Without another word, he stalked out of the kennels to where the horses waited. She walked quickly in his wake. He halted at Oswald’s side. Without allowing any sign of reaction to show, he lifted her to her saddle.
Then he caught Ned’s reins and swung up to the gray’s broad back.
One glance at Niniver’s face showed her features had set, and her mask—that god-awful screen he couldn’t see through—was back in place.
They turned their horses’ heads to the west and he led the way—back to Carrick Manor, the place he now desperately wanted to call home.
* * *
They clattered into the manor’s stable yard all too soon. Too soon for his emotions, scored and raging, to have settled.
He drew rein, and Ned, infected with his mood, stamped and tossed his head.
Niniver rode straight past and on to the spot closest to the house. She reined Oswald in, freed her feet from the stirrups, and slid to the ground.
Her expression remained uninformative. Without a glance Marcus’s way, she tossed the reins to Mitch as he came running up. She didn’t wait to see if he caught them, just started striding for the side door. “I’ve some letters to write.” A vague wave directed the comment at Marcus. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
Still mounted, he stared after her.
So did Mitch and Sean; the latter had come to hold Ned’s head.
Jaw clenching, Marcus dismounted.
The side door shut.
Sean and Mitch turned to look—pointedly—at him.
Marcus handed Ned’s reins to Sean.
Sean took them. “Trouble in the wooing department?”
Gritting his teeth, Marcus headed for the door. “You could say that.” He reached the door, hauled it open, and stalked after Niniver.
CHAPTER 13
Marcus had intended to follow Niniver, but on reaching the library door, he hauled back on his reins. The library was her bolt-hole. Barging in after her and making her feel that she wasn’t safe even there…
Swallowing a growl, he stalked on down the corridor and took refuge in the study. He flung himself into the chair behind the desk. After a moment of unfocused brooding, he sent his mind back to the beginning of the day—when she’d seemed so happy, so bright and breezy. But on the ride to Bidealeigh, something had changed.
He spent the next hour reliving every subsequent minute of their day, trying to tease out some clue as to what had made her pull back so very definitely—how, why, any hint at all.
When the dressing gong sounded, he still had no idea what was going on. He rose, quit the study, and headed for the main stairs, but then his feet slowed, and he halted outside the library door. He considered the closed door, then grasped the knob, silently eased the door open, and looked down the long room.
Niniver wasn’t there. She must have already gone upstairs.
At least it seemed she would be joining him for dinner.
He continued up the stairs to his room. Once inside, he stood still and listened. Faintly, the sounds of movement and quiet female voices reached him from the room next door.
Reassured at some level he didn’t entirely understand, he changed, replacing breeches and top boots with trousers and shoes, his hacking jacket and shirt with a fine linen evening shirt, a striped silk waistcoat, and an evening coat. Unknotting the loose neckerchief he’d worn through the day, he reached for a crisp, white cravat.
Despite the intricacies of tying the cravat, his transformation didn’t take long. He could still hear movement next door; Niniver had yet to go down.
He debated, but if he could hear her, then she could hear him. He decided that, in her present state, she might prefer not to run into him in the gallery. Regardless, he would rather be in the drawing room when she appeared. Making no effort to tread softly, he left the room, walked around the gallery to the head of the stairs, and went down.
In the drawing room, he took up a position by the mantelpiece, his gaze fixed on the drawing room doors…then decided that might appear too intimidating. He sat in one of the armchairs before the hearth, crossed one leg over the other in an effort to appear relaxed, and waited.
Miss Hildebrand appeared first. He rose; when she greeted him with her customary approval and an easy smile, he managed a smile in reply. After she’d settled on the sofa and he’d resumed his seat, she asked after his and Niniver’s day. By reciting the bare facts, he avoided lying, even by implication, although, of course, Miss Hildebrand assumed Niniver had enjoyed herself.
She had while they’d been in the kennels, but then she’d abruptly pulled away again. He didn’t think she’d enjoyed the strained feelings and fraught atmosphere that action had evoked any more than he had.
Miss Hildebrand glanced at the open drawing room door, then mentioned a story in the news sheets in which she thought he might have some interest. They chatted about local matters in a rather desultory way, while both continued to glance at the door.
Finally, they heard Niniver’s footsteps cross the hall tiles and she appeared in the doorway, a vision in pale blue silk. She looked at him, then she glanced at Miss Hildebrand. “I’m sorry I’m late—I got distracted.”
He rose, his gaze on Niniver’s face, but she didn’t glance at him again.
She’d halted just inside the doorway.
Ferguson appeared behind her. “Dinner is served, my lady.”
“Thank you, Ferguson.” Niniver swept her gaze from Miss Hildebrand over Marcus. “Shall we?”
He moved to assist Miss Hildebrand to her feet and gave her his arm. Niniver led them from the room, remaining just far enough ahead that there was no opportunity for him to suggest she take his other arm, as she had on previous evenings.
After settling Miss Hildebrand in her chair, he circled the table to sit in his now customary place beside Niniver. She’d beckoned a footman to hold her chair for her and was already seated.
