Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Uplifted.

  If that was how he was destined to feel whenever he engineered matters so that she looked like that, it was a fairly potent incentive to devote himself to making her happy.

  He was contemplating that point when the caterwauling started.

  “My fairest maid of joyful countenance! Look upon me with your bright eyes.”

  The off-key rendition of the opening lines of a common country song shattered the peace of the night.

  In disbelief, he stared at the ceiling as the next line, delivered in a quavery tenor, followed…

  His eyes were open, ergo this wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.

  Then he heard a creak of floorboards from the room next door, followed by the soft patter of footsteps—then another line from the would-be serenader drowned out all else.

  Marcus swore, tossed back the covers, and all but leapt from the bed. The night air stroked cool fingers down his naked chest and the floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet, but he ignored both sensations. Reaching the window, he flung up the sash. Slapping his palms on the outer sill, he leaned out—so that the moonlight reached his face.

  A thin, gangly beanpole of a man stood rooted to the gravel path below, his mouth hanging open as he absorbed the full impact of Marcus’s glare.

  At least the idiot had stopped trying to sing.

  “As you can see, I’m no fair maid, and my countenance is far from joyful. Might I suggest you shut your mouth?”

  The man, still staring, snapped his jaw shut.

  Narrow-eyed, Marcus nodded. “Excellent. Now go away.”

  The man gawked, but then his gaze flicked to Marcus’s left, to the next window along—then, eyes widening even further, the man looked back at him.

  Marcus growled. “I said go! And if you value your vocal chords, I strongly suggest that you never attempt such foolishness again.”

  The man swallowed—Marcus could see his throat working—then the man’s gaze started to swing to the left again.

  “Don’t.” Marcus’s voice had dropped to an even lower register; he let quiet menace ripple beneath the words “You do not want me to come down there and help you on your way.”

  Eyes like saucers, the man swallowed again, then he ducked his head and scurried off.

  Leaning further forward, Marcus watched him rush around the corner of the house. He waited until he heard the muted thud of hoofbeats. As the sound faded, he heard the soft scrape as Niniver’s window sash slid up.

  “Thank you.” Her voice floated across to him.

  He fought the impulse to turn and look at her—tried his damnedest not to think of how she would appear, sleep-warm and tousled from her bed. Then he felt the warm caress of her gaze as it slid over his naked shoulders.

  Thanking The Lady that Niniver couldn’t see below sill-level, he gripped said sill until his hands ached and forced himself to focus. “Who was he?”

  His voice still rumbled like a portent of doom.

  She hesitated, but then answered, “Jem Hills.”

  One of the clansmen she’d named. He sifted through the information he’d gleaned earlier. “One of the principal woodcutter’s sons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has he done this before?”

  She hesitated, then admitted, “Twice. But he’s fairly easily frightened—I don’t think he’ll be back.”

  But Jem Hills had already returned twice, because she hadn’t been able to frighten him off on her own. Marcus snorted. “He better not come back, or he’ll discover just how easily irritated I am.”

  Which was odd. He wasn’t normally quick to anger, yet when it came to her…

  He forced himself to push back from the sill and step away from the window. “Hopefully, we won’t be disturbed again tonight.”

  “No—I mean, yes.” She sighed, then softly murmured, “Good night.”

  He managed to return the words and not just grunt. He waited until her window sash slid down, then closed his and retreated to the bed.

  Once under the covers, he returned to his contemplation of the ceiling—and the type of anger, the particular nature of the aggravation, still coursing through his veins.

  Instinctively, he knew what it was, yet it took several long minutes before he was willing to place the correct label on the emotion. Possessive jealousy. Just the thought of what Jem Hills would have seen—the sight Marcus had denied himself, but that Jem would have been rewarded with had Marcus not been there to chase him off—set that ferocious anger spiking again.

  He’d started the evening not yet one hundred percent certain that being Niniver’s champion was his destined path. Now, not a shred of doubt remained. Fate had sunk her claws deep and hauled him irrevocably onto his true path.

  For good or ill, there was only one way forward.

  For him. For her.

  For them both.

  With that conclusion resonating clarion-like in his mind, he closed his eyes—and to his surprise, found Morpheus waiting.

  * * *

  After shutting her window, Niniver stood staring unseeing through the pane.

  The vision emblazoned across her mind’s eye was one she should endeavor to erase. Instead…she dwelled on every curve, every line, committing them irrevocably to memory.

  He’d been leaning forward so Jem could see him. That had also meant she’d been able to see him. With her gaze, beyond her control, roving over the powerful muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, the corded strength of his forearms, she’d barely been able to string together two coherent thoughts.

  More, when he’d drawn back, he’d shifted slightly, fleetingly giving her an even better, less impeded view of the magnificent expanse of his chest bathed in moonlight…

  Her mouth was still dry. No matter how hard she tried, she was never going to forget that.

  She’d heard him pad back to his bed, heard the bed creak as he’d settled once more.

