She was alive, in his arms, kissing him back—essentially unharmed.
In that moment, that was all that mattered.
His chest expanding, he hauled in a huge breath and drew back from the kiss.
She blinked up at him, dazed again, but with color now tinting her cheeks.
The tumult of feelings roiling inside him made it difficult to think, let alone speak. How the devil did the men in his family remain sane if this—this overwhelming riot of feelings—was the outcome of keeping their mates safe?
Yet she was in his arms, alive and steadily breathing, the warm weight of her a primal reassurance, but his instincts insisted he needed to get her home—to a place of assured safety.
Feeling no inclination to ease his hold on her, he angled Ned back toward the highway. Eventually, the fever in his brain cooled, and logic reasserted control. He frowned. “Do you have any idea what happened?”
Frowning, too, she shook her head. “No. We were riding along, and then…there was a sound, and Oswald screamed and reared.” She shifted in his hold, finally settling with her back to his chest. After several moments of staring ahead, she asked, “Was it a gunshot? The sharp crack that set him off?”
Marcus’s jaw felt like rock splintering under too great a force. “I think so.”
The thought that someone had been shooting so close to her… He felt barely sane.
But she was hurt, and whoever had fired the shot might still be out there, stupidly hunting too close to the road.
She twisted to look back. “What about Oswald?”
“I’ll send Sean to get him. He’ll stop running soon. For now…” He nudged Ned into a canter. “I’m taking you home.”
To Carrick Manor and safety.
Once he was certain she was well, safe, and protected, then he might well go hunting, too.
* * *
Niniver’s wits were only just settling back into place—along with her thudding heart—when they trotted into the manor’s stable yard. She still felt giddy and shaky. Being held so securely in Marcus’s arms was the only thing allowing her to cling to relative calm; the circling steel of his arms, the solid warmth of his chest against her back, and the powerful flex of his thighs beneath hers as he steered his horse had become her anchoring reality.
She’d come within seconds of dying.
Of being flung onto rocks and cracking her skull.
That realization had sunk to her marrow and tied her stomach in knots.
Their appearance in the yard, both on Ned with Oswald nowhere to be seen, caused an instant furor. Sean swore and came racing toward them, with Mitch and Fred hot on his heels.
Marcus drew rein at the spot closest to the manor’s side door.
Sean caught Ned’s bridle and held the big gray steady. “What happened?”
“Someone fired a gun far too close to the road just as we were passing. Oswald bolted.” Marcus dipped his head to look into her face. His expression was grim, but his eyes were filled with focused concern. “Can you stand?”
She blinked. “I…think so.” Her ankle felt rather warm, but it wasn’t hurting.
Marcus gripped her about her waist and carefully lowered her to the ground. “I hauled Lady Carrick off before she fell, but she wrenched her ankle getting free of the stirrup.”
Her weight settled on her feet—and she sucked in a breath and grabbed Marcus’s booted calf as pain shot up her left leg.
“Stay still—just wait.” He caught her hand, lifted it from his boot, and passed it to Mitch. His face filled with worry, Mitch had come to stand beside her. He took her hand and grasped her arm, supporting her.
Marcus swung out of his saddle and came striding around his horse.
“Where did it happen?” Mitch asked.
“We’d just passed the northern point of the estate.” Niniver gasped as she suddenly tilted—as Marcus bent and swept her into his arms.
He straightened and caught her shocked gaze. “You need to keep your weight off that foot.” Expending no more effort than if she’d been a child, he strode for the side door.
Fred rushed to open it and held the door wide.
As Marcus angled her through, she glanced back and saw Mitch following, with Sean close behind.
The thunder of boot heels as their small cavalcade paced down the corridor brought Ferguson out from the servants’ hall. He saw her lying in Marcus’s arms and paled. “What happened?”
Marcus answered before she could. “A shot startled her horse. She was nearly thrown, but I got to her in time. Unfortunately, getting free of one stirrup wrenched her ankle.” He caught Ferguson’s eye. “We need to get her boot off before her ankle swells, and then we’ll need ice to pack around the joint.”
