Every instinct he possessed rose snarling at the thought.
His gaze locked on her face, he slowly nodded. “All right. I’ll stay at the manor.” She was right; he had to be there even at night to be an effective shield, and as he was, it seemed, destined to accept the position of her champion, he damn well intended to be effective.
It hadn’t escaped him that she—and Fate and The Lady, too—were not just casting him but forcefully pushing him into the role of her protector and defender. It was a role he’d been born to fill; it would fit him like a glove and seamlessly mesh with his character and personality. He’d always assumed he would play such a role—ultimately, eventually—for some woman. He just hadn’t believed that woman would be she—that Fate and The Lady would be so kind.
He still wasn’t sure they truly were, but his way forward seemed clear: Play along and find out.
He still wasn’t thinking entirely lucidly; his focus on practicalities, on the what and how, was still hazy. Pushing concerns of fate and destiny aside, he concentrated—and one pertinent point rose above the roiling cauldron of his thoughts. “Who else lives here? In the house?” He refocused on Niniver. Did she have a chaperon, or were he and she truly alone, socially speaking, under her roof?
Niniver promptly replied, “My old governess, Hilda, has an apartment upstairs. Now that my father and brothers are gone, she comes down to have dinner with me.”
He nodded. “Good enough.”
She knew he meant for propriety’s sake.
He glanced toward the window. “Where in the house is this room?”
“We’re in the main wing—this is the room next to mine.” She stated that matter-of-factly and waited for his response.
Predictably, he frowned. “That’s not wise.”
She could see him dredging up all he’d heard about the house.
Eventually, he said, “You have a visitors’ wing. I can use the same room Thomas used when he stayed here.”
“No, you can’t.” When he directed his rather black frown her way, she calmly went on, “The visitors’ wing is on the opposite side of the house from where we are—from my room.” She tipped her head, and more quietly said, “The doors of a laird’s house are never locked. If you’re at the other end of the house, how will you know if anyone comes for me?”
Marcus looked at her for several seconds, then he dropped his head back, stared at the ceiling, and heaved a sigh. He would have liked to have fallen back across the bed and inquired of the universe: Why me? But Niniver wouldn’t understand, and he certainly wasn’t about to explain to her how she affected him. Clearly, she had no notion of that at all, or she wouldn’t equate putting him in the room next to hers with protecting her from danger.
More like exchanging one potential danger for the certainty of a more potent one.
Fate was certainly beckoning him on. Seductively whispering as she made everything fall into place… He really didn’t trust Fate all that much, but, in the circumstances, he wasn’t going to argue.
Returning his head to vertical, he looked at Niniver—who, whether she knew it or not, Fate was handing him on a silver platter. “All right. If I’m staying here for the immediate future, how and when did I arrive? And why am I staying?”
His brain was starting to function again.
Niniver was quick to reply, “You rode back with me. No one but Sean and Mitch saw us arrive, and they won’t tell. Since then, we’ve been in the library discussing”—she waved—“various issues. No one will have gone into the library this afternoon, so no one will know that’s not true. And you’re here in this room now, and staying, because you’ve agreed to remain to…” Her inventiveness ended at that point; she widened her eyes at him, inviting his input.
“To ensure that nothing untoward happens to you.” His gaze remained on her for several moments, but once again, she wasn’t sure he was truly focusing on her. Then he nodded as if satisfied. “Very well.” He looked at the scarf she’d wound around his wrists. “Now I’ve fallen in with your plan, come and untie me.”
That sounded rather like an order, but she was far too relieved to take umbrage. All but bouncing to her feet, she crossed to the bed. She slowed as she neared—and was thankful when he shifted along the mattress so she could bend over his wrists and pick at her knots without pressing against his legs.
Marcus hauled his gaze from her down-bent head and focused on the wall. Her perfume, a subtle blend of flowery scents, reached him; he forced himself to think of the practicalities, and not of porcelain skin he was fairly certain would be petal soft… He frowned. “I’ll need to go home and fetch some clothes.”
Still bent over his wrists, she glanced fleetingly up at him. “You can send for clothes tomorrow. For tonight, there are plenty of men’s clothes here. Norris’s are probably too”—her gaze flashed across his chest—“narrow. But Papa’s clothes would fit you, and there’ll only be me and Hildy here for dinner.”
“Your father’s clothes are still here?” Manachan Carrick had died nearly two years ago.
She responded to his real question by raising one shoulder. “I haven’t had the heart to tell Edgar to clear them out.” Still tugging at the knots, she sighed. “I suppose I should tell him to give away anything useful to other men in the clan.”
He heard the lingering sorrow in her voice; of Manachan’s four children, she had most sincerely mourned him. “Who’s Edgar?” he asked, to distract her as well as himself.
“He was Papa’s manservant for decades and took care of all Papa’s things. He’s clan.”
The scarf finally fell away. She pulled it free and straightened—bringing her face level with his. She was no more than a foot away.
A visceral wave of lust swept through him; rising from the bed, he forced himself to walk away from her.
Reaching the door, he grasped the knob and looked back at her. Caught the considering curiosity in her gaze as she trailed in his wake.
