Her tears held him immobile; the pain he glimpsed behind them flayed him.
He’d never wanted to hurt her—how had things come to this?
She swung the door shut.
The latch clicked, then he heard the lock fall into place.
For a second, he simply stared at the panels. Her emotions had cut open something inside him; he felt as if he was bleeding feelings.
So many feelings were pouring out, he felt dizzy.
He set one palm to the door’s panels, then gave in to instinct and leaned his forehead against the cool wood.
Beyond the door, he heard her sniff, then she started to almost silently weep.
The sound cut at him.
He’d felt her devastation, her grief; he knew they were real.
He wanted nothing more than to comfort her—his instincts were howling for him to do so—but she didn’t want his comfort.
She didn’t want him.
He knew her reasons were wrong, that her conclusion was wrong. He’d understood what she’d said. None of which explained why she would think he—as she’d put it, he of all men—would bow to the coercion of her clan. He’d seen her—but, it seemed, she hadn’t seen him.
I love you. That’s why I’m asking—that’s why I want you for my wife.
She said she wanted someone to believe in her, but she hadn’t believed in him.
So…what now? He forced air into his lungs, tried to think—and realized that was a lost cause. Not here. Not now.
She wanted him to leave, had begged him to do so. And he needed to get far enough away from her to see them—both him and her—clearly.
So he would go—for now.
He stalked back to his room, opened the armoire, hauled out his bag, and tossed it on the bed. Stopped to think—should he take all his clothes, or…? He needed fresh clothes anyway.
His emotions were roiling so close to his surface he couldn’t focus on any rational point for longer than a second.
By the time he’d washed, dressed, and packed, he’d managed to think enough to convince himself that what he was doing—his present retreat—was the right move for him—for them—at this time.
He picked up his bag and quit the room, leaving the door swinging wide. He went down the stairs quietly; it was still very early, and he didn’t need to see anyone, to have to explain anything to anyone.
He wasn’t of a mind to waste any more time, yet he sensed she would allow him only one more chance—and that only because he intended to insist and would not accept anything less. When next he approached her—when next they spoke—he would have to get it right. He would have to have all his arguments assembled and in order if he expected to succeed in convincing her—Niniver, the stubborn—to change her mind.
CHAPTER 14
He rode hard and fast down the Carrick Manor drive.
When he’d gone into the stable to saddle Ned, Sean, who lived above the end of the stable, had heard him and come down to see what was going on.
Sean had approached as he’d slung Ned’s saddle across the gray’s broad back.
He’d silenced the other man with a single dark glance.
Sean had held up both hands placatingly and, wisely, said nothing. But he hadn’t gone away.
Finally, while cinching the girth strap, he’d ground out, “I’m leaving—for one day. Twenty-four hours. Then I’ll be back to pick up where I’ve left off.”
He’d paused, then added, “She overheard us—you and me—talking in here yesterday morning, and she’s misinterpreted and got upset. She needs a day to calm down and think things through. I would strongly suggest that all of you endeavor not to react or bother her in any way.” He’d grasped the reins, planted his boot in the stirrup, and swung up to the saddle. He’d looked down at Sean. “And for God and The Lady’s sake, don’t say anything to her about me or marriage.”
Warily, Sean had nodded. “All right. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Marcus had clattered out of the stable without a backward glance, and sent Ned racing down the graveled drive.
The pounding thud of Ned’s hooves, the power in the big horse’s stride, soothed his still-roiling emotions with the illusion that he was actively doing something.
He was, in fact, doing the only thing he could at that point—retreating to fight another day. To regroup before a more definitive assault.
As he neared the highway, he glanced right and left and, as he’d expected, saw no one.
Vividly, he recalled his and Niniver’s ride of the day before. By the time they’d reached the highway, he’d known something had disturbed her, but earlier in the stable yard, she’d concealed her reaction to his and Sean’s words sufficiently well that it hadn’t occurred to him that the incident that had caused her to pull back had, in fact, happened there.
Even had he known she’d overheard them, he wouldn’t have imagined she would interpret their words as she had. Yes, the clan was eager to have him offer for her hand; her clan folk weren’t stupid—or blind. That didn’t mean they were the reason he wanted her to wife.
He should have simply told her that he loved her.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing. Unfortunately, he needed to have told her that earlier—before she’d overheard his and Sean’s conversation. If he uttered the words now, she would think he was merely saying what he thought would sway her.
That he didn’t truly mean it.
He still couldn’t think clearly, yet despite the turmoil in his mind, one point was growing increasingly clear. He was going to have to find some way of convincing her he loved her.
Some way well beyond merely saying the words.
He and Ned reached the end of the drive; he didn’t slow but rocketed across the highway. He let Ned soar over the low stone wall and race on into Bidealeigh lands.
He would spend the day in the quiet of the farmhouse, doing ordinary things and letting his mind settle. Then he would plan.
And then, tomorrow morning, he would return to Carrick Manor and reopen his campaign.
One aspect he hadn’t questioned, hadn’t even bothered to reassess, was his commitment to having Niniver as his wife. He wasn’t giving up—on that, on her, on them; him leaving was, purely and simply, a tactical retreat.
