A Match for Marcus Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  He turned to Niniver. “My letters will be in the study. I’m not sure how long it might take to deal with them. Do you want to wait in the living room, or—”

  She tipped her head down the corridor. “I’ll wait in the study.”

  He led her down the corridor and held open the door to the comfortable room he’d made into his study. Roughly rectangular, it wasn’t that large. Bookshelves lined the three inner walls, playing host to a selection of account ledgers as well as various treatises and volumes on sheep, crops, cattle, and, of course, hounds. Half the outer wall was taken up by a wide window with a pretty view to the south. An Oriental rug covered most of the floor. A typical gentleman’s desk stood before the window, facing the door, with two large armchairs on the rug before it. He followed her inside and shut the door.

  She went straight to the window. “I didn’t realize you had such a fine view.”

  “The house is on the side of a ridge—the elevation helps.” He waited, but when she said nothing more, just stood before the glass looking out, he rounded the desk, drew out the chair behind it, and sat.

  None of the correspondence lying piled on his blotter was urgent, and the pile didn’t contain any missive from Glencrae, but dealing with everything presently on his plate seemed wise; if he asked Niniver to marry him later in the day and she accepted, he expected to be distracted for the next several days.

  After sorting through the pile, he glanced at her. Arms crossed, she hadn’t moved from her position before the window. He hadn’t thought the view that absorbing, but although he waited, she didn’t seem to feel his gaze, didn’t turn to meet it.

  Looking back at the letters, he opened the first, then settled to work his way through them.

  Eventually, Niniver quit her stance by the window and drifted about the room—instantly capturing his awareness. He forced his eyes to remain on the reply he was writing, but his attention kept shifting to lock on her.

  Finally, he pointed to the bookshelf to the right of the desk. “The books on deerhounds, and other hounds, are over there.”

  “Ah. Thank you.” The first words she’d uttered in what felt like ages. She crossed the room, halted before the bookshelf, and tipped her head to read the spines.

  He forced his wayward wits back to the task before him.

  Eventually, he sealed the last missive and dropped it on the pile for Flyte to post.

  “Would you like me to frank those?”

  He looked up to see Niniver, a book open in her hands, looking his way. If she franked the letters, Flyte could just drop them in the bag. “If you would.”

  She closed the book, returned it to the shelf, then crossed to stand before the desk. He handed her a pen and shifted the inkwell so she could reach it. She dipped, and wrote neatly across the corner of each envelope, then handed the pen back to him. “There.” She straightened.

  His gaze on her face, he tried to catch her eyes. “Thank you.”

  She nodded rather soberly. “And now,” she said, her gaze still not quite meeting his, “I rather think I’m ready for some tea.”

  He rose and crossed the room in her wake; reaching past her, he opened the door, and she stepped through. She walked briskly down the corridor and into the living room at the far end, giving him no reason to touch her by way of guiding her.

  He followed her into the room and went to tug the bellpull, and tried to tell himself that her actively asking to take tea was a good thing—an improvement, a sign she was possibly getting ready to share what was so dominating her mind. Yet to his senses, the gap between them seemed to be widening from a fissure to a chasm.

  Niniver sat in one armchair. He took the other. They waited in silence; she studied her hands. Then Mrs. Flyte bustled in with the tray.

  Niniver looked up and smiled easily—normally. At his housekeeper.

  Balancing the tray on one hand, Mrs. Flyte tugged one of the low tables over and set it before Niniver. “I’ll just put the tray here, then, shall I?”

  “Thank you.” Niniver watched Mrs. Flyte lower the tray. “I heard your daughter and son-in-law have just had twins. You must be delighted.”

  Mrs. Flyte straightened, her ruddy face breaking into a beaming smile. “Oh, we are, indeed! Such a thrill. Lots of twins hereabouts these days, it seems, but such a joy to have them.”

  “Was it a girl and boy?” Niniver reached for the teapot. “I didn’t hear.”