  Her mind served up the image of his hands, long fingers fluidly traveling the piano’s keys as he’d played song after song, his voice a perfect counterpart to hers. Those same hands, seen minutes ago, elegant fingers gripping the white-painted sill, had looked much more deadly.

  That, she felt, was the truth of him—elegantly sophisticated on the outside, and powerfully dangerous within.

  Night’s chilly fingers reached through her nightgown. She shook aside her distraction and returned to her bed. As she settled beneath the covers and again felt the tug of all she’d seen on her senses, on her too-distractible wits, she told herself not to be so foolish. Dwelling on visions like that wasn’t going to make hiding her fascination with him—her infatuation with him, if she spoke true—any easier, yet hide that, deny that, she must.

  Her mind drifted back over the evening, over the many smiles they’d shared by the piano, over the easy camaraderie that had flowed between them, carried on the music.

  But she knew what sort of gentleman he was, which was why she’d finally succumbed and asked him—specifically him—for help. Because he would help, in the decisive and definite way he’d just dealt with Jem Hills.

  Yet by the same token, she knew that with men like Marcus, all his many kindnesses were simply that—kindnesses. They sprang from the ingrained protectiveness taught to men like him from birth, and didn’t mean anything more.

  She’d be a fool indeed to imagine such kindnesses sprang from anything other than instinct.

  Closing her eyes, she forced her mind away from him and focused instead on what had just transpired. He’d been so convincingly intimidating that, with any luck, Jem wouldn’t be able to resist blabbing about the encounter. And then the message would get about that it would no longer be just her, alone, dealing with whatever silly actions her clansmen thought to visit upon her.

  Her mind slid, once again, to the vision she’d seen, to the undeniable menace Marcus had exuded.

  Looking ahead, she harbored no doubts that she could rely on him to protect her from any and a
ll external threats.

  But protecting her heart? Her silly, foolish feelings?

  That would be up to her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Marcus formally commenced his pursuit of Niniver the following morning. As he waited at the breakfast table for her to appear, he worked his way through a mound of ham, sausages, and his favorite, kedgeree, and mentally surveyed what he saw as his new battlefield.

  His goal was clear—to claim Niniver’s hand and the position by her side.

  The hurdles? As far as he could see, the major ones stemmed from her being the lady of a clan.

  Commonly in marriage, especially in his class, the man occupied a position of power, being the possessor of a title, a landowner, or having a similar position of wealth and influence. The woman brought a dowry—fortune or land or similar tangible wealth—but she stepped into a position of supporting the male; that was the accepted way.

  But that couldn’t be so in this case. Yes, he was a landowner; he possessed significant wealth and influential connections. But it was Niniver who was lady of the clan—she who held power via election by her clansmen. In a marriage between them, it wouldn’t be a case of her becoming his supporter, but of him becoming hers.

  The prospect of that being his fated destiny was strangely reassuring. It could be said that his birth and upbringing uniquely qualified him for the role.

  Being the husband of a woman in power wasn’t a position many men would covet, much less successfully fill. Several years ago, his grandmother Helena had pointed out to him that only men with supreme confidence could act as the consort to a female ruler—as his father did with his mother, the current Lady of the Vale, and as Thomas now did with Lucilla. Helena had commented that being a consort didn’t mean being less of a man—it actually demanded being more. It required being the type of man whose identity and self-worth weren’t dependent on a title, much less on his wife being subservient to him.

  Thinking of the ladies within his extended family, Marcus swallowed a snort. None of the Cynster wives could remotely be described as subservient. Equal partners, yes—and their husbands had discovered that married life was immensely better that way. On every level.

  He came from that tradition of men; his expectations, notions, and needs were rooted in that ethos—and that left him with no doubt whatsoever that he was up to the task of being Niniver’s champion, protector, defender, and principal supporter. Her husband.

  That was the position Fate and The Lady had groomed him to fill. It was the position he now wanted, the position that, with the commitment of his kind, he fully intended to claim.

  How?

  That was the one question remaining.

  He heard Niniver’s light footsteps in the corridor. He looked up as she walked into the room.

  She saw him; her gaze met his and she slowed, but then she flashed him a smile and continued to the sideboard. “Good morning. And thank you again for getting rid of Jem.”

  “I would say it was my pleasure—and it was—but such an incident should never have occurred.” He rose; he waited while she collected two slices of toast, but then, somewhat to his surprise, she elected to sit opposite him. Ferguson had arrived with a pot of tea; he set it down before Niniver’s chosen place, then held her chair for her.

  Once she was settled, Marcus resumed his seat, then, seeing her glance around the board, he lifted the pot of marmalade and passed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and he felt the expected jolt of awareness. He knew she felt it, too, but her guard slammed up, squelching her reaction, suppressing all signs of it.

  Clearly, her choice of where to sit, with the width of the table between them rather than in her usual place in the chair next to his, had been deliberate.

  So she was skittish. All things considered, that wasn’t much of a surprise. He was an expert at drawing skittish animals to his hand, and, in his experience, women weren’t all that different. He would have plenty of time to overcome her skittishness after he eliminated all the threats to her comfort.