* * *
Ramsey McDougal sat his horse in a concealing copse by the side of the highway.
He’d pulled up at that spot, one that gave a long view over the Carrick fields to the manor, to reconsider his plan yet again.
Then, amazingly, he’d seen Cynster ride out. It was ridiculously early, yet the man had been riding hard.
Ramsey had remained very still and watched. A curve in the drive had afforded him a clear view of Cynster’s face.
The man’s expression had been set, hard—unforgiving.
Cynster had swept on, his big gray pounding down the drive. Ramsey had watched as horse and rider raced across the highway, leapt the stone wall, and continued on. From their direction and the bag strapped to the back of Cynster’s saddle, it appeared Ramsey’s rival had taken himself off.
“Well, well, well.” Ramsey sat his horse for several minutes while he digested what Cynster’s departure implied, and what that might mean for him.
He’d come prepared to put his plan into action, but it was a risky venture—there was no doubt of that. But if Cynster had taken himself off of his own accord, then perhaps Ramsey wouldn’t need his plan after all.
He looked down the drive to the distant manor, but it was still very early. Nudging his mount out of the gloom, Ramsey pushed the horse to a canter and continued on his way to Carsphairn village.
* * *
That afternoon, Niniver sat at her desk in the library and tried to make her mind take in the figures and words she was reading. The clan’s agent in Dumfries had written to say that he’d managed to get a better price than expected for some sheep they’d sent for sale. Given the state of the clan’s coffers, given her recent experience wi
th Carter Livestock, that was good news.
She could barely raise energy enough to register the fact.
To her surprise, no one had mentioned Marcus’s absence. The lack of comment had been so pervasive she’d concluded that he must have said something to someone before he’d left—something that explained his leaving. She’d tried to imagine what story he might have spun, but that had only exacerbated the headache that had plagued her since morning.
Since that fraught scene in her bedroom, after which she’d spent a good hour weeping.
She hadn’t wept since her father had died, but discovering that Marcus was no better than her other suitors and having to break with him had left her feeling equally distraught, and even more alone. Even more hollow inside.
He’d only been staying at the manor for nine days, yet it seemed much longer. Despite the fact that, other than him, everyone else in her life was still there, she felt his absence in the same way she had her father’s—as if him going had left a gaping hole in her soul.
If anything, with Marcus, the feeling was sharper, more acute. The emptiness felt that much bleaker.
She was staring at the letter on the blotter before her, still not truly seeing it, still not taking in its import, when raised voices from the direction of the front hall dragged her from her fruitless reverie.
The voices—one was Ferguson’s, the other some other man’s—came closer. She couldn’t make out their words, but it sounded as if Ferguson and the man were arguing as they came down the corridor.
Then the door opened and Ramsey McDougal strode in.
He saw her and smiled brilliantly. “There you are, my dear! I knew you couldn’t really be immersed in business on such a lovely day.”
It was a lovely day? She glanced at the window and confirmed the sun was shining. The sight did nothing to thaw the ice inside her.
She looked back and saw Ferguson, who had followed McDougal in, direct a stern and thoroughly disapproving glare at the younger man. “I explained to Mr. McDougal that you were occupied, my lady.”
Ferguson looked somewhat rumpled, as if he’d attempted to physically prevent McDougal from disrupting her peace and had come off second best.
“Thank you, Ferguson.” She didn’t dismiss Ferguson; she didn’t trust McDougal further than she could throw him, which equated to not at all.
For his part, Ferguson directed a look up the room at her, and when she didn’t give him any sign to withdraw, he tugged his coat into place and took up a stance by the still-open door.
Reassured, she shifted her gaze to her unwelcome visitor. He was strolling up the room toward the desk, his expression set in lines of amiable geniality, but his gaze was too sharp, too intent, as he scanned the room as well as her with a frankly proprietorial gaze.
One that set her teeth on edge. Her mood darkened; her temples throbbed. “What did you wish to see me about, Mr. McDougal?” She kept her tone level, but there was no hint of warmth or welcome in her words, just crisp businesslike interrogation.
McDougal focused on her and smiled far too smoothly. “I’ve come to pay my respects, my dear—purely a social call. Given my long friendship with your brothers, I feel the least I should do is offer my arm, in whatever capacity you need it. I was shocked to hear that the clan has saddled you with such a heavy responsibility.” He glanced frowningly at Ferguson. “Dashed unfair, if you ask me. But”—McDougal swung his gaze back to her—“should you need any advice, I’ll be happy to assist. You can count on me.”
He reached the desk and halted in front of one of the armchairs before it, transparently waiting in the expectation of being invited to sit.
Niniver leaned back and studied him. Given his comments about her assuming the leadership of the clan, it seemed clear McDougal saw her as a sweet-faced, delicate chit of a girl, unsophisticated and naive. She didn’t normally go out of her way to correct such assumptions, not in those outside the clan; she never knew when outsiders underestimating her might prove useful. But with McDougal…
She held few illusions about what sort of man he was; even if she hadn’t had Marcus’s antipathy to color her view, her own instincts had her seeing McDougal as a toad—regardless of his slick exterior, he was ugly and possibly poisonous.
