Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster

  Catriona turned to look at Sir Godfrey. “Godfrey, I know such talk makes you uncomfortable, but in this, Marcus is correct.”

  “Entirely correct.” Lucilla had closed her eyes. Now she opened them, met her twin’s gaze, and nodded. “You’re right.” Lucilla glanced at Thomas, then looked at Sir Godfrey. “We have got to find some other way of dealing appropriately with McDougal.”

  Sir Godfrey frowned; in a lesser man, his expression might have been taken as indicative of inner squirming. “That’s all very well, but as your magistrate, I’m bound to do my duty.”

  Calvin leaned forward. “Exactly what does your duty require in such a case?”

  “I have to pass an appropriate sentence.” Sir Godfrey grimaced. “And it needs to fit the crime—in this case, attempted murder.”

  “But,” Calvin persisted, “‘appropriate’ is open to interpretation, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” Sir Godfrey admitted.

  “So if we can devise a punishment that you could deem fitting, something other than hanging, that would be acceptable.” Calvin raised his brows in question.

  Sir Godfrey pursed his lips, then nodded. “Devise me a suitable punishment, and I’ll agree not to hang the fellow.”

  Calvin smiled and shifted his gaze to his family. “Right, then. What can we come up with?”

  In the end, it was Thomas who supplied the critical element—a description of a certain captain of a merchantman known far and wide as a man no one crossed. They elaborated on their scheme and, finally, convinced Sir Godfrey to declare that if McDougal accepted their alternative, he could escape the hangman.

  “Excellent!” Catriona beamed upon her family and Sir Godfrey. “Now”—still smiling, she looked at Niniver—“I do believe we’ve earned our tea.”

  Niniver smiled back, Marcus rang for Ferguson, then Lucilla, Catriona, Calvin, and Carter refocused the conversation on the topic they transparently considered paramount—the arrangements for the next Cynster wedding.

  * * *

  By the time the Cynsters left, Niniver felt as if she was floating, all but detached from reality. Sir Godfrey had taken his leave immediately following afternoon tea. He’d patted her hand and, beaming genially, had assured her that, between them, he, Marcus, and Lord Richard would attend to the matter of Ramsey McDougal’s fate, and she should therefore feel free to focus on her wedding without a care.

  As she intended to do just that—to, in the matter of McDougal, allow Marcus to rule—she’d smiled prettily and bade Sir Godfrey farewell.

  Standing beside her on the porch, Marcus had murmured, “He means well.”

  “I’m not fussed—at least, not over McDougal.” She’d turned to study his face. “But when do you plan on breaking the news to him?”

  “Later.” Marcus had steered her back inside. “Once he’s had a chance to contemplate the shadow of the hangman’s noose.”

  They’d returned to the drawing room and immersed themselves in—wrapped themselves in—the warm gaiety generated by his family. As Lord Richard had warned her, they were rambunctious; Niniver eventually concluded that her waning shyness, at least with them, was an outcome of her growing confidence, of the effect Marcus had on her. Of the light in his eyes when they met hers, and the support she sensed coming unwaveringly from him—and the blatant possessiveness that underlay his protectiveness.

  She saw the same complex intertwining of motive and emotion between Richard and Catriona, between Lucilla and Thomas, and felt…blessed.

  This was, indeed, how Marcus and she were meant to be—how their lives would be from now on.

  Ferguson had come in at one point, but to her surprise, it had been Marcus he wished to speak with. After Marcus returned, Catriona rose and shook out her skirts. “It’s time to go home.” She bent over her twin granddaughters, with one finger lightly stroked each delicate cheek. “They’ll be getting fractious soon, and will want to be fed and then put to bed, so we’d better head back to the Vale.”

  In matriarchal fashion, Catriona gathered her brood and swept them out to where Sean and Mitch held their horses, and Fred held the curricle in which Thomas had driven Lucilla and the babes.

  Niniver stood on the porch with Marcus and waved them all away.

