Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  Looking down at the sheet, at the names, she frowned. “Will they agree?”

  “Yes, they will.” Straightening, he grinned. “They actually prefer such arrangements, because it makes them feel more certain that they’ll be getting paid, and in reliable, regular installments, which helps them with their cash flow. However, while it means the clan will be making the earlier payments before the money actually needs to be paid, by the time you get to August”—he pointed at their sheet—“and later here, and here, then the clan is actually in arrears, but only for a short time—just for that month—but the merchants don’t see that as a problem because they have their monthly payments in place.”

  He paused, then said, “They get security and certainty, and you get around your three difficult times.” Glancing at her again, he studied her face. “By doing that, arranging that, you can steer the clan safely through this year.”

  Her gaze locked on their analysis, she sank slowly down into the chair behind the desk. He rounded the desk and sat again in the armchair facing it.

  Eventually, she raised her gaze to his face, to his eyes. The cornflower blue of her eyes was hazed with emotion.

  “Thank you.”

  There could be no doubt of the gratitude behind the words. She looked down at their papers—at what amounted to a rescue plan.

  He knew the clan meant a great deal to her, that she took her position as elected leader very seriously—indeed, to heart. Yet this…beneath her words, in the depth of the relief emanating from her, he sensed…some deeper level of commitment.

  “Niniver?” He didn’t know how to ask, had no idea what it was he was sensing, but he had to know. If something existed that affected her this deeply, he had to know what it was. When she raised her gaze and again met his eyes, he made a vague gesture, encompassing everything they’d been working on for the better part of the day. “Why?”

  Somewhere in the depths of her quiet self, there was some reason, some answer to that question—he felt sure of it.

  She studied him for a long moment. A full minute ticked by before, her voice low, she said, “On the day my father was buried, I lingered, just for a moment, before I turned from his grave.”

  He remembered. He nodded.

  “I…” Her gaze grew distant, and she frowned. “I suppose you could say I understood him—certainly better than Nigel, Nolan, or Norris ever did. Much better than he understood any of us.” She drew a long breath, her gaze still far away. “I knew he’d been murdered, and I knew even then that under Nolan, things wouldn’t go as they should. Not as Papa would have planned, much less wanted.”

  She paused, and he sensed her focus turning inward.

  Then she went on, “I know he never really saw me, that he would never have imagined I could ever accomplish anything for the clan. Yet when I stood looking down at his grave, I felt…I suppose you could say that I truly felt what it means to be a Carrick.”

  She refocused on Marcus’s face and went on, “I made a vow that day, to Papa and to all the Carricks who had gone before, that I would do everything in my power to right any wrongs done by my brothers, and that I would restore the clan to prosperity, come what may.”

  That was what had moved her to selflessly shift almost all of her funds into the clan accounts. What now pushed her to make things right, regardless of any cost to her.

  Her jaw firmed, and she tipped up her chin. Marcus didn’t need to hear her say “I see that vow as a sacred one, an unbreakable obligation to my father and to the clan, and I will do everything I must to see it through” to know that that was true.

  Her gaze had grown almost challenging—as if she thought he might scoff or make light of her commitment.

  Nothing could be further from his thoughts, from his instinctive reaction. Meeting her gaze, holding it, he inclined his head. “Thank you for telling me. It makes it easier to understand what you want to do.” Easier to know how to help.

  The knowledge also left him, again, with a sense of discovering an even greater depth to her. She didn’t just have facets—she had layers of facets; he wasn’t sure a lifetime would be long enough to discover and explore them all. But reinterpreting all he’d seen of her in light of her vow…he could now understand the unrelenting focus she’d brought to restoring the Carrick clan, could now see from where her indomitable will sprang.

  Commitment was something he understood. To say he was impressed by hers would have been a gross understatement. Every time he thought he saw and understood her, that he’d taken her full measure, she revealed another element of her character that didn’t just appeal, but reached to his soul and resonated so truly, with such clarity, that he understood what it meant to be smitten.

  The gong to remind them to dress for dinner reverberated through the house. They both instinctively glanced toward the door, then looked back at each other—then they lowered their gazes to the plethora of papers still lying all around them.

  “We should put these away.” Rising, she picked up their analysis—the outline of their plan to rescue the clan.

  Pleased she’d said “we” and not “I,” he rose and reached for a stack of notes. “Keep those pages where you can readily consult them and keep track of the amounts as they come through.”

  She nodded and slid the papers into the top drawer of the desk, then joined him in tidying the room.

  CHAPTER 10

  When and how was he going to ask her to marry him?

  As night closed in around the manor, Marcus stood at the window in his room, idly looking out while reviewing the events of the day. With respect to getting to some suitable point when he might with reasonable hope utter the words “marry me,” the day had been a case of one step forward, closely followed by one fractionally shorter step back. Yet despite the frustration, he felt he’d made progress. She’d finally trusted him enough to share the reality of her problems regarding the estate¸ something she hadn’t shared with anyone else.