More, had Marcus been at the manor, she seriously doubted McDougal would have attempted to force his way into her presence—he probably wouldn’t have dared darken the manor’s door.
However, now he was there…
“Mr. McDougal. I have, as it happens, a bone to pick with you—rather a large one.”
“Oh?” His brows rose in feigned innocence, but she could see in his eyes that he was rapidly reviewing his actions and wondering what she’d learned.
“I believe, sir, that over the past weeks, you’ve been encouraging some of my clansmen to actively vie for my hand, thereby creating considerable difficulties for me and my household.”
His eyes widened—this time, she judged, in honest surprise. “Ah.” For a split second, he was at a complete loss—unsure whether to deny all knowledge—then he spread his hands in a “what would you have me say?” gesture and smiled ingratiatingly. “I admit, my dear, that in my wish to gain your favor, I attempted to cast myself in a better light through comparison with your clansmen. I had hoped you would assess what they offered you, and thus, when I approached you, you would view me and my devotion to your well-being in a more appreciative light.” He assumed an expression of contrition she knew to be utterly false. “I had no idea your clansmen would be so gauche as to cause any serious problems, and can only throw myself on your mercy.” He met her eyes, his expression earnest. “I assure you that causing difficulties for you was never my intent.”
She eyed him without expression. Not his intent? How had he expected to convince her of his “devotion to her well-being” if he hadn’t intended to paint himself as saving her from the difficulties her clansmen had caused? As matters had transpired, those problems had sent her to Marcus, instead.
She continued to regard McDougal with, if anything, increasing animosity, leaving him unsure what to attempt next. Before he could decide, she stated, “Regardless of your intentions—which I would still question—you have caused me and my clan a great deal of unnecessary disruption. Given your behavior, given your friendship with my brothers—which is not an association likely to inspire my confidence—I am not inclined to view you with anything other than suspicion and disdain.” She looked him in the eye. “I do not trust you, sir, and that is not likely to change. There is nothing for you here, and so I will bid you a good day.”
McDougal had paled. His smile vanished; a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Surely you can give me an hour of your time. Give me a chance to explain.”
“I have no interest in your explanations, sir. And, as you can plainly see”—she gestured to the letter on her blotter and the numerous others awaiting her attention—“I have business to attend to.” She looked down the room. “Ferguson—if you would show Mr. McDougal out?”
McDougal’s mask slipped; underneath, he was livid. If they’d been alone, she felt certain he wouldn’t have accepted her dismissal; even now, he glanced at Ferguson and thought about pressing her.
But Ferguson looked McDougal in the eye. And waited.
McDougal regained control of his features, but his face remained flushed. Stiffly correct, he bowed to her. “As you wish, Lady Carrick. I hope we meet again in different circumstances.”
His clipped accents made it plain that the circumstances he wished for were ones where she would be forced to pay him the subservience he believed he was due.
She watched him walk back down the room. He passed Ferguson and, without looking back, continued out of the door. Ferguson tracked him with his eyes, then turned and followed, pulling the door closed behind them.
Niniver stared broodingly at the door. She’d told McDougal the truth; she didn’t trust him. She certainly didn’t like him. But was he truly all that much differ
ent from the others? From all the men who had, in one degree or another, come to pay court to her? They all saw her as a pawn—as something to be won, then used, and ultimately discarded. Something—not someone. A lady of a clan, not a woman. Not one of them had been interested in her as herself.
She’d thought Marcus had been different, but… She frowned and tried to focus on how Marcus had interacted with her—had it been different with him or not?—but her feelings, her still too-raw emotions, rose up and derailed her thoughts.
She didn’t want to sink back into those feelings; wallowing in them did nothing but drain her, mire her, and prevent her from moving on.
Her gaze fell on the correspondence awaiting her attention. Lips twisting wryly, she sat up and smoothed out the letter from the agent in Dumfries. She needed to reply. She needed to pick up the pieces of her life and stop mooning over what might have been.
Marcus had been gone for less than a day, and already the first irritating male had arrived.
The stray thought made her grimace.
But she’d got rid of McDougal by herself; she hadn’t needed Marcus to protect her.
Just as well, because he wasn’t there.
She was alone again—and even if it felt as if she was more alone than she had been before, that was an illusion. She needed to get back to how she’d been before—before she’d risked asking Marcus for help, before she’d knowingly risked her heart.
She drew out a fresh sheet of paper, set it on her blotter, then reached for her pen. She started writing her reply to the agent; when she reached the end, she signed it Niniver, Lady Carrick—then paused.
Who was Niniver, Lady Carrick? Who was she now? Looking inside, she realized she wasn’t the same young woman she had been ten days ago.
If she’d been faced with McDougal ten days ago, would she have dealt with him as expeditiously? With the same inner confidence that had allowed her to comprehensively dismiss him?
She’d long ago learned the wisdom of being honest with herself; it seemed that the past nine days had changed her. She was stronger, more confident, more assured. Less malleable, more openly assertive.