Ten minutes later, they were surrounded by a mass of squirming, wriggling bodies in one of the end pens, both smiling irrepressibly and enjoying themselves hugely, when sounds of an altercation reached them. A rumble of male voices came from the front of the barn, distorted by the pen walls.
Then one man yelled. It sounded like “No!”
Marcus thought the protest came from old Egan. Then all other sounds were drowned beneath a chorus of yips and barks.
Rising from his crouch, he ordered, “Stay here.” He opened the pen gate and stepped into the aisle. Swinging the gate shut behind him, he squinted into the glare streaming in through the open barn doors. Several large man-sized shapes were moving in and out of the light—then hounds appeared, milling about.
Whoever the men were, they were letting loose the older dogs in the pens closer to the doors.
“What the devil are they doing?” He started striding swiftly up the long aisle. As more hounds joined the fray, he swore and started running.
When he got close enough to see clearly, he slowed, rapidly surveying the chaotic scene. One burly man was standing just inside the door, holding back a struggling, curses-spitting Egan. Two others, also large, hulking brutes, were moving down the aisle, happily unlatching the pen doors. More than twenty hounds—all full grown—were milling in the aisle; because of their noise, the men hadn’t heard him coming.
Then footsteps rushed up from behind him.
The nearest mountain of brawn was grinning inanely and lumbering toward the gate of the pen where Niniver’s air-scenting bitches were housed.
Niniver flashed past Marcus and flung herself on the man, grabbing his arm to stop him from unlatching the pen’s gate. “No! Ed—what are you doing?”
Ed—one of her clansmen?
Ed hadn’t seen her coming; instinctively, he tensed to fling her off.
He realized who he was flinging at the last second; his face almost comical in surprise, he tried to halt the violent movement, but Niniver was already stumbling back.
Marcus swooped and caught her in one arm. Using her weight to add to his momentum, he plowed a highly satisfying roundhouse punch into Ed’s jaw.
The giant grunted and staggered back, shock replacing surprise.
Still turning, Marcus swept the man’s feet from under him. Ed landed with a heavy thud on the straw-strewn earth.
Marcus realized he should have known better than to imagine Niniver would obey his order. Setting her on her feet, he said, “See to Egan and the hounds. Leave the men to me and stay out of the way.”
One glance at her set face, at the fury blazing in her eyes, along with the grim nod she gave him, stated he’d get no argument on that score.
Reassured, he returned to his anointed task—taking care of her problems.
The giant had hit his head on the ground. He was groggy and blinking. His mates had only just realized they had unexpected company.
Hounds were still milling, but Niniver called and the beasts obediently streamed her way.
Marcus bent, grabbed the fallen man at collar and belt, and heaved—and sent his body tumbling into the closer of his friends.
The pair landed in a tangled heap in the space before the doors.
“Here! What do you think you’re doing?” Filled with belligerent bluster, the man who’d been holding Egan came striding down the barn.
Marcus glanced into the shadows by the door. Niniver was now with Egan. The man advancing on Marcus must have seen her, but he was more interested in defending his friends.
Settling on his feet, Marcus let the fellow come.
Just before the man got within arm’s reach, Marcus stepped forward and buried his fist in the man’s gut.
With a whoosh, the man doubled over. Marcus grabbed the man’s head and slammed it down on his raised knee.
The man whimpered and, still doubled over, staggered drunkenly back.
Lips set, Marcus locked his hand about the man’s nape, towed him to the barn doors, and mercilessly flung him into the dust of the fenced area outside.
He stalked back to the other two.
The second man had finally disentangled himself from Ed; he saw Marcus coming and launched himself at him.
Marcus sidestepped, then turned, and, as the man whirled back, punched him in the face.
The man howled and clutched his nose.
Marcus grabbed him by the hair, hauled him to the doors, and flung him outside, too.
Meanwhile, Ed had clambered to his feet. He stumbled all but blindly toward the barn doors. All he needed was a boot in the backside to help him on his way, something Marcus was happy—nay, delighted—to supply.
