butler, Ferguson; he’d met the man on a previous visit. “Is Lady Carrick still in the library?”
In his later middle years, graying but still upright, Ferguson eyed him with restrained suspicion. “I believe so, sir.”
Marcus made a mental note to discover Ferguson’s standing in the clan, and whether it would be wise to enlist him in the cause of protecting his mistress. For the moment, he merely inclined his head. After several seconds’ cogitation, he made for the stairs and went up.
From all Sean and Mitch had said, none of Niniver’s would-be suitors had yet braved the walls of the manor itself. She should, therefore, be safe enough buried in her ledgers in the library. Meanwhile, he could use the time away from her distracting presence to review what he’d learned and, possibly, to get a better grasp of a more nebulous problem he could see looming on his horizon.
He reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the gallery. Rather than return directly to the room she’d insisted he use, he circled the first floor. She’d mentioned that only she currently had rooms on that level, so he had no compunction over opening doors and looking inside. The instant he opened the door to the room to the left of his, he knew that room was hers—he smelled her scent, unmistakable and alluring. Quickly shutting that door, he walked on.
He found the archway leading into what he assumed was the visitors’ wing. After walking to its end, he had to admit that having a room there, at such a distance from hers, would never have worked. He returned to the main wing and explored in the opposite direction, and discovered the door that led into what, from the dust smothering everything, he assumed was the so-called “disused wing.”
Resigned, he returned to the room next to Niniver’s. He went in, shut the door, then, at loose ends, walked to the window.
The day was waning; he looked out at a small walled garden that bore all the signs of being lovingly tended. The colors of bobbing blooms stood out sharply against the foliage, darkening in the fading light. An old rusted gate had been set across the entrance, with a hand-lettered sign that read “Keep Out.” Obviously to prevent further depredations from the would-be suitor horde.
Although the garden was bursting into full-flowered life, on looking more closely, he saw several ragged patches where plants should have been, but no longer were.
The sight made those instincts he was finding harder and harder to control rise, insistent and demanding. Now he’d accepted that his fate was linked with Niniver’s—that, ultimately, she was the lady fated to be his bride—the more primitive side of him saw her as his. His to protect, his to defend.
His to have.
Which was all very well, but his instincts were pressing ahead without consideration for the obstacles in his path.
And at least one of those obstacles wasn’t one he’d expected to face. The complications likely to arise when marrying a lady who was the leader of a clan wasn’t an issue he’d previously spent any time contemplating.
But he needed to pay due attention to those complications now—and, more, find some way to…not so much circumvent the potential difficulties as nullify them.
Exactly how to achieve that and secure Niniver as his wife wasn’t yet clear. Thus far, he’d only got an inkling of the problem, enough to know it was there, lurking like a concealed pit trap waiting for him to fall into it.
A knock on the door drew him from the view and his reverie. “Come.”
The door opened to reveal a tall, lean, dark-featured, and rather cadaverous-looking man. He bowed, formal and stiff. “I’m Edgar, sir. Lady Carrick informed me that you would be staying for a while, and that until your own clothes were brought to you, you might welcome some evening wear, and possibly some nightclothes.”
Marcus nodded. “Thank you.”
Edgar ran his eye down Marcus’s length, hesitated, then said, “If you would be so good as to come to the old laird’s apartments, it might be easier to select what would suit.”
Marcus was only too happy to agree; he was curious as to what insights into its late owner Manachan’s private domain might provide. Although he’d met Niniver’s father on several occasions, he hadn’t known him well. His view of Manachan relied heavily on what Thomas had let fall. Thomas was Manachan’s nephew and had been close to the old curmudgeon. But if Marcus was to marry Niniver, then, given the situation, learning all he could about her late father seemed wise.
Edgar led him around the gallery and past the large door Marcus had earlier confirmed led to the master suite. Edgar opened the next door along, a narrower panel, and went through. Marcus followed him into a well-appointed dressing room.
One that, clearly, still played host to the clothes of a lifetime past.
Pausing just over the threshold, Marcus saw Edgar steel himself before opening the wardrobe doors.
Surveying the offerings thus revealed, Edgar murmured, “I believe we should find something to fit you in here.”
The tone of his voice conveyed…resignation. Marcus stepped further into the room and shut the door. The uncurtained window admitted sufficient light for their purpose.
Although perfectly capable of choosing his own clothes, Marcus allowed Edgar to steer him. They found an evening jacket that fitted him well enough in the shoulders; although it was loose about his middle, buttoned up… Marcus studied the effect in the cheval mirror. “It’ll pass muster, at least for one night.”
Edgar sniffed as if the sight offended his sartorial standards. “At least you’ll only be dining with Lady Carrick and Miss Hildebrand tonight.”
Presumably, Miss Hildebrand was Niniver’s old governess. “Has Miss Hildebrand been here long?”
“She came when Miss Niniver was a nipper—the old laird’s wife was still alive then.” Examining and discarding various pairs of trousers, Edgar continued, “We were surprised she stayed after Miss Niniver left the schoolroom—she didn’t approve of the old laird’s ways, and she’s not clan. But she is devoted to Miss Niniver—she remained for her.”