“Oh, heavens!” Mrs. Kennedy had come up behind Ferguson in time to hear most of that. “I’ll get a basin of ice water. That’s always the best.”
“We’ll be in the drawing room,” Marcus called as, without pause, he bore Niniver on.
As he walked into the front hall, she shifted in his hold and looked up at his face. It was stony, his expression graven; granite would have been softer. “It’s just my ankle, you know,” she said. “And as long as I’m not putting pressure on it, it doesn’t even hurt.”
The look he cast her was excessively brief and unrelentingly grim. “It’s going to hurt a great deal when we cut off your boot.”
“Cut?” She blinked. “No.” She peeked at her toes. “These are my favorite boots.”
Fred raced past.
Marcus paused to let him open the drawing room door. “The boot has to come off. Cutting it off will hurt less.”
She set her jaw. “You said cutting it off would hurt anyway. Put me down”—imperiously, she pointed to one sofa—“and let me see if I can wiggle my foot out.”
He did as she asked, setting her down as if she were made of porcelain. Others crowded into the room. They were so openly concerned, she didn’t have the heart to tell them to go away. Ella pushed forward to help, as did Alice, the clan healer. Gritting her teeth—and trying to disguise the fact that she was—she shifted until she could easily grasp the heel of the boot and gingerly started easing it off.
With Ella’s and Alice’s help, she managed the feat—just. But the effort of pushing past the pain while suppressing all outward signs of it left her gaspingly weak and quivering inside.
During the process, Marcus knelt at her feet. The instant her heel slipped free of the boot, he drew it fully off, handed it to Ella, then gently supported her injured foot as Alice prodded, poked, and tested.
“Just a bad wrench,” Alice finally pronounced. “Ice water is the best treatment.”
“Thank you.” Niniver shifted until she could lean against the sofa’s back and surreptitiously catch her breath.
The sharp look Marcus sent her told her she wasn’t fooling him, but he appeared to be sensitive to the welling concern of the crowd now surrounding them. Maids, footmen—even the pot boy was there.
Then Mrs. Kennedy arrived with a deep basin of ice floating in water. The housekeeper helped her roll her stocking down, then, with Ferguson and Marcus, helped settle her so she was sitting on the sofa propped up with multiple cushions with her foot dangling in the basin, which they’d raised using a stack of books.
“There now.” Mrs. Kennedy stepped back. “We’ll keep topping up the ice every half hour, and that should keep the swelling down.”
Ferguson still looked troubled. “Perhaps we should send for the doctor.”
“No.” Struggling to reassert herself, she stated, “It’s just a wrenched ankle. Thanks to Mr. Cynster, that’s the full extent of my injuries.”
Her words didn’t seem to have any real impact; everyone remained as they were, frowning down at her as if she were some child unable to accurately describe her own hurts.
Then Hildy rushed into the room; someone must have gone up to her apartment to tell her of Niniver’s injury. Spotting her, Hildy clapped h
er hands to her lined cheeks. “Oh, my lord!” She bustled through the crowd to the sofa. “You were nearly thrown?” Hildy all but collapsed into the nearest armchair. “My dear, how many times have I said that brute of a horse is no horse for a lady?”
She frowned. “It wasn’t Oswald’s fault. Something startled him.” It had been rather more than a simple startle. Frowning, she searched the serried ranks before her. “Sean.” She found the head stableman half hidden behind Ferguson. “Will you go and fetch Oswald, please?”
Marcus glanced at Sean. “The last we saw of him, he was heading east on Bidealeigh lands. He’ll probably fetch up to the east of the farmhouse, but I would check there first—he might have found his way to the paddocks at the rear of the stable where my other horses are kept.”
“I’ll find him.” Sean nodded at Marcus, then at Niniver. Then he turned and made his way out of the now-crowded room.
Niniver looked around at the others—at the circle of worried faces—and forced a smile far brighter than she felt. “Thank you, everyone, but there’s nothing more I need.” Other than space and privacy. When no one moved, she looked at Marcus.