  “Two boys. And the families—all of us—couldn’t be happier.” Mrs. Flyte clasped her hands over her ample waist. “We’re all in something of a tizz, of course. No one on any side has had twins before, and we weren’t expecting the pair of them, you see. Why—”

  As Mrs. Flyte rattled on, with barely a glance his way Niniver handed Marcus his cup. He accepted it, and she picked up the cup she’d poured for herself, sat back, and, with her eyes fixed encouragingly on Mrs. Flyte’s face, sipped.

  Marcus listened to Mrs. Flyte respond to Niniver’s artfully posed questions. Contrary to the immediate evidence, his housekeeper wasn’t a garrulous sort; it was Niniver’s questions that were drawing her out.

  He tried to eat a slice of Mrs. Flyte’s fruitcake. He was sure it was up to her usual exemplary standards, but today it turned to sawdust in his mouth. He set the plate with the crumbled remains back on the tray.

  Not that either woman noticed his sudden and unusual lack of appetite. They were entirely engrossed in a discussion of the challenges in rearing twins.

  He was a twin. His parents were the parents of twins, and so were his sister and brother-in-law. He was the uncle of twins. Yet neither woman thought to appeal to him.

  Had circumstances been otherwise, he might have thought Niniver engaging so animatedly with Mrs. Flyte was a good thing. As it was, he knew very well that the principal reason she was talking to his housekeeper was so that she wouldn’t have to talk to him.

  * * *

  Niniver had had no idea that her heart could be dashed, battered, and pummeled to this extent. But she didn’t have time to dwell on that now. Now, she had to get through the day with some semblance of dignity.

  The difficulties that posed demanded she focus every particle of her awareness on achieving that end. Ruthlessly, she corralled her wits and kept them away from her surging emotions. Not now. Not yet.

  Later.

  When she had time to deal with her hurts, to lick her wounds and tend to her shattered heart.

  She had no idea how she was going to cope with spending an entire day with Marcus at Bidealeigh, but she would. She had to. It wasn’t his fault; he’d agreed to protect her from external threats, but it had been her duty to protect her heart.

  It had been her decision to take him to her bed, to initiate their liaison. Her decision to set aside that self-preservatory duty and allow—indeed, to fight to permit—the connection between them to grow and expand.

  She’d knowingly taken the risk that this—or something like it—might happen.

  Now it had, she couldn’t blame him for her hurt—couldn’t hold him responsible for it.

  By the time she’d extracted every last little detail about Mrs. Flyte’s new grandchildren from the housekeeper, she’d finished her tea, and so had Marcus.

  Mrs. Flyte blinked when she saw the empty cups on the tray. “My goodness—I have run on. Well, I’ll take the tray back with me, if you’re done?”

  When Marcus nodded an assent, Niniver smiled and added hers, and Mrs. Flyte hefted the tray and left.

  Niniver watched her depart, and waited; she could feel Marcus’s gaze on her face, but didn’t turn to meet it. After the tea, she felt a touch more fortified; she could manage this.

  “I had thought, perhaps, to show you around the house.”

  She should have seen that coming, but she’d had no time to plan. What to say? She glanced briefly his way, but let her eyes rise no higher than his lips. “Have you concluded your business?”

  His lips tightened. After a moment, he said
, “I should speak with Flyte, and with Earnest, my foreman. That won’t take long in either case, but Earnest won’t be back until lunchtime, so…” He paused, then went on, “I thought we might have a light luncheon here, and then visit the hounds before heading back to Carrick Manor.”

  Even in the circumstances, that wasn’t a bad plan. She inclined her head. “Very well. So that leaves us with”—she swiveled to look at the clock on the mantelpiece—“about an hour to fill?” Again, she glanced at him.

  He nodded. “Roughly an hour. So what would you like to do? A tour of the house, or…?”

  She couldn’t imagine keeping her composure through any house tour; quite aside from the corridors being so narrow that they would leave her too aware of his presence—of a body she now knew intimately, hers to touch if she wished—what if he showed her his bedroom? “Actually, I would prefer to walk around the house—to better appreciate the setting and the views.”