  The knowledge that he’d gained her confidence and had succeeded in helping her chart a way forward had warmed him through the evening—one spent in easy conversation over the dinner table, followed by entertaining themselves in the drawing room with music from Miss Hildebrand, from him, and from Niniver.

  And Niniver had started to relax; her smiles had come more readily, more naturally, as spontaneous expressions of happiness. The songs she’d chosen had reflected her improving spirits. He’d noticed that, and so had Miss Hildebrand, although unlike him, she hadn’t known what had caused the change. Again, he’d felt as if his halo was glowing; easing burdens from Niniver’s shoulders was a role he intended to permanently claim.

  On top of that, the acceptance implied by her telling him of her vow over her father’s grave had further raised his hopes. More, learning of that vow and understanding her unwavering commitment to it had only drawn him even deeper under her spell.

  Putting family—or clan—above oneself to the point of personal sacrifice was a warrior’s code, yet one some women shared. In Niniver, the propensity seemed an integral part of who she was. He now knew her well enough to harbor no doubt that she would strive to the nth degree to fulfill what she viewed as a sacred obligation. She was the opposite of those who took—as Nigel, Nolan, and even Norris had. Instead, she gave. And gave.

  That was one reason—almost certainly the principal reason—why she was so highly regarded and innately trusted by her clan; they saw her as their savior, and in that they saw her clearly. And her propensity for giving without reservation was, clearly, destined to be one aspect of his future role. Protecting her from giving to the extent of exhausting herself, of running down her personal resources to nothing. Wise warriors knew to conserve enough strength to fight another day, but as far as he’d seen, Niniver had no inherent limits. She would give until she dropped. Or until someone hauled her from the fray.

  His role, obviously.

  In some ways, that was what he’d done today, and it had felt…perfect.
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  So the day had been far from a waste, yet he had still to reach a viable position from which to ask for her hand.

  A light tap fell on his door, then it opened.

  Niniver walked in.

  Despite the gloom—he hadn’t lighted any lamps—she saw him immediately. She closed the door, then walked—boldly, with very clear intent—toward him.

  His thoughts scrambled. In a fleeting flash of insight, he realized that a large part of the uncertainty that had him still dithering over when to ask her for her hand owed its genesis to his expanding view of her. The more he saw of her, the more fascinating she became—the stronger, the more challenging—and the more clearly he perceived the befuddling contradiction between her fragile outward female form and the fiery passion and steely will within.

  Each day he spent with her only deepened his understanding of what an unexpectedly complex and rivetingly powerful female she truly was—and would become.

  And…he wanted her to love him. Not just need him.

  The realization struck him—not as a shock, not as a result of anything outside him, but as a tide welling from a source he’d only just discovered inside him.

  He could hardly be surprised. He was a Cynster, after all.

  But what if he proposed, and—given her commitment to the clan, given her vow to her father—she felt obliged to accept for the good of the clan, rather than because she wanted him, desired him—loved him—in the same unrestrained and unconditional way he now wanted, desired—and, yes, loved—her?

  She halted before him and, through the shadows, looked into his face.

  Given her attraction to him, he’d assumed that gaining her agreement to marry him would be a simple matter. He could almost hear Fate laughing.

  Her eyes searched his, then she raised a hand and laid her palm on the center of his chest.

  His muscles leapt, arms instinctively tensing to rise and reach for her. Ruthlessly, he clamped down on the impulse.

  But she sensed it. Her lips lightly curved, feminine confidence blooming. “As you’re staying—”

  “There is no price to be paid for my help this afternoon.”

  The statement was categorical, his tone almost harsh.

  Tilting her head, Niniver searched his eyes, his face—what she could see of it in the dim light. Everything she could sense confirmed that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  She’d paced—quietly—in her room for the past fifteen minutes, wondering…then she’d taken her courage in both hands and come tapping on his door. Given all she could sense, just from the simple contact of her hand on the top button of his waistcoat, of the passions rising to swirl around and between them, she was very glad she had. “I wasn’t thinking in such terms. After last night, as you are still here…I assumed you would come to my room. To my bed.”

  His eyes, even darker and more fathomless in the night, remained locked on hers. “It’s customary, through the evening, for a lady to give a gentleman some sign.”

  “I didn’t know—I don’t know how such things are done.” She lifted her shoulders fractionally. “So I came to you.” When he didn’t respond, she went on, “I want more—more of you, of us. And you want the same.”

  She’d decided, and she was determined to seize every moment granted her, to claim every minute, every night, to extend their liaison for as long as she could. “Is there any reason we—you and I—can’t simply be as we wish? Do as we wish? Here, together—just us?”

  It was as if those words released something in him. She all but felt his rigid control waver, then fall.

  “None at all.” His arms rose, coming around her. His hands spread over her back. “And I definitely want more of you.”

  She stretched up as he bent his head. Their lips met, touched, brushed, then melded. She parted hers, and he entered, confidently claiming with a languid ease that somehow increased her anticipation.