So Hilda Hildebrand was another potential ally. And he’d be meeting her that evening over dinner—reason enough to pay attention to his appearance.
All Manachan’s trousers, evening or otherwise, were far too big about the waist, and not quite long enough in the leg. In the end, Edgar led Marcus to Norris’s old room; there, they found a suitable pair of trousers to pair with the evening jacket, shirt, and waistcoat they’d selected from Manachan’s wardrobe, and also a pair of pajamas.
Marcus examined the pajamas. “The shirt’s too tight, but the trousers will do.”
Edgar looked faintly scandalized. “Let’s return to the laird’s room. I’m sure we can find a nightshirt for you there, and you’ll need a cravat.”
They found the cravat easily enough, but all Manachan’s nightshirts were of the old-fashioned voluminous variety. Marcus allowed Edgar to give him one, but knew he’d never wear it; it would make him feel like he imagined his sisters felt, swathed in their long nightgowns.
When, with a certain triumph, and certainly in a more engaged mood, Edgar handed Marcus the stack of selected clothes, he accepted them with thanks. Then he hesitated.
Edgar looked at him inquiringly.
“To be honest,” Marcus said, “I’m rather surpris
ed to see the old laird’s clothes still here—as if he were still here. In the Vale, when anyone passes on, we distribute any useable clothes and other items to those who might benefit from them. We consider it a part of honoring our dead—that the possessions they accumulated continue to be useful to the living. A last act of kindness in their name and a memento for those who receive the items.”
He wasn’t entirely surprised when Edgar gravely nodded.
“Aye—the clan follows the same ways.” Edgar glanced at the array of clothes packed into the wardrobe, then closed the doors. “Truth be told, Ferguson, Mrs. Kennedy, and I have discussed the matter several times, but…we don’t feel we can encroach. Mr. Nolan refused to even consider the issue, and now he’s gone… Well, Miss Niniver—Lady Carrick—still seems reluctant to let go of her father’s memory, as it were. We don’t see as how we can push.”
And Niniver was, indeed, finding it difficult to make the decision, yet Marcus sensed she knew it was past time the decision was made. He considered for several seconds, then said, “If I might make a suggestion—Lady Carrick doesn’t lack for inner strength. For backbone.”
Edgar dipped his head. “No, indeed.”
“Yet as you and the others rightly note, she is finding it difficult to come to the point of…as I suspect she feels it, dispersing the last lingering presence of her father. She made reference to the issue when she suggested I borrow these clothes.” Marcus raised the stack of garments. “And while I agree that you and the others cannot, outright, make the decision for her, I do wonder if, perhaps, if you and your colleagues were to suggest that other clan members—those to whom some of the clothes would go—have need of them, it might pave the way for her to more easily give the order. I’ve noticed she tends to act decisively on any matter deemed for the good of the clan.” He endeavored to look innocent as he said, “It might be a kindness were you and the others to recast the decision of dispersing her father’s clothes in that light.”
Edgar looked much struck. A moment later, his expression lightened and he nodded. “I—we—hadn’t thought of it in that way, but you’re right. I’ll speak to Ferguson and the others. Ferguson will know how to best phrase it.”
“Excellent.” Marcus turned and left the dressing room. Edgar followed, something almost like a spring in his step. They parted, and Marcus carried the clothes to his room.
While laying them on the bed preparatory to changing for dinner, he was aware of feeling smugly pleased. Helping Niniver over the hurdle of dealing with her late father’s things was a very minor matter, no doubt. It was, nevertheless, his first tiny success in what, if Fate and The Lady were to be believed, was destined to be his lifelong task—caring for Niniver Carrick.
CHAPTER 3
Niniver studied her reflection in the cheval mirror in the corner of her bedroom and bit her lower lip.
The plum silk evening gown she’d had her maid, Ella, pull out of her armoire warmed her pale complexion, but the fitted bodice and heart-shaped neckline also showcased her breasts, which appeared somewhat plumper than she’d expected. Her waist, in contrast, looked impossibly tiny. Thank heavens her Edinburgh modiste had insisted on reducing the bulk of the skirts that spread over her hips and spilled to the floor, so that despite her being so short, the skirt’s width didn’t make her look dumpy.
She’d attended a bare handful of social events over the past year, and she’d worn mourning or half-mourning to all. But the six months of mourning for Nigel’s death had passed, and she felt she needed a gown with more…energy to help her face Marcus over the dinner table. Or even in the drawing room.
While one part of her mind vacillated—was the color the right one for the task? Was the neckline too daring? Or not daring enough?—her more practical and prosaic self scoffed and told her to get on with her evening.
Marcus might look at her, but like all other men, he wouldn’t see her. Worrying about her appearance on his account was foolish beyond belief, and likely a waste of time.
“This’ll be just the thing to set off that gown.” Coming to stand behind Niniver, Ella looped a thick gold chain from which hung a large garnet pendant, intaglio-carved with Niniver’s mother’s face, about Niniver’s throat. The pendant was a handsome piece, distinctive yet understated; it was, indeed, the perfect ornament to complement the gown.