After ascertaining that Egan was unharmed, Niniver had repenned the hounds. Now she strode to join Marcus in the open doorway.
Marcus stood straight and tall, but he was working the fingers of his right hand.
In contrast, the three miscreants were sitting in the dirt, and all were nursing injuries and looking sorry for themselves; that last sent her temper spiraling. “Ed Wisbech. Liam Forrester. And Stewart Canning.” She named them for Marcus’s benefit as well as for effect. Eyes narrowing even further, she glared at the three. “You brainless oafs! Do you have any idea of the damage you might have done to the hounds? What possessed you to come here and let them loose?”
All three men had been looking from her to Marcus and back again, but it was Marcus they looked at with wariness and respect.
She hung on to her temper. “ Well?”
Stewart Canning, the one who had held Egan and who was most likely the instigator of whatever harebrained scheme the three had hatched, sniveled through what looked suspiciously like tears, “We didn’t mean no harm. We just had a thought that p’rhaps you was having difficulty making up your mind which one of us you’d have, because there were so many of us vying for your hand, like, so we made a pact.”
Liam Forrester spoke through the hands he held locked about his nose. “We agreed, us three, that we’d make up a contest o’ sorts, and whichever of us won, the other two would abide by the result and let the winner bid for your hand without interfering.”
“We were trying to make things easier for you,” Ed offered, still holding his jaw. His tone suggested she should be grateful.
Niniver curled her fingers into fists. “That doesn’t explain what you thought you were doing with the hounds.” With my hounds. They might be the Carrick pack, but everyone in the clan knew they were hers. She’d bred, raised, and trained each one. Had schemed and lied to protect all the ones she still had from her late brothers.
Stewart lifted his massive shoulders in a shrug. “Seemed the obvious thing to do—the obvious contest. We was each going to pick one of the beasts, and then race them, and whosever’s dog won, he would be our winner.”
“They were your dogs and all,” Liam said. “It seemed right and fitting.”
Marcus made a peculiar strangled sound; she assumed he was choking back a disbelieving laugh. In as level a tone as she could muster, she stated, “You can’t race hounds. They’re animals who hunt in packs—they work together to bring down prey. The concept of racing against each other is totally foreign to them. If you wanted to race hounds, you would have to get animals from three different packs, and even then… Gah!” She flung up her hands. “Why am I even trying to explain?”
She started to pace but pulled herself up. No pacing. Facing the three, she fixed them with a still-furious glare. “I’m speaking as the lady of your clan. I am banning the three of you from all hunting—of any sort whatsoever—for the next year. If I hear you’ve been out anywhere, even outside clan lands, I’ll bring charges against you before the clan council. You will not— ever—come near the hounds, or Egan’s farm and his family, again.” She drew herself up and looked down her nose at them. “Do I make myself clear?”
They weren’t happy. Lips tight, they stared almost mutinously at her, but then each glanced, very briefly, to her left—at Marcu
s—then, their eyes widening, they quickly looked back at her and dutifully nodded.
Marcus shifted closer. Very quietly, he murmured, “Don’t spoil that performance by saying anything else. Just nod, turn around, and walk inside. I need a moment to speak with these three without you here.”
Her gaze still fixed on her idiotic clansmen, she debated for a split second, but she’d asked Marcus to intervene, and he had, very effectively. She didn’t want to think of what might have happened if he hadn’t been there—she had to trust that he knew what he was doing.
So she kept her glare in place as she nodded curtly, then she turned on her heel and stalked back into the barn.
Marcus remained where he was, his gaze on the three louts, who at least had the sense to remain where they were, sitting in the dirt. They stared back at him, suspicious but wary—leery of tangling with him again.