  “Ferguson came to remind me about the hounds,” Marcus said.

  “Heavens! I’d forgotten.”

  He grinned. “We’ve time enough to ride over to Egan’s place and put them back in their kennels. They performed admirably today and deserve to rest in comfort.”

  “Indeed, they do.” She glanced down at her gown. “But I’ll have to change again—I can’t ride in this.”

  The sound of wheels rolling on gravel had her looking toward the stable yard.

  “I thought we might use one of your brothers’ curricles. The hounds can follow a carriage just as well as a rider.”

  She blinked and straightened. “True.”

  Hildy appeared from the front hall. “Here you are.” She held out one of Niniver’s warmer shawls. “Ferguson mentioned you’d be driving to the kennels, and the sun’s almost gone.”

  “Thank you.” Niniver accepted the shawl and flicked it about her shoulders, then she smiled at Marcus. “It appears I’m ready.”

  “Excellent.” Smiling himself, he offered her his arm, then, with a nod to Hildy, led her down the steps. The hounds milled around them, ready to go home.

  After helping her into the curricle, Marcus rounded it, accepted the reins from Mitch, then climbed up beside her. With a flick of the reins, he set the horse trotting. She checked that the hounds were keeping pace, then settled back to enjoy the ride.

  Too soon, they reached Egan’s barn and drew up outside. Marcus tied off the reins, then helped her down. She led the way inside and discovered that Egan had left food out for the five hounds. They fell on the bowls. While they ate, she glanced into the other pens; the rest of the pack had already been fed, watered, and penned for the night.

  After returning the five triumphant beasts to their respective pens, she and Marcus quit the barn.

  While he settled the heavy bar across the doors, she glanced at the nearby farmhouse. “I’m surprised Egan hasn’t come out. Usually, given any reason at all, he’ll be here.”

  “No doubt he’s getting ready for dinner. Or he might already be eating it.” Marcus took her elbow and led her to the curricle. “Perhaps we can come out tomorrow and work with the rest of the pack.” He handed her up into the curricle.

  “Yes—let’s.” She sat and settled her skirts and shawl. “Now I know air-scenting works and is useful, I’m even more determined to improve the trait.”

  Marcus climbed up, sat beside her, and picked up the reins. “What did you use as focus for them this morning?”

  On the drive back, they chatted about the hounds, but as the manor rose ahead, surrounded by its screening stands of firs, Niniver fell silent.

  Marcus glanced at her; she was sitting with her hands clasped in her lap, staring at the house. “What are you thinking?”

  Briefly, she met his eyes. After a moment, her gaze once more on the house, she offered, “I just realized where I was—where we were—just this morning. With me here alone, and you at Bidealeigh. Now…everything’s changed.” With another glance at him, she hurriedly added, “All for the better, but still…everything seems to have happened so very quickly.”

  “Are you feeling overwhelmed?”

  “Not overwhelmed. More like swept away.” She waved. “Into a landscape that so much resembles my dreams that I’m not sure I trust it to still be there if I close my eyes, then open them again.”

  He smiled. “I can assure you that I’m no mirage, and I have absolutely no intention of ever not being here, exactly where I am, by your side.”

  “I know.” A second later, in a smaller voice, she added, “And I find that quite…staggering.”

  He studied her profile, then murmured, “Second thoughts?”

  Her ch
in set, and she met his gaze, her blue eyes suddenly fierce. “Never.” She studied his eyes. “But you must feel it, too.”

  He had to look at the horse. But now she’d mentioned it… He looked inward, then admitted, “Yes, and no. To me, it’s more like everything inside me—so much that is the essence of me—was bottled up, held back behind a wall. And you coming to ask for my help was the crack in the wall that let everything out. It feels like I’m a river flowing freely again.” He glanced at her. “If that makes any sense.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and looked ahead. Seconds later, she said, “For me, it’s more than being free. It’s as if a door has opened, and I’ve stepped through into a realm of new possibilities.”

