The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (17 page)

Given their shared kiss that afternoon—a highly satisfactory mutual endeavor—she wasn’t sure what he might be anticipating. A repeat performance?

The notion held significant appeal.

While the far end of the terrace overlooked the drive as it swept into the stable yard, the nearer reaches were abutted by empty stretches of lawn, and the rooms alongside and above were uninhabited; their privacy appeared assured. But how best to use it?

How best to use it to gain
all
she desired?

Abruptly, she halted; they hadn’t been touching, so it took him an instant to realize she had.

She waited until he halted, too, and turned to face her.

Before his eyes could find her face, she stepped forward, hooked a palm about his nape, stretched up, and kissed him.

Again.

And, once again, she felt his instantaneous response.

Reassured, she stepped into him, into his arms as they rose and locked about her.

Into the kiss as it spun out, on, in a glorious upsurge of passion.

Angling her face the better to meld her lips with his, on her toes, she pressed closer yet. Glorying in the warm, solid wall of his chest, of his body so heated against hers, she twined her arms about his neck, clung, and gave herself up to delight.

And felt him grip her tight.

She’d parted her lips and welcomed him in; as he surged deep, claimed, and took possession, she rejoiced.

This was the reality she’d wanted to touch, the plane she’d wanted to reach.

The one based on, built on, that necessary understanding.

Plunged into a whirlpool of passion and desires, Thomas was lost, just as he had been that afternoon—just as, he realized, he always would be with her. Lucilla in his arms, her lips beneath his, her body pressed enticingly to his, was the definition of heaven to his senses.

A forbidden heaven filled with temptations too alluring to resist.

He couldn’t prevent his arms from holding, from tightening about her as if to seize and keep her against him, his forever.

He couldn’t stop his senses from rioting, from drinking in the treasure she offered; the sweetness of her mouth and tongue were an intoxicating nectar.

The pressure of her breasts against his chest, the long, slender lengths of her thighs trapped between his, the soft pressure of her belly against his erection—all sang a siren song to his whirling mind.

Addicting. She was that and more; her luscious lips, her supple body, and the vibrant, undeniable fire that burned within her made her the ultimate lure for him.

The sensation of falling—of simply going and not caring, of relinquishing control without further thought—jerked him back from the invisible brink. And let sanity return enough to recognize that the danger he’d intended to guard against had materialized and blindsided him.

Caught him. Trapped him.

He hauled back on his senses, pulled back from the kiss.

He couldn’t afford to let her influence him, much less allow her to rewrite his path.

Determination coalesced, hardened.

But when he raised his head and looked into her eyes, the emerald so dark in the night, and saw the soft flush of pleasure tinting her alabaster cheeks and passion sparking in the depths of those mesmerizing eyes…the truth hit him like a blow.

She wanted him. Until that moment, he hadn’t thought of her in this, but only of himself. He hadn’t thought of what her actions in kissing him, in initiating such an engagement—not once, but twice—said of her, of her desires.

But he couldn’t—simply couldn’t—be the man he saw reflected in those eyes. The man she wanted him to be.

He cleared his throat. Eyes locked with hers, he softly said, “This…isn’t wise.”

Lucilla blinked, then studied him—searched his eyes, his face. He might have broken the kiss, but he hadn’t—yet—set her from him. That he would at any second was obvious, but for that moment, she was close enough to read him in more ways than the obvious; she detected no hint of true rejection, of denial of what lay between them, in him.

She didn’t understand why he’d uttered those words, but she had more important issues to address. “What do you know of the Lady?” More than anything else, she needed to know that.

Carefully, he set her from him—slowly, as if it took concentration to make his arms do as he wished.

She took heart from that. When she didn’t step back, he did.

His frown showed more in his eyes than on his face. “The Lady?”

Thomas had no idea why she wanted to know that—what had so compelled her to ask that of all things, given the circumstances. He took an instant to consider, but the subject seemed safe enough—much safer than what had gone before. So he shrugged and answered honestly. “She’s the local deity in these parts—in your Vale and for some here on the estate, too.”

That his answer was, for some reason, important to her showed in her intentness, in the way she searched his face.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

She blinked again. Several seconds passed before she replied, “Niniver happened to mention that you haven’t, through your life, spent all that much time here. I…thought you had spent more.” She shrugged. “So I asked.”

To his surprise, she turned and started walking again, albeit more slowly. Her fingers lacing over her waist, her expression suggested she was both disturbed and thinking furiously.

He fell into step beside her.

She glanced at him. “But you were born here.”

Her tone made the words something akin to an accusation, but he replied as if she’d posed a question. “Yes, but only by accident.”

“Accident?”

Her tone now held a note of…latent panic? That couldn’t be right. With a touch on her arm, he steered her through a side door and into the house—back into the safety of uncertain privacy. “My parents intended me to be born in Glasgow, but they came for a short stay, and I arrived weeks early.”

“Ah.”

Why those details should soothe her, he had no clue, but that single syllable had been infused with relief.

The shadows in the corridor made it impossible to read her eyes. He had no idea what was going on in her mind, but he knew without question that keeping distance between them was now imperative. She had to understand and accept that he was not for her, no matter what happened when they kissed.