Opening the door, he waved her through.
As he followed her into the corridor, his mind served up the observation that, as he’d always suspected, Fate wasn’t a benevolent force; in her habitual, sneaky, underhanded way, she’d hooked him with a challenge that was shaping up to be significantly more difficult than anyone might have thought.
* * *
Descending the main stairs at Niniver’s side, Marcus looked about him; Niniver assumed he was endeavoring to get his bearings in the huge old house.
She felt beyond relieved that he’d agreed to stay and help, yet the continual abrading of her nerves simply because he was there, so close—so much closer than he’d been in nearly two years—left her wary and trepidatious. She didn’t think she could bear it if he guessed how infatuated her senses were with him, but she was fairly certain she hadn’t said or done anything to alert him to her weakness.
Yet.
She wasn’t concerned that such a revelation might prompt him to seek to take advantage of her; she knew what caliber of man he was—honest and honorable to the core. What she did fear was having to weather any “kindness” on his part, any gentle letting down of her supposed expectations. When it came to him, she had no expectations of a romantic nature. He was a Cynster, wealthy, well born, and of a noble house. When the time came for him to choose his bride, he would have his pick of the ton’s young ladies from London to Land’s End. She couldn’t compete on any number of levels—not least her situation.
There really was no question of where she stood with him. She was a neighbor he’d agreed to help with a problem he was uniquely qualified to deal with.
Yet now that he was there…she wasn’t really sure what to do with him.
Instinct steered her to the library; it had become her domain, the room in which she felt most comfortable. Sitting behind the big desk was where she felt closest to her father—not in the sense of emotional attachment, but in terms of insight into how he’d run the clan. That was where he’d sat throughout his years
at the Carrick helm; seated in the same chair, looking over the desk at the same view down the long room, she sometimes felt she could almost hear his voice murmuring—irascibly—in her head.
But she wasn’t about to mention that to the male who prowled into the room at her heels. She went straight to the desk, drew up the worn admiral’s chair, sat, and pulled the ledgers she’d left open on the desk closer.
She forced her eyes to focus on the words and figures, forced her mind to read and take them in.
Marcus ambled around the room, eventually coming to a halt before the wide desk. He studied the top of Niniver’s head and the portion of her face he could see as, with every evidence of deep industriousness, she seemed to sink into the tomes.
She started chewing her lower lip.
He shifted.
Fleetingly, she glanced at him. “I need to finish checking these accounts.” She waved at the ledgers. “I intended to go for just a short ride, but the fight in the stable yard distracted me.”
“Fight?” His instincts leapt to the fore—and as matters now stood, he didn’t need to restrain them. Alerted by his tone, she met his eyes, and he demanded, “What fight?”
She hesitated, but only for a second, apparently accepting that she’d brought him there precisely for this—to deal with her would-be suitors. “It was Clement Boswell and Jed Canning—they were wrestling over which of them I favored most.” She looked down at the ledgers.
He studied her closed expression and wondered how much she hadn’t told him. No matter. He’d find out soon enough. He knew who Jed Canning and Clement Boswell were; they were of similar age to him, but there all similarities ended. They weren’t, however, stupid. He wouldn’t have thought them dangerous, either, but over a woman, men could be pushed into acting in ways they normally never would.
Regardless, if breaking up fights between the likes of Canning and Boswell was now her lot, small wonder she’d come to him for help.
He was, he realized, genuinely delighted that she had.
Knowing where he could learn more, he started for the door, but then halted and looked back at her. “What are the names of your would-be clan suitors?”
She looked at him, then rattled off a list. Jem Hills, Liam Forrester, Stewart Canning—as well as his older brother, Jed—John Brooks, Camden Marsh, Ed Wisbech, Martin Watts, and the aforementioned Clement Boswell.
For a moment, he considered those males and how they might impinge on his best route to his personal, most-desired goal. When he focused on Niniver again, she’d returned to her ledgers, and once again, she had her anxious face on.
Some part of him urged him to dally and see what he could do to lift the weight from her shoulders—to ease that harried look. He’d been raised and trained to manage a large farm-based estate; he could almost certainly help her, but…one step at a time. Would-be suitors first, then he would turn his attention to all the other issues that bothered her.
His head no longer hurt, and his customary facility for planning was functioning again. He debated, then returned to the desk and waited until she looked up. “If I could borrow some paper and a pencil, I’ll write to my people and let them know I’ll be staying here until further notice.”
Without a word, she handed over several sheets of paper and found him a pencil with a decent point.
He retreated to the sofa and used the low table before it to write two notes—one to his staff, informing them of his plan to remain at Carrick Manor for at least several days and instructing them to pack a bag and deliver it the next morning, and to contact him via the manor household if they had need of him. The second note he addressed to his parents in the Vale of Casphairn, which lay to the south of the Carrick lands, alerting them to his temporary change of abode, but giving no reason for that change.
His mother would probably smile knowingly, but refuse to tell his father why. If he pressed, she would most likely say that all was as it should be.
Marcus certainly hoped that was true… Increasingly, he felt it was.
Rather than disturb Niniver again, he left the pencil on the table, pocketed his notes, and quietly left the room.