  The thought expressed, the concept given words, simultaneously set his heart winging and anchored him. If that was what becoming his wife meant to her… Contentment bloomed and spread through him.

  He drove up to the front steps of the manor. Fred came running to hold the horse’s head. Marcus descended to the gravel, then reached up and helped Niniver down. Winding her arm in his, he smiled at her. “Come.”

  He led her up the front steps and across the front porch. The twin doors opened wide as they neared.

  Niniver gasped, but Marcus didn’t stop. He led her on into the bosom of her assembled clan.

  Clan Carrick had gathered. The elders had summoned the entire clan. The household had opened up the drawing room and dining room; together with the front hall, they formed a huge expanse that was large enough to hold everyone, from the old women in their chairs, to the babes in arms, and the children of all ages—Niniver glimpsed them all as Marcus led her through the throng, down an avenue created by the elders and their spouses. Everyone was not just smiling, but beaming.

  The path through the throng ended at a small stepladder set before the huge hearth in the back wall of the front hall. Marcus helped her climb up; she turned on the upper step to face the multitude. The additional height meant that her shoulder was level with his eyes, and she could survey the assembled horde.

  She looked at the sea of excited, expectant faces and didn’t have any notion of what to say.

  But, apparently, it wasn’t her they’d come to hear.

  Still holding her hand, Marcus turned to face the crowd, and all eyes swung his way. “Ladies and gentlemen, elders, and children of Clan Carrick.” His voice rang clearly over the heads. He squeezed her hand gently, then continued, “Today, I give to you the same pledge I will shortly make to your lady before the altar in the village church.” Turning to her, he met her gaze, and there was a wealth of emotions in his midnight eyes. “That I will honor, protect, and serve you until my dying day.”

  There was an instant of silence as the impact and meaning of the words spread out over the crowd, then a cheer rose—growing stronger and more tumultuous as voice after voice joined in.

  The sound rolled on, but to Niniver, it dimmed as she looked into Marcus’s eyes. As she saw the commitment, the devotion that knew no bounds, the unwavering resolution. She slipped her hand from his clasp, placed it on his shoulder, and leaned closer. “Thank you.” With her other hand, she framed his jaw, then, in full view of her entire clan, she bent her head and kissed him.

  The approving roar from the clan rattled the rafters.

  * * *

  After Niniver had shared their plans for their wedding day and they’d been congratulated by one and all, with their arms twined, she and Marcus strolled through the assembled throng. Ferguson, Mrs. Kennedy, and Gwen and her staff had organized a celebratory supper, and ale and ginger wine flowed freely.

  People pressed Niniver’s hand, smiled shyly at Marcus or wrung his hand, and rained blessings on them both.

  “Wonderful, my dear!”

  “Such excitement!”

  “I never thought I’d live to see the day—and nor did many others in the clan.”

  “You’ve done right well for us, my lady.”

  “It’s been too many years since the clan has celebrated anything at all.”

  That last comment stayed with them both.

  Marcus’s staff and his tenant farmers had been invited, and they had driven over to join the celebration. Marcus directed Niniver’s attention to where several of his farmers were engaged in a discussion with several Carrick farmers, with their wives in a group, heads together, close by. “It’s good to see them mingling. We’ll have to discuss how to merge the holdings sometime.” He glanced at her and smiled. “But not tonight.”

  Tonight…Hildy played the pianoforte, and people cleared a space in the drawing room, and Marcus drew her into his arms and they waltzed.

  She was quite sure she was floating on happiness.

  Eventually, others joined in. Later, she and Marcus took a turn at the pianoforte, with him playing and her singing—then others joined in and a choir formed, and they made music as the stars glittered in the sky.

  As the evening rolled on, Marcus stayed by her side. Moving through the crowd, chatting and laughing, Niniver felt her heart swell—she had never felt so blessed.

  She paused before the hall fireplace and looked at the happy, beaming faces, heard the joy in everyone’s voices. She caught Marcus’s eye. “Someone said it before—it’s been so long since the clan has celebrated like this.”