  Watching while she spread marmalade over her toast, he found himself wondering, as he frequently did on observing the same behavior with his sisters, how even slips of things like Niniver, Lucilla, and Annabelle could exist until lunchtime on two slices of toast and jam and a couple of cups of tea.

  Niniver set aside the marmalade and reached for the teapot.

  Abandoning the abiding mystery, he refocused on her and her recent problems. “You said Jem had serenaded you on two previous occasions.” Those incidents had not been in the list Sean and Mitch had given him. Rather than relate that list in its entirety, he said, “I know about the fight in the stable yard. What else—what other similar incidents—have occurred?”

  Niniver frowned and inwardly debated. Eventually, she offered, “I suppose the first ‘incident,’ as such, occurred early last summer. Carter Bonham and Milo Wignell came to invite me to go on a picnic with them.” She grimaced at the memory, then glanced across the table and met Marcus’s steady gaze. “They tried to insist, but I used being in mourning as an excuse. They came back later in the year—late October, I think. But I saw them driving up in their phaeton and told Ferguson to say I was out. They haven’t been back—well, not yet. And then there were the others like them—”

  “Wait.” Marcus leaned forward, black brows slashing down. “Bonham and Wignell aren’t clan, are they? And by others like them, I assume you mean gentlemen?”

  She resisted the urge to chew her lower lip. “Yes.”

  “But I thought you said the men bothering you were all clan?”

  “At the moment, yes. They are all clansmen. But the others—they were Nigel and Nolan’s friends.”

  Marcus regarded her for a moment, then his lips tightened. He nodded. “Give me all the names.”

  She did. When she fell silent, he leaned back in his chair. His expression suggested he was adding all the names to some master list in his head. Then his gaze returned to her and he gestured at her to continue. “Tell me all the incidents you can remember.”

  Stifling a sigh, she complied.

  The list was long—longer than she’d realized; she’d never set down each and every occurrence, not even in her mind.

  Some of the incidents had been frightening, but many were, in hindsight, rather amusing. However, when she reached the end of her recitation and focused again on Marcus, there was not a skerrick of amusement in his face. His expression was set and unyielding, his features forbidding.

  His power, and the menace and threat he could bring to bear, were readily discernible to her senses, yet, as had occurred last night, none of that deadly promise was directed at her; rather, it felt as if it were deployed as a shield, screening and protecting her.

  She quelled an unhelpfully appreciative shiver.

  Marcus sensed that shiver; it brought his attention snapping back to her. He studied her for a second, marveling that, despite the litany of assaults on her peace and privacy she’d weathered through the last year—ever since she’d been elected to lead her clan—she still remained…Niniver. Calm, anchored, with a practical streak that reached fathoms deep.

  But the attacks—for that was what they amounted to—had to have taken a toll. At the very least, they’d added unnecessary pressure when, if he’d understood correctly, she’d already been scrambling to bring the clan about. The only positive outcome was that the incidents had finally sent her to him.

  Had finally brought her to admit that she needed a champion, and that said champion should be him.

  She tipped her head, her blue eyes searching his face. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “Yes.” He paused, then went on, “I need to know all those involved so I know who to watch for, and I needed to know what they’ve done because that gives me some idea of how determined they might be.”

  She set her napkin by her plate. “And how determined is that?”

  He rose and started around the table. “Those like Jem are just
trying their hand—they’ll be easy to discourage. But some of the others?” Especially Nigel and Nolan’s friends. Reaching her chair, he drew it out for her. “On them, I’ll reserve judgment.”

  He grasped her hand and helped her to her feet.

  He felt her fingers quiver, then she slipped them free of his hold. She glanced up at him, then, head rising, led the way from the room.

  “I’ll be in the library for the rest of the morning.” Niniver was relieved that the words came out evenly enough; her lungs had locked—she felt as if she could barely breathe. Her senses were rioting, leaping and pointing out that he was close, that he was following at her heels— stupid things. As for the fingers he’d grasped, the skin he’d touched still burned.

  With a ridiculously tempting heat.

  But she was determined to ignore all her reactions; he was behaving exactly as a gentleman like him would toward a lady like her—nothing more.

  “I’ve found that, at present, it’s necessary for me to review every expense undertaken by the estate. As I’ve not yet been in the position of lady for a full year, I’m still learning the ropes. And we do have so many different enterprises…but you must be used to that in the Vale.” She walked as fast as she could short of running. The library door loomed; she opened it and continued inside.

  He followed and closed the door.

  Continuing toward the desk at the end of the room, she glanced back—and the long, wide room, the largest in the manor, seemed to shrink.

  He took up so much space, not just physically but as if his very aura spread outward and dominated the area, somehow claiming it and making it his.

  Facing forward, she made for the safety of her father’s desk.

  Marcus watched her slip around the desk and sink into the well-worn admiral’s chair behind it. As he had the afternoon before, he watched her succumb to the demands of the ledgers, watched worry slowly claim her expression. But as he had the day before, he set aside the impulse to help her with the estate; she’d been managing it, apparently with passable success, for the last year, so she didn’t need his immediate help on that front.