He waited until he was sure Niniver had retreated out of their sight, then he shifted his weight—bringing the three men alert. He met their gazes, one after the other, then he smiled; the gesture contained no humor whatsoever. “I’m going to say this once, and only once. Consider it your only warning. Lady Carrick asked me to act as her champion in dealing with the problems currently besetting her, and I agreed. The clan elders are aware of this. Although I understand clan rules, I am not a member of your clan. I am, therefore, free to act for the good of your clan’s lady without fear or favor, and I will not be influenced by any clan considerations beyond the single goal of ensuring her safety and well-being.” He paused for an instant to let that sink in, then went on, “Consequently, if henceforth you do anything at all, however minor, to upset Lady Carrick, I will come for you. She might be forgiving. I will not be. The retribution I will visit on you is guaranteed to be uncomfortable.”
He kept his gaze, unwavering, on the three men. “This is how things will be from now on. By all means spread the word to your peers. If any are unwise enough to seek to bother Lady Carrick, it’s me they will find themselves answering to, not her.” He raked one last, coldly scathing glance over the three. “Now, I suggest you take yourselves off, so that she doesn’t have to set eyes on your sorry selves again today.”
With that, he turned and followed Niniver into the barn.
Behind him, he heard mutters, but also the sounds of the three men scrambling to their feet. After passing into the barn’s shadows, he glanced back. The three were staggering off to where they’d left their horses grazing beyond the arena’s fence.
Satisfied, he walked deeper into the cool shadows of the barn and found Niniver talking to Egan. The old man was putting on a good face, but he was clearly shaken.
“You should go into the house and have your luncheon.” Niniver had her hand on Egan’s shoulder. “Mr. Cynster and I will finish checking the hounds, and we’ll close up before we leave.”
Marcus caught Egan’s gaze and nodded. “We’ll see to it.”
The old man’s nephews had been in the barn earlier, but they had gone back to the farmhouse to help Egan’s wife. Both lads were young; Marcus could see in Egan’s eyes that the old man was thinking of what might have occurred if Marcus and Niniver hadn’t been there, and only he and the boys had been around when the three louts had arrived.
“I wouldn’t worry about a repeat of that.” Marcus tipped his head toward the doors; they could hear the hoofbeats of the men’s horses fading. “I had a little chat, and I doubt they—or any others—will try anything like that again.”
Old Egan drew a deeper breath. He straightened and nodded back. “Thank you.” He turned to Niniver and managed a smile. He picked up her hand and patted it. “Don’t worry about me, m’lady. I’m a hardy old coot. But I think I will head in for lunch—the missus will be wondering where I am.”
Niniver smiled encouragingly. Egan shuffled off. Then Niniver turned and walked back to the pens.
Marcus followed her. “What do we need to do with the hounds?”
“I bundled them all in here.” She halted by the nearest pen, which proved to be packed with milling hounds. “We need to sort them out.”
She knew each dog by sight; she identified and indicated the correct pen for each hound, and he steered the animal to its proper home and shut it in.
The occupation should have been calming, but it wasn’t.
He was conscious of a building need to reach out and touch Niniver, to stroke her cheek, to haul her into his arms. And the compulsion was only exacerbated by the way the recent incident had affected her. She’d closed up, drawn in, and put up her shields once more—but behind them she was tense and somehow fragile. Something he himself had alluded to earlier—that physical hurt wasn’t the only harm she suffered courtesy of such incidents—replayed in his mind, and added to the pressure to react. To do something to tear down her walls again and reclaim the happy, relaxed, and comfortable atmosphere of the interlude they’d shared, up until the three louts had arrived and turned everything on its head.
The longer he thought of it, the less inclined he was to allow those three idiots’ actions to set back his own campaign.
By the time he shut the last hound in its proper pen, the need to act was crawling over his skin. Resting his arms on the top of the pen’s gate, he stared unseeing at the hounds.
Niniver came up and halted beside him. She looked into the pen, then blew out a breath. “Thank you.” Briefly, she waved. “For everything.” She paused for a heartbeat, then went on, her tone level and matter-of-fact, “We should head back to the manor. Cook will have luncheon waiting by now, and you must be hungry.”