  Coming up on her toes, she met him, matched him, drew his tongue deep, then sent hers questing. Knowingly letting her own passions rise, sliding one hand up over his shoulder to cup his nape and anchor her, she kissed him back—and slipped the top button of his waistcoat free.

  Tonight, she wanted more than to simply follow his lead. Tonight, she wanted to explore, to learn more—not just of him but of herself. She wanted to be, to live as the woman she’d discovered through the previous night she could be—the woman she became in his arms.

  Getting him to shed his coat and waistcoat wasn’t that hard; when she tugged, without breaking the kiss, he obliged and shrugged out of both garments and tossed them at a chair.

  Then his hands were on her, tracing her curves, more demanding. Commanding.

  She consciously let go and let the tide of compulsion that rose between them have her, take her, sweep her up and on.

  He was adept at managing buttons and laces, his fingers swift and sure. She sent the fingers of one hand sifting through the dark silky locks of his hair, while with her other hand, she undid, one by one, the buttons closing his shirt.

  Their lips parted only just long enough to allow them to draw fractured breaths before engaging again. Hot and slick, their tongues dueled, and her attention vacillated between the heated engagement of their mouths, the inciting pressure of his hands as he kneaded her breasts, and the enticing planes of his chest that she was intent on uncovering.

  Heat rose and swirled, flames of desire licking, tempting. She felt that ineluctable warmth rise through her, urging her on, wanting more—a deep-seated needing.

  A marrow-deep yearning.

  But this time she knew satisfaction would come, that they would in the end reach that point of indescribable repletion. While the intensity of need remained, the compelling urgency still thrumming through their veins, the beat was less frenetic, the rhythm more steady and assured—much less desperate.

  This time…they could take whatever time they wished, he and she both, to absorb every last nuance. As she couldn’t know for how long he would remain—how many days and nights their liaison would stretch for—she’d resolved to make every second count.

  Then his shirt hung open; she laid her hands on his skin and claimed.

  And he let her. Let her fill her senses with his body, with the heat and the promise inherent in the heavy bones and defined muscles while, garment by garment, he divested her of her clothes.

  And she helped him out of his.

  Soon, he was gloriously naked, but she wore many more layers. Yet not even her hands caressing his jutting length succeeded in diverting him from his purpose; if anything, the flames simply leapt higher, and he worked even more diligently to free her laces.

  Her light corset hit the floor, then her chemise joined the rest of her clothes and she stood naked before him—except for her garters and stockings. When dressing for dinner, she’d removed the binding about her ankle; the joint hadn’t troubled her all day.

  Modesty had been for the night before; tonight was for fascination.

  For an intent and a focus that was absolute, that fixated them unrelentingly, unwaveringly, on each other.

  For five thudding heartbeats, they stood bathed in stark moonlight, viewing each other, each possessively cataloguing. Each equally greedily drinking in the promise.

  Her mouth had dried; anticipation tightened her nerves.

  He exhaled and went down on both knees before her. He cupped his palms about her ankles, then ran his hands upward, hot palms gliding over the backs of her calves, through the sensitive hollows behind her knees, and up, until his fingers touched her garters. With slow, controlled, caressing touches that made her shake, he undid both garters and, with fingertips trailing over her skin, rolled down her stockings.

  One hand gripping his shoulder, she lifted one foot, then the other, allowing him to draw the stockings free. He sent them to join the pile of her clothes on the floor.

  He sat back on his heels. Naked in the moonlight, like a dark god he looked up at her. Then he reached
for her, closed his hands about her hips and drew her closer. “Come here.”

  She let him draw her nearer, shifting her feet to either side of his knees, as he seemed to wish. She caught a glimpse of his lips curving in a smile that looked expectant and hungry, then he leaned in and pressed a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss to her navel, and she gasped.

  He licked, laved, and set about tasting her. Tipping back her head the better to breathe—not that it seemed to help—she shifted her hands from his shoulders to his head, and held him to her.

  His head dipped lower. His lips and questing tongue blazed a trail downward.

  As he continued to weave his sensual magic, her breathing fractured and grew increasingly harried.

  Then he was nuzzling the apex of her thighs. His tongue delved, sensation speared through her, and she barely swallowed a shriek. “Marcus!”

  “Hmm.”

  That was the extent of his verbal response. His intimate explorations continued, deepening and expanding; he lifted one of her thighs and draped her knee over his shoulder, opening her to him, to his expert ministrations.

  He licked, lightly suckled, probed…until she was breathless, and witless, and close to collapsing with unadulterated pleasure.

  The intensity of her spiraling need shocked her, but she wasn’t about to deny herself—or him—this. Rather than retreating, she embraced the moment, the experience in all its glory, with an abandon that rose from her soul. From her need to be this woman—vital and vibrant, and fully engaged with life.

  Fully and intimately engaged with him.

  Securely supported by his hands locked about her hips, tilting her and lifting her softness to his ravaging mouth, she surrendered, gave and took, and with her fingers gripping his skull, she held him to her and urged him on.