As he sat, he noticed Miss Hildebrand looking from him to Niniver; from her concerned expression, it seemed she’d detected the estrangement between them.
But Niniver blithely stated, “We had a lovely day at Bidealeigh.” Flicking out her napkin, she looked at Miss Hildebrand. “Did anything of note happen here while we were away?”
He’d expected the conversation over the dinner table to be somewhat stilted. Instead, Niniver chatted—if not brightly, then at least with great glibness—about this and that, household matters, clan matters, directing her comments more or less exclusively across the table to her old governess.
Two courses came and went.
From her increasingly troubled glances his way, Miss Hildebrand had realized that Niniver was avoiding engaging with him; she made several valiant attempts to include him in their discussions, but in each case, Niniver quickly steered the conversation elsewhere. He didn’t really mind; he felt no burning desire to discuss household or clan matters. He needed to speak with her about them—him and her and them together—and that would be very much better done in private.
At the end of the meal, he remained at the dining table to give her a chance to relax for a few minutes without the need to feel on guard against him. That she was on guard against him was no longer in doubt; when she’d pushed back from the table and he’d risen to pull back her chair, she’d tensed.
Wary, watchful—oh so very much on guard…against him.
He found that pill difficult to swallow.
A tot of neat whisky would, he hoped, help. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
When the footmen retreated and Ferguson set the tray with the decanter and crystal glasses before him, the butler murmured, “What happened?”
Marcus reached for the decanter. “Damned if I know.” He poured a restrained two fingers into a tumbler. He restoppered the decanter and lifted the glass. “But I intend to find out.”
“Good.” Ferguson hesitated, then added, “We all think that you and Lady Carrick…it would work.”
Marcus tipped his head in a
cknowledgement—in agreement. “I’ve been working on convincing her of that, but then something interfered, and I haven’t yet figured out what.” He sipped, then lowered the glass. “But I will.”
Ferguson nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He departed, and Marcus sat back, sipped, and waited.
He returned to the drawing room just ahead of the tea tray. The conversation lagged. That said, he was grateful—and he was sure Niniver was, too—that Miss Hildebrand didn’t suggest music, or—even worse—dancing. They drank their tea, then Niniver made a comment about being tired, and they all rose and climbed the stairs.
As usual, Miss Hildebrand parted from them in the gallery, patently still laboring under the misapprehension that Niniver’s maid was awaiting her mistress in her bedchamber.
Niniver watched Hildy climb the stairs and fought to keep her senses calm, to keep her breathing even and her pulse from racing—yet every iota of her awareness was locked on the man standing, dark, silent, and powerful, by her side.
She needed to get safely into her room, but rushing—even walking too quickly—down the corridor would be a mistake. She knew better than to attempt to flee a predator, and her senses were informing her—half in breathless appreciation, half in breath-bated trepidation—that at that moment, with respect to her, Marcus was every inch a predator.
If she could just avoid engaging with him for a few minutes more…
That was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Turning from the stairs, she continued strolling at a normal social pace along the gallery. If she’d had the decision to make again, she wouldn’t have insisted he occupy the room next to hers.
They drew level with his door. She was about to glance his way and wish him a good night when she felt his fingers lock like a steel manacle about her wrist.
He swung her to face him and stepped toward her.
She instinctively backed; heart leaping, lungs seizing, she locked her gaze on his face.
Using his body, he herded her until her spine hit the wall. He flattened the palm of his other hand against the wall by her head and leaned in. Her free hand rose, hovering between them, but she didn’t push him away.
He was suddenly so very close; she sensed him all around her, his masculine strength a warm yet immovable wall surrounding her. Still holding her other hand, his long, strong fingers twining with hers, he lowered his head and met her gaze eye to eye.
The light cast by the wall sconces wasn’t strong enough to illuminate his dark eyes, but she could feel his midnight gaze—and something in her refused to look away. But…
Don’t do it. Don’t spoil it. Don’t speak and bring everything between us to an end.
The words tumbled through her mind, a senseless plea, even while her starved senses reached for him.
His chest swelled, then he demanded, his voice low and so tightly controlled that his tone almost grated, “What the devil happened?”
I heard you and Sean. I know…
What she knew, what she now understood, was there, all too clear in her mind, but the emotions that knowledge incited—betrayal, shattering disappointment, loss, grief, and heartbreak—rose up and obscured it. Rose up and choked her, and left her with no words to fling at him.
Ever since she’d learned the truth of why he was still there, with her, she’d tried to calm the torment inside her, tried to accept and step past her reaction so she could work out how to cope. So she could prepare herself for this moment and those to come.
She hadn’t yet succeeded. Hadn’t yet gained any effective distance. The turmoil inside still ruled her, and she had no rational, logical words with which to answer him.
All she had were her raging emotions.
And they were powerful enough to make her quiver with their pent-up force.
He was watching her intently, scrutinizing her face. Whether he saw enough to guess her incapacity and the raging devastation she was wrestling with inside she didn’t know, but something in his face altered and he softly cursed.
Then he bent his head and kissed her.