  He studied her; she continued to look his way and didn’t try to hide her face. She knew he would read nothing in her features; the past years had taught her how to hide her feelings behind an impenetrable façade. She hadn’t been using that shield with him recently—indeed, she might not have ever used it with him at all—but it was the only way she would get through the day, and she’d fixed it firmly in place. Calmly, coolly, she arched her brows. “Shall we?”

  His jaw set, his lips forming a thin line, but he dipped his head in agreement and rose.

  She didn’t wait for him to offer his hand. She came to her feet and led the way from the room.

  * * *

  They walked around the house, pacing slowly as Niniver scanned the surrounding landscape, pausing now and then, presumably to admire a particular view. Or simply to waste time. Marcus watched her, wondering if he dared take her arm…but he no longer felt he had the right.

  She’d pulled away. Without a word, without any hint of a reason, much less an explanation.

  He couldn’t think past the turmoil in his mind, could barely breathe past the constriction in his chest.

  His hands in his pockets, he trailed after her and said nothing.

  Luncheon proved a painfully quiet meal; although the cold collation Mrs. Flyte supplied deserved to be appreciated, neither Niniver nor he seemed to have much appetite.

  Conversation was nonexistent. She continued to avoid his eyes. Yet when he sent his senses questing, she didn’t seem upset.

  She no longer seemed anything. He couldn’t read her emotions at all, and her expression, while in no way blank, gave no hints as to what she was feeling. Her face had become a pretty mask, one that told him nothing.

  The close connection they’d shared, the ready and open communication, had vanished.

  Its absence left a hole in his soul.

  The realization staggered him, and he brought up his own mask, his own opaque façade.

  They left the dining room and the farmhouse and walked back to the stable yard.

  The mounting block wasn’t really high enough for her. She had to allow him to lift her to her saddle, yet when he did…she might as well have been a pliable doll. He sensed no response at all.

  The ride to his kennels, which were situated a short distance from the farmhouse in a protective dip in the land, gave him time to think. To finally step back from the building panic and look at what might have brought about such an absolute withdrawal.

  That morning over breakfast, she’d been bright, breezy, and openly happy. She’d been eager to accompany him to Bidealeigh. Admittedly, she hadn’t waited for him to lift her to her saddle, but the mounting block had been right there; her hopping up and scrambling into her saddle was surely more an indication of her eagerness to get on than anything else.

  That eagerness had evaporated on the ride over the fields; by the time they’d reached Bidealeigh, she’d pulled back. From that point on, step by step, she’d retreated to a point where, it seemed, she was beyond his reach, physically and emotionally.

  As if they were distant acquaintances, not lovers.

  So what had happened on the ride to Bidealeigh? He hadn’t been aware of any interruption or intrusion, but he’d been in the lead and hadn’t been able to see her—not until they’d reached the highway, and by then she’d started to put up her walls.

  Whatever had occasioned her retreat had occurred between the manor and the highway. Had nearing the highway triggered bad memories of her near-brush with death?

  Why such a memory might cause her to cut the connection between them he couldn’t imagine, but he couldn’t think of anything else that might be behind her reaction. So what could he do to reach across the gap, to reassure her and draw her back to him?

  The instant they walked into the kennels, he knew he’d found his route to salvation. He led her to the pens and introduced her to his hounds. Gaining confidence with each animal he presented, he told her of their pedigree, and how each performed while stalking and hunting.

  And she started asking questions.

  Which he promptly answered.

  With every question she posed, he relaxed a trifle more; the connection between them was still there.

  Then he led her to the breeding bitches and the puppies.

  As the puppies gamboled and tumbled about her feet, Niniver laughed. She’d meant to keep her distance, to remain aloof even here, but how could she? Not in this setting. With every overenthusiastic lick, with every soft whuff from the bitches themselves—as if inviting her to share their pride in their offspring—she felt the walls she’d erected about her heart melt.