Lifting a hand to touch the pendant, Niniver considered her reflection while Ella fiddled with the clasp. When Ella straightened and stepped back, Niniver nodded. “Thank you. That’s an inspired choice.” For what she required tonight, the gown plus pendant would, indeed, serve. Together, they would be armor enough.
She turned and walked to her dressing table. Sitting on the stool, she reached for her jewel box, then waved at her hair. “You get started. I’ll hunt out my garnet earrings.”
While Ella unraveled the tight knot Niniver had anchored her long hair in for the day, Niniver ferreted through the pirate’s hoard of jewelry jumbled together in the rosewood box. As the only girl in the family for several generations, she’d inherited jewelry from multiple sources, but as her interest in such items was transient at best, she’d never bothered sorting the pieces into any useful order.
By the time she’d located both of a pair of simple garnet drops, Ella was twisting the final curls of her creation for the evening into place. Niniver glanced at the mirror—and blinked.
Eyes widening, she drank in the sight. She so rarely thought of her appearance that she was wont to forget just how delicately fairylike she could appear. Normally, fairylike wasn’t a helpful look, not when she had to discuss business matters with men. But tonight…
She raised her gaze and, in the mirror, met Ella’s eyes and smiled. “Thank you. This will all do very well.”
Ella beamed. “You look lovely, my lady. And if I may make so bold, it’s nice that having Mr. Cynster to stay gives you a chance to shine so.”
Niniver hid a wry grin; it wasn’t as if she had any competition against which to shine.
Nevertheless, as she anchored the garnet drops in her lobes, she felt satisfied. Confident enough to go downstairs without too many butterflies reeling in her stomach.
She still couldn’t quite believe that she’d done it—that she’d actually gone to Bidealeigh and asked Marcus for his help, let alone having, albeit inadvertently, knocked him unconscious, then more or less kidnapped him.
He’d been more understanding than she’d expected. In fact, now she thought of it, he’d seemed almost…resigned.
Not that it mattered; he was there, and that was what she needed. Even though he hadn’t yet been called on to act in any way, she already felt less worried, less anxious—less fearful that one of her clansmen would step over the line and commit some irrevocable act that the entire clan would live to regret.
Having Marcus staying at Carrick Manor, occupying the room next to hers, had effectively reduced the chances of such a horror occurring to negligible.
In the distance, the sound of the gong summoning them to the drawing room resonated through the house. As she rose, she cast one last look at her reflection. Having Marcus there and keeping him there for however long it took to drill the right message into her misguided clansmen’s unfortunately thick skulls was surely worth the effort of suppressing her reactions to him. Worth the effort of putting herself out to entertain him in the manner he would expect of an evening.
Walking to the door, she reminded herself that she owed him that much, at least. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d vindicated her belief in him, confirming her expectation that he was the type of gentleman—the sort of man—in whom the impulse to aid a damsel in distress was ingrained so deeply that no matter his inclinations, he wouldn’t walk away.
Now he’d agreed to help her, she knew he would. More, she knew he wouldn’t leave until all and any threat to her was past.
Feeling more confident, more assured, than she had in weeks, she opened her door and headed for the stairs.
* * *
Marcus was tying his cravat when he heard the second gong. A minute later, as he was easing his chin carefully down, he heard Niniver’s door open and shut, then her footsteps passed his door as she walked to the stairs.
He considered his reflection. He didn’t have his sapphire cravat pin or any other to anchor the folds, so the arrangement as was would have to do. Hoping Flyte remembered to pack the pin along with his brushes, he raked his fingers through his hair, shook his head to settle the locks, then turned to the bed, picked up the evening coat, and shrugged into it.
His fingers went to the buttons; he swiftly did them up, critically surveying the result in the long mirror in the corner. He felt curiously underdressed without his fob watch and cravat pin, but this wasn’t, after all, a major social event.
Then again, he was going to be facing Miss Hilda Hildebrand, ex-governess and now chaperon, so a certain degree of sartorial care was in order. He couldn’t recall ever setting eyes on Miss Hildebrand, but if she’d accompanied Niniver to the Hunt Balls in years past, Miss Hildebrand might well know him, at least by sight, and most likely by reputation as well.
As he walked to the door, he wondered what Miss Hildebrand’s current opinion of him was—favorable or…? Despite his preference for residing in the Vale, he hadn’t been a monk—far from it—but in all his liaisons, he had been discreet. With luck, Miss Hildebrand would accept him at face value—which, in this instance, would be close to the mark; his intentions toward Niniver might not be innocent, but they were honorable.
As he made his way to the stairs and went down, he saw no one else, heard no one else. Stepping onto the tiles of the front hall, he saw that the door of the drawing room had been left invitingly wide. No sounds of conversation drifted to his ears as he neared; he wondered if Niniver was waiting somewhere else… Reaching the doorway, he realized she wasn’t.
She was pacing back and forth before the fireplace, not in agitation but, he sensed, with faint impatience. She saw him and halted. “Oh, good. You found your way.”
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 7