* * *
He found his way to the stable yard. He recognized Sean and Mitch; they were standing with two other men, one of whom Marcus thought was called Fred. The other was a younger man he assumed was a stable lad.
Unhurriedly, he approached the group. As he neared, all four men nodded respectfully; clearly, they recognized him.
Sean, Marcus noted, was watching him with a degree of wariness. Pretending obliviousness, he fished the notes out of his pocket. “I need these delivered—one to Bidealeigh and the other to the Vale.”
Sean immediately reached for the notes. “Fred and Carson can take them.”
Marcus smiled approvingly and stood back; within minutes, Fred and the young stable lad mounted and rode off. Standing with Sean and Mitch, Marcus watched the pair ride down the drive. Then he turned and leveled a much more intent look at Sean. “And now, if you will, you can tell me what you know of what’s been going on here. Lady Carrick has asked me to assist in…”—he arched his brows—“shall we say discouraging?—any further occurrences such as the fight that took place here earlier today.” His gaze still fixed on Sean’s face, he added, “It would be helpful if I had a better idea of what to expect.”
Sean glanced at Mitch.
Mitch snorted and waved at him to get on with it. “He’s here, and he can do what she needs better than we can. Weren’t any good us trying to break those two up earlier, was it? All we ended up with was getting knocked on our arses.”
Both stablemen had the build of jockeys grown just a touch too tall; neither was all that large.
“Aye, well.” Sean returned his gaze to Marcus’s face. “The thing is, this is clan business, if you know what I mean.”
Marcus did; he appreciated the loyalty that made Sean reticent to speak. He looked at the distant hills. After a moment, he looked back at Sean and Mitch. “What if, in return for the pair of you keeping quiet about the state I was in when you ferried me into the house, I pledge to do all I can to protect Lady Carrick from any further nuisance, from within the clan or otherwise, and in so doing, I agree to respect the privacy of the clan?”
Sean’s and Mitch’s brows furrowed as they considered his words.
Eventually, Sean glanced at Mitch.
Mitch met his eyes. “That’s good enough for me.”
“And me.” Looking back at Marcus, Sean nodded. “Done. So what do you want to know?”
Marcus settled more comfortably. “Tell me everything you know about the incidents that have occurred, and then you can tell me about the men involved.”
The list of incidents wasn’t short and included several would-be suitors chasing Niniver down and pressing flowers from the garden she herself tended into her hands—something that had resulted in weeks of no flowers for her sitting room because, of course, the men had paid no attention to the finer points of flower harvesting.
“Just ripped them out, in some cases roots and all,” Mitch said.
“Once,” Sean said, “after she’d sent whoever it was that time on his way, I think she cried.”
Marcus felt his jaw set. He’d been raised in a household where growing things were all but revered. If some man was ever idiot enough to carelessly damage any of his mother’s and sister’s prize plants… He really didn’t like to imagine what might befall that man.
In addition, there’d been several chases on horseback, plus numerous attempts to claim Niniver’s time for social engagements in which she’d had no wish to indulge. The most disturbing incident to date was the recent fight in the stable yard, which—he wasn’t surprised to hear—had been significantly more violent on multiple levels than Niniver had let on.
“They was yelling about her—and she was standing right there!” Mitch softly swore. “Oblivious, they were, and her white as a sheet.”
“And it’s not
as if she’s some lily-livered miss,” Sean said. “Things she’s put up with, both now and while Mr. Nolan was still about… Well. Strong, she is.”
Feeling increasingly grim, Marcus nodded.
Sean continued, “But some of the things they were saying would have curdled any lady’s stomach—claiming they’d had relations with her and all. It was disgusting—and her lady of the clan!” Sean nodded at Mitch. “We and the others tried to break it up, but Clem and Jed are heavyweights.” Sean glanced at Marcus. “You’d be more up to their weight, but even then, with the pair o’ them whaling on each other like there was no tomorrow…” Sean grimaced. “Wasn’t until Miss Niniver screamed at them that they stopped.”
Mitch wiggled a finger in one ear. “Sounded like a banshee, but at least it got their attention.”
“She didn’t like it though,” Sean said. “It took something out of her to do it. She was shaking like a leaf when she got into her saddle. If Oswald hadn’t been her mount for so long and not likely to play up, I’d have felt forced to stop her riding out.” He glanced at Marcus. “Lucky I didn’t, as it turns out.”
Tight-lipped, Marcus merely nodded. “So tell me about the men involved.”
Sean and Mitch obliged; both clearly accepted his right to know—had accepted his pledge and his implied position as Niniver’s champion.
The list they supplied of her suitors matched the names she’d given him, but Sean and Mitch filled in the details he hadn’t asked her for—the men’s ages and occupations, their characters and temperaments, and the relative standing of their families, and the men themselves, within the clan. Accustomed to keeping mental track of the details of the lives of a plethora of cousins of varying degrees, let alone a massive list of familial connections, Marcus had no difficulty slotting away all the information in his mind, ready for retrieval whenever he might need it.
Knowing the abilities of the opposition was one of the first requirements for mounting an effective defense—or, as this situation seemed to warrant, an effective offense.