  He held her gaze. “This is our beginning. You committed yourself to leading the clan out of the wilderness—financially, yes, but money alone won’t give a clan heart. Being financially secure is only a part of feeling prosperous. This”—with a wave, he indicated the gathering—“is equally important. This is your first step in drawing the clan together, into making them strong and whole again.”

  She studied him for a moment, then tightened her hold on his arm. “Not my first step— our first step.”

  The curve of his lips deepened. “As I’ll always be by your side, I suppose that’s true. Whatever road you take, I will be with you.”

  * * *

  Later, while Niniver was still engaged with the clan celebration, Marcus made his way down the cellar steps to the locked door behind which they’d deposited Ramsey McDougal.

  Sean and Ferguson followed at his heels, but when Marcus turned the heavy key and swung the door open, both men hung back, clearly visible in the shadows and standing ready should McDougal make any attempt to escape, but at a sufficient distance to allow Marcus to be the focus of their prisoner’s attention.

  McDougal was sitting on the crude cot they’d placed in the small room. He didn’t rise when Marcus walked in, just looked up with no expression on his face or in his eyes. No hope; no expectation.

  Marcus halted and looked down at him.

  After a full minute, McDougal said, “Come to gloat?”

  “I’m here to lay out your options.”

  “Options?” McDougal laughed harshly. “There aren’t any, are there?”

  “Not in the normal way, no. If you weren’t here, on The Lady’s lands, you would be destined for the hangman. You stepped over a line in trying to do away with me.”

  “I didn’t have much choice. It was that, or ruination anyway.”

  “We always have choices, and you’re about to be given one now.”

  McDougal frowned. “Why?”

  “Not because it was left up to me,” Marcus dryly informed him. “But there are…forces that we in this area acknowledge, and there are consequences that flow from that. And one of those applies in this case. You might have tried to kill me, but if it hadn’t been for you, Niniver and I might never have found our way to where we both belong. You were the one who pushed her into asking for my help. If you hadn’t interfered and all but forced her into it, she might never have taken that step. You were the necessary catalyst that brought us together. Consequently, she and I owe you that much. So we’ve interceded with Sir Godfrey, and I’m authorized to offer you an alternative to the hangman’s noose.”

  He paused, but McDougal was now listening avidly. “Ple
ase do note that convincing Sir Godfrey took the combined energies of my family. He was not happy, but he agreed to our request. This is, therefore, not an offer to refuse lightly—there is no other alternative but to hang.”

  McDougal made a get-on-with-it gesture.

  Inwardly, Marcus smiled. “The alternative is simple. There’s a Captain McPhee who sails out of Ayr. He captains his own merchantman and trades with the colonies. About a third of his crew are prisoners indentured under a particular scheme. Sir Godfrey has agreed that an acceptable sentence for your crimes is for you to be indentured to McPhee for a period of twenty years.”

  McDougal blinked. “Twenty years?”

  Marcus caught his gaze. “That’s shorter than the rest of your life.”

  His words struck home. McDougal stared at him as, slowly, the reality of the choice sank in.

  McDougal shifted his gaze to the wall beside the door; he continued to stare unseeing.

  Another minute ticked by, then Marcus prompted, “Well?”

  McDougal swallowed. Without looking at Marcus, he replied, “I’ll take it. I don’t really have any choice.”

  Marcus didn’t see any need to tell McDougal that the lack of choice, and losing a good portion of his life, were two of the arguments that had swayed Sir Godfrey. “Sir Godfrey will send constables to fetch you in the morning. Until then”—Marcus turned toward the door—“sleep well.”

  He was about to step over the threshold when some impulse had him glancing back. McDougal still sat on the edge of the cot, his expression lost and utterly bleak. Marcus found words on his lips; he let them spill uncensored. “No matter how things look, you’ve been given a chance—don’t waste it.”

  With that, he walked out of the tiny room, swung the door shut, locked it, then handed the key to Ferguson.