He read her eyes. Even though his expression remained grim, he looked at Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy. “Miss Hildebrand and I will sit with Lady Carrick. If you could arrange to have more ice brought in half an hour?”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Kennedy appeared to reluctantly accept that she and all the others couldn’t simply stand about watching Niniver just to make sure she truly was all right. To Niniver, she said, “Anything you need, my lady, you just have Mr. Cynster ring, and we’ll bring it quick as a flash.”
“Actually,” she said, “a tea tray wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Of course!” Roused by having something to do, Gwen, the cook, bobbed her head to Niniver. “I’ll go and get the kettle on right away.”
Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy started shooing everyone out. Marcus spoke with Mitch and Fred. The stablemen cast Niniver troubled glances, but they bobbed their heads and followed the others out of the room.
As the rest of the household streamed out, Edgar came in, carrying a knitted shawl, a lap blanket, and two of her father’s old canes. He handed the canes to Marcus, then carefully draped the blanket over her knees. “It’s been my experience with such injuries that keeping the rest of the body warm helps.”
Now he’d mentioned it, she realized that she did, indeed, feel chilled. “Thank you, Edgar.” She accepted the warm shawl and flicked it about her shoulders.
“There.” Edgar stood back, then nodded. He glanced at the canes. “And those are for later, so you won’t need to risk re-hurting your ankle.”
She smiled her thanks. Edgar bowed and left. He closed the drawing room door behind him, and finally, she could close her eyes and let herself slump against the cushions.
She heard Marcus shift, then the soft whoosh of the cushions as he sat in the armchair to her right. She didn’t need to see to know he and Hildy exchanged a glance. But neither of them said anything, which she appreciated. She kept her eyes closed until Ferguson arrived with the tea trolley.
Gwen had sent not just tea, but slices of Madeira cake. Niniver discovered that she was famished—and, it seemed, Marcus was, too. Between them, they put paid to the cake and emptied the teapot.
Hildy sipped her tea; Niniver felt her ex-governess’s anxious gaze on her face. But when Ferguson came to take away the trolley and refresh the ice in the basin, Hildy stood and fluffed out her shawl. “I’m going to go up for the moment. As it appears you can’t move and so will have to rest, and Mr. Cynster is prepared to remain and ensure you do, then I’ll take the opportunity to finish my letters. If you need me, just ring.”
Niniver summoned a wan smile; the aftereffects of the excitement were catching up with her. “I will. I’m just going to sit here until dinner. You’ll have to excuse me, but I won’t be dressing for dinner tonight.”
Hildy made a dismissive sound. “As if we’d care about that. Just rest, and I’ll see you at dinnertime.”
She left.
Niniver inwardly sighed and closed her eyes—but almost immediately, the door opened again. She raised her lids. Sean hovered on the threshold. She beckoned him in. “Did you find Oswald?”
“Aye.” Sean halted before her, but his gaze went to Marcus. Sean nodded. “The old coot was where you said he’d be, at the back of your stables, chatting over the fence to your horses.”
She studied Sean’s grim expression and wondered what he wasn’t telling her. “He isn’t hurt, is he?”
“As to that, nothing as won’t heal well enough. But”—again Sean’s eyes shifted to Marcus before returning to her face—“I could see why he went wild on you. There’s a deep furrow gouged across his right flank—made by a ball fired from a hunting rifle, I’d say.”
“What?” Marcus sat up. “Someone shot…?”
He stared at Sean, who looked steadily back at him, then he looked at Niniver and put into words what all three of them knew. “That section of road is open and clear, with no trees or bushes to limit the view. The land is relatively flat.” Eyes narrowing, he stated, “No one could have shot at us—not to the point of hitting your horse—if they hadn’t deliberately taken aim.”
Marcus paused, then, feeling cold fury rise inside him, concluded, “Someone shot at you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Niniver felt exhausted by her attempts to point out that there was no logical reason anyone would have deliberately shot at her.
“It must have been an accident,” she repeated for at least the tenth time.
While Marcus didn’t argue, there was nothing in his expression, much less in the hard darkness of his eyes, to suggest that he agreed. Indeed, she wasn’t even sure he was listening.