  She sat in the straw and let the puppies have at her, ruffling their fur, tugging their ears and tails. Glancing up, she saw Marcus leaning on the pen gate and watching her. She saw the intent focus in his dark eyes, but couldn’t prevent her lips from curving, couldn’t stop her eyes from openly meeting his. “They’re lovely. Such a gorgeous brindle. And so healthy and playful.” She rubbed the tummy of one demanding shaggy lump, and the pup wriggled in ecstasy.

  Looking up again, she saw Marcus hesitate, then he offered, “This is the bitch I thought might have some of the characteristics you look for in air-scenting.”

  She glanced at the bitch. The hound currently had her head down on her paws and was drowsily watching her pups crawl all over Niniver’s lap. “Let’s see whether the pups show any signs before disturbing her.”

  For the next half hour, she tried the pups with the easy, gentle tests she’d devised to point her toward the air-scenters in her own pack. Sure enough, at least three of the female pups showed some ability to follow a trail through the air.

  Marcus had remained outside the pen—for which she was grateful; it really wasn’t big enough for both of them and the hounds—but she could sense his interest and his growing excitement. It mirrored hers. Glancing up, she tipped her head toward the bitch. “Do you know her pedigree offhand?”

  He rattled it off, going back generation by generation. She matched each sire and bitch to those she carried in her head for her own prized air-scenting family. “ There’s the connection!” With triumph coursing through her, she caught his eyes. “Four generations back—which almost certainly means it truly is a trait and not just an aberration.”

  “Indeed.” Marcus looked at the bitch, who, intrigued by the new games her pups were playing with the humans, had stood and stretched, and now came closer to investigate. “She’s been grumpy whenever I try to get her away from her pups.”

  Niniver scrambled to her feet. “It’s too early yet.”

  “And she’s getting on. This will be her last litter.” Marcus swung open the gate. As Niniver stepped out, he tipped his head further along the pens. “But I have her eldest daughter further down. She has a litter that’s a bit older, and she’ll let us separate her from them.”

  “Excellent.” She couldn’t hold back her enthusiasm, and she didn’t try. What was happening between them outside the kennels wasn’t his fault; there was no reason to deny them
this simple enjoyment of a shared passion.

  They first tested the other litter of pups, and at least two females showed definite signs of air-scenting. “These tests are very rudimentary,” she said, “but I’ve found they’re strongly indicative.”

  Then they took the bitch out of the pen, and led her outside into the training arena. Having been cooped up with her brood, the hound was very ready for a game.

  Fifteen minutes later, Niniver couldn’t stop beaming. “Oh, yes!” She all but cheered as the hound performed the last test as if she was a homing pigeon. “She’s definitely got the trait.” She glanced at Marcus as he called the hound to heel. “You said you had two breeding lines. What about the other one?”

  “They’re a completely different line, from a Highland breeder. But we can test the females, if you like. If air-scenting is a defined and rare trait, I would expect them to be air-scenter null.”

  “Let’s see.”

  The afternoon was waning by the time they’d verified to their own satisfaction that the females of his Highland-sourced breeding line displayed zero affinity for air-scenting.

  Marcus’s small kennel staff—two brothers—had come in and watched for a while, before heading off to a small room at the end of the kennels to make up the hounds’ evening meal.

  Returning the last hound to its pen, Marcus swung the gate shut and latched it. Niniver came to stand alongside him, still smiling as she peered over the high gate at the hound. “It’s all right. You’re still a good hound.”

  He smiled—easily and spontaneously—and it was such a relief, he turned to her as she turned to him.

  They were suddenly close. If he just dipped his head…the impulse to kiss her surged inside him, so potent and powerful he was about to yield—

  Her eyes flared, and she sidestepped away from the gate.

  Away from him.

  He slammed a mental door on instinct, on the nearly overpowering urge to seize her and haul her back. To kiss her…into submission.

  Jaw tightening, he turned and looked toward the kennel’s doors. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t think of anything else to say except “Let’s go.”