Kissed her as if he were starving for the taste of her—and, instantly, she was ravenous for him. She parted her lips on a needy, greedy gasp, unable to even think of holding back.
He plunged into her mouth and claimed—and a tide of yearning rose inside her.
This. She wanted this. This was what she craved—now and forever.
And if she couldn’t have forever, she could at least have now.
Now. Tonight. And for however long she had until he said the fateful words and brought their paradise crashing down.
His lips ravaged hers, and emboldened, she met them and matched him. She kissed him back, as openly hungry and every bit as greedy as she sensed he was.
If she could keep him from speaking—if she could keep them both here, anchored on this plane of engagement—then she could fill her heart with this. With sensation and emotion and connection and glory.
She reached for him through the kiss—through raising her hands, placing her palms against his chest, then sending them surging up and over his shoulders. She came away from the wall and, spearing her fingers through his hair, stepped into him, coming up on her toes to press her own heated kisses on him.
He straightened; his hard hands spreading over her back, he urged her against him, then his hands swept lower. He grasped her derriere and molded her hips to his; she felt the iron-hard ridge of his erection pressing against her belly.
She opened her mouth under his and deliberately fanned the fire of their raging passions.
He pulled back on a gasp, muttered something unintelligible, then the door to his room swung inward and he swept her across the threshold.
And hauled her back into his arms. She went with alacrity, dimly heard the latch snick as their lips and bodies met again, and they plunged back into the flames.
She wanted him, and she didn’t care what she had to give to secure her heart’s desire. Their tonight was hers, and she seized the chance and him with utter abandon.
And he seemed to want her with the same intensity, the same reckless need.
The same fire.
Clothes flew, shed without the slightest inhibition. Onto the floor, on a chair—wherever they fell.
Her corset laces snagged, and he swore. She sent her fingers to join his, to desperately unravel the knots and strip the constriction away.
It fell, and she dragged in a huge breath, then his hands closed about her breasts, and she tipped her head back and moaned.
Hands splayed on his back, she clung as her senses rioted and her wits spun, and she gave herself up to the glorious pleasure of his ministrations. His fingers squeezed, tweaked, and her knees grew weak. He released one breast and caught her to him. While his other hand continued to flagrantly possess the ripe firmness of her breast, he bent his head and found her lips again, and he whirled them back into the conflagration of a kiss that poured molten heat down her veins.
She drank it in and wanted more. She wanted him—in the rawest, most intimate way. Nothing else could quench this ravening craving in her soul.
She needed to feel him deep inside her again, needed to revel in that sublime connection. Again. Now. One last time.
Her petticoats slithered down her legs. She stepped out of them and kicked the folds aside. As he reached for the hem of her chemise, she fell on the buttons at his waist.
They’d been circling, waltzing, toward the bed. Her thighs met the footboard as she slid the last button free, then caught and tugged loose the ties of his underdrawers. Before she could push both garments down his legs, he closed his hands about her waist, gripped and swung her up, and set her on her knees on the bed. Then he stripped her chemise, already bunched about her waist, off over her head.
Before she caught her breath or her balance, he turned, sat on the bed, and hauled off his boots. They hit the floor—first one, then the other.
Then he stood, stripped off his hose
, trousers, and underwear, and turned to the bed.
He’d left no lamp burning in the room; the only light was the silver moonlight washing in through the uncurtained windows.
She’d seen him naked before, but only lying on the bed. Now…the silvery moonlight bathed his powerful physique, gilding the muscled contours, casting each fascinating ridge and hollow in shades of night.
In that instant, he was a god standing before her—a living, breathing manifestation of her dreams.
Before he could move, she held up a hand. “Wait.”
He froze.
An amorphous, tantalizing sense of power flared and swirled through her. She clambered off the bed and stood naked before him. Her every sense had locked on him; she couldn’t drag any part of her awareness from him, from his body. Reaching out, she touched her fingertips—just the pads of her fingers—to the heavy muscles banding his chest. Then, not knowing what drove her but confidently following the instinct, she walked slowly around him, letting those fingertips trail over his skin.
He tensed. His hands, until then lax by his sides, slowly closed into fists.
But he held still and allowed her the moment—a boon she appreciated and made the most of, letting her eyes drink their fill as she circled him. He was magnificent. And, transparently, in that moment—for tonight—he was willing to be hers.
Without restrictions, without reservations.
Yet very likely for the last time.
Recognition of that fact—of the outcome of what she’d learned—thudded, an insidious compulsion in her blood. Whatever she still wanted to know, to experience, she needed to seize the chance of now, and not hope for any other opportunity.
Certainty welled. As she ended her circuit of appreciation and came to a halt between him and the bed, she set both hands to lightly grip his sides, then she locked her gaze with his and simply said, “My turn.”
Running her hands down his torso to his waist, to his hips, she sank to her knees. She might have been an innocent, but she’d never been a prude; she’d heard enough to know what she wanted. Bringing her hands inward, she grasped the rigid rod of his erection, lovingly caressed, then she bent her head and set her lips to the engorged head. And licked.
A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 27