She exhaled and slumped back against the cushions. Sean had left to tend to Oswald, but he’d refused to agree to her request to keep the gelding’s injury to himself, or at least limit the knowledge to those in the stable, on the grounds that he couldn’t not tell Ferguson of a threat that so deeply affected the clan.
And with that, Marcus had silently agreed; she’d read that in the look he and Sean had shared before Sean had left.
Marcus was now pacing, up and down, like a caged tiger. He looked equally as dangerous.
She was starting to feel cold again. Drawing the shawl tighter about her, she shivered.
Marcus halted, his gaze locking on her. “Cold?”
“Yes.” And if he didn’t stop pacing… She shifted on the sofa. “Perhaps if you sat beside me?”
He hesitated, but she didn’t have to ask twice. He came and settled on the sofa alongside her.
Instantly, she felt the warmth his large body radiated all along one side. She’d noticed that he always seemed to be much hotter than her, as if he was running a fever, but he wasn’t. Perhaps all large men were like that.
Her mind wasn’t all that clear; her thoughts seemed to be going around and around, refusing to settle.
Deliberately, she eased sideways until her hip met his, then she let herself tip against him.
She sensed him looking down at her, then he raised the arm trapped between them and draped it around her, allowing her to snuggle still closer to all that lovely muscled warmth.
She sighed and let the peace and his warmth, the simple human comfort of it, sink to her bones.
He took her right hand in his. His thumb gently stroked the back of her hand.
Gradually, her thoughts steadied.
She wasn’t too thrilled with what she saw. Eventually, her head resting against his chest, she murmured, “Why would anyone shoot at me?”
“I don’t know.” He shifted his head; his lips brushed her hair. “But we’ll find out.”
She drew in a tight breath and admitted, “I’m frightened.”
“You needn’t be. I’m here.”
“Will you stay?”
He stilled. For an instant, she wondered if he
would reply. She stopped breathing, but then he said, his voice low, “Whatever’s behind this, there’s no way on earth I would leave you to face it on your own.”
She heard the absolute sincerity in his tone. Those weren’t just words; they were a vow.
For once, she had someone on her side. Someone powerful enough to defend her.
And, for once, she believed she could count on him—that he wouldn’t desert her.
“Thank you,” she murmured. And let her eyes close.
* * *
The sun had dipped below the horizon when Ramsey McDougal returned to his lodgings in a squalid boarding house in the back streets behind Ayr harbor.
He tossed his hunting rifle onto the unmade bed, slumped into the single chair before the rickety table, and reached for the bottle of cheap whisky that, along with a single glass, sat on the scarred surface. Only a few fingers of liquid remained in the bottle; he’d drunk the rest before he’d had his bright idea and set out to await his quarry along the highway.
Uncorking the bottle, he splashed the whisky into the glass, raised it, and drank.
Lowering the glass, he shuddered and set it down.
God. What had possessed him?
Anger, mostly. After the setbacks of the past week, learning from his contacts that his plan had worked and that Niniver Carrick had—finally!—been brought to the point of turning to someone outside her clan for help had sent his spirits soaring. Then he’d glimpsed her through the inn’s window and had felt that, at last, Fate was smiling. He’d gone inside to engage Niniver, his expectations riding high. Only to have said expectations dashed when Marcus Cynster had appeared, and Niniver had made it plain it was Cynster she’d chosen to seek help from.
A species of black fury had risen up and engulfed him. While still in its throes, he’d swallowed most of the bottle of whisky, then ridden out with his rifle—and nearly killed the very pigeon he planned to pluck!
“Bah!” He drained the glass, then emptied the dregs of the bottle into it. He stared at the empty bottle for several seconds, then pushed it away. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to the races last week.” If, in a vain attempt to repair his losses, he hadn’t gone to the race meet, he’d be several hundred pounds richer…well, less in debt. More to the point, he would have been watching his little pigeon; he would have known when she’d reached the end of her tether and could have smoothly stepped in to fill the position he’d worked so fiendishly carefully to create—that of manly defender of the weak little woman. The perfect position from which an experienced gentleman-rogue such as he could have further exploited the situation. Instead…