He turned his head and looked at her. He waited until she met his gaze. “I am hungry, but not for any dish your cook might make.”
She blinked.
He straightened from the pen gate and stepped toward her.
Eyes widening, she turned and shifted back. Her spine met the post between the pens.
He halted directly before her, then reached out and locked a hand on the top of the gates on either side of her, caging her, but also keeping his hands from her. He knew what he wanted—what he hungered for. He even understood why he wanted it—needed it.
She didn’t know what to do with her hands. They fluttered ineffectually between them; as he moved closer still, she tentatively let them fall against his chest. Because of his stance, his hacking jacket was open, the sides spread wide; her palms landed on his shirt—and the sensation of her touch burned through to his skin.
Desire lanced through him, potent and powerful; he fought not to let it show in his face.
She was staring at him, almost open-mouthed—as if she couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Her eyes searched his, then she moistened her lips, and whispered, “What’s the matter?”
He breathed in, and the floral fragrance that was her wreathed through his brain. His senses salivated.
He wasn’t thinking all that coherently. But she seemed to be waiting for an answer, so he put words to the feelings swirling through his head. “Protecting you comes with a price.”
A discovery he’d made over the last hour. Accepting the role of her champion—a role that, by all rights, was her husband’s to claim—was one thing. Acting in that role was something else again.
Something that had made possessiveness rise within him. With men like him, protectiveness and possessiveness were almost always two sides of the one coin.
He’d always known that, but he’d never met a woman who could evoke those intertwined emotions…other than her. She’d always been the exception, but he hadn’t previously had to act physically to defend her…and that, it seemed, had tipped the scales and flipped his coin.
His gaze lowered from her wide blue eyes to the rich fullness of her lips, plump and sheening.
He wasn’t, in that moment, sure whether he was or wasn’t in debt to the three louts. If they hadn’t needed to be brought rather violently to their senses…would he, and she, have come to this?
The question fell awa
y as he lowered his head.
Somewhat to his surprise, she came up on her toes and her lips met his.
Niniver could barely believe her luck. If a kiss was what he wanted in return for his protection, she was perfectly prepared to pay. She was only too willing to grant him a kiss, to indulge in a kiss with him. Her fantasy man who was oh-so-very real—the one she’d fantasized about kissing for…years.
His lips were as firm—as commanding—as she’d imagined they would be. They supped at hers, and she grew hungry for the touch, for the teasing, alluring pressure.
Then the tip of his tongue traced the seam of her lips. She parted them, and his questing tongue slid into her mouth, and sensation flooded her.
His taste—just a hint of coffee and a strong sense of male—tantalized her. Tentatively, she sent her tongue to touch, to stroke—then, emboldened, she sent it questing to tangle with his.
He made an encouraging sound and angled his head; he sank into the exchange, apparently every bit as lost to it as she.
She was definitely sinking. Into pleasure. Their mouths melded and warmth bloomed and spread through her.
Her hands, she realized, had splayed over his chest, then slowly closed, trapping fistfuls of his shirt—the softness of the fine linen was a startling contrast to the hard heat of what lay beneath. Of the resilient muscles her fists rested against.
Fascinating.
He shifted closer still, crowding her with his body, with the long limbs, wide chest, and narrow hips she’d lusted after for nearly a decade. And fascinating converted to riveting.
To a panoply of sensations, of pressures and contours that all but overwhelmed her giddy senses.
Then wonder exploded in her mind as she realized what she could feel.
As she realized that, contrary to her long-held belief, Marcus Cynster was very definitely not uninterested in her.
Marcus barely stifled a groan as Niniver’s hands clenched even more tightly on his chest. As if to hold him to her. As if she didn’t want this engagement to end any more than he did. Then, on a rush of delicate desire—something he’d had no notion existed until she’d kissed him—her lips met his yet more boldly, in almost fiery incitement.
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 11