They reached the stairway hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you know the way to your room?”

Lucilla nodded before she thought.
Damn!
She watched him step back.

“I need to speak with Ferguson. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze on her, then he inclined his head. “Good night.”

She seized one last moment to scrutinize his features, to try to fathom what he was thinking, but failed. Left with little option, she inclined her head in return. “Good night.”

The last glimpse she had of his face as she turned and, raising her skirts, started up the stairs suggested concealed relief.

Why?

What on earth was going on between them? Instead of being the simple, straightforward, obvious path defined by the alignment of similar goals and desires that she’d always envisioned their way forward would be, their path to the altar was increasingly resembling a tangled maze—at least with respect to his intentions. His goals and desires.

Very rarely did she feel uncertain, but now she felt bemused, unsure—and on
this
, of all issues, the single issue most critical to determining her future. More,
both
their futures—his as well as hers.

She’d walked blindly up the stairs, through the gallery, and along the corridor. Sufficient light fell from the skylight over the stairwell for her to see her way, not that she’d been looking. Reaching the door of the room she’d been given, she opened it, walked through, and shut the door—all still in a daze.

While she undressed and donned her nightgown, she let her mind range as it would—over all the previous moments she’d shared with Thomas. Revisiting those moments, each separate interaction, critically reanalyzing every word, every look.

She had thought he’d known, that he’d understood, as she had, that he and she were fated to be consorts. Lovers. Spouses. Husband and wife. Ever since she’d truly
known
beyond question, during that Christmas Eve he and she and several of her relatives had spent in a crofter’s cottage ten years ago, she’d interpreted his reactions toward her on the assumption that he knew and understood, too.

He was Lady-touched, as she was. He’d lived under the Lady’s rule, or so she’d thought. She’d assumed he’d known…

But if he hadn’t either known or understood, why had he behaved as he had?

She climbed into the large tester bed, lay back, and pulled the covers to her chin. Staring, unseeing, upward, she searched for an answer.

Her memory of each of their meetings was acute; reviewing all that had occurred, reliving each moment yet again…

No. She hadn’t imagined anything. The intensity of the attraction that had flared every time they’d met, and that had escalated with the years, had been and still was impossible to mistake.

It had consistently been there, in his eyes, in the way his jaw set, in his touch.

Remembering the last time they’d waltzed, at the Hunt Ball two years ago, still made her tremble.

There was no possibility of denying such an attraction—and to give him his due, she didn’t think he’d tried.

Instead, as he had that evening, he’d simply turned and walked away from it.

Walked away from her.

Which, she had to admit, confused her no end.

She knew intensely passionate men—every man in her family was built that way. She was far better acquainted with their foibles than she would ever have chosen to be.

But that meant that she should understand him. That his actions should make sense to her, in one way or another.

Yet at the moment, she didn’t know what was going on—what issues, what considerations, were making him back away from an attraction that should have seen him fighting to keep her in his arms.

Instead, he’d let her go and walked off.

She didn’t know whether she was insulted, or angry, or just plain confused.

With her thoughts gradually slowing, she closed her eyes and reached for the Lady—sensed her comforting presence, an elemental heartbeat softly rolling beneath the blanket of the night.

Gradually, the confused tangle of her thoughts sank deeper, leaving revealed the rocks to which she could—should—cling.

He wanted her—every bit as much as she now wanted him. Desire between them ran strongly, a rope connecting them no matter what either might wish or will. The Lady had ordained that, and neither she nor he had the power to overcome, eradicate, or dismiss that.

The Lady had ordained that he and she would wed, that he—Lady-touched and therefore a guardian of his people, whether he understood that or not—would be her consort. Neither he nor she could step away from that destiny without suffering drastic consequences; their lives would never run smoothly or well, but would, instead, be shrouded in miseries.

But no matter what the Lady decreed, people, even those Lady-touched, still had free will.

If Thomas chose to walk away, he could.

Over the last year, she had wondered whether she was supposed to act in some way to bring about their Lady-ordained marriage. Acting—doing—would have been so much more in keeping with her character, her temperament, her usual way of facing and dealing with life’s challenges. She’d questioned, but in the end, she’d accepted and waited…

Perhaps her time to act was finally here.

As she slipped over the threshold into sleep, it certainly seemed that convincing Thomas that he couldn’t walk away from her and his Lady-ordained future was a task that fell to her.

* * *

Thomas woke restless and somehow dissatisfied. Unwilling to dwell on what his body seemed to think it lacked, he threw on his clothes and headed down to the stable to check on Phantom and Lucilla’s mare.

Even though it was early, he avoided the breakfast parlor. He didn’t need to learn if Lucilla was an early riser—she probably was.

He walked out of the front door and circled the house. Alice Watts was due to arrive that morning. As soon as Lucilla had coached Alice in all she needed to do, he would escort Lucilla back to the Vale, to Marcus—who, no doubt, would be very ready to take back his sister and send Thomas on his way.

It said much of his mood that he was starting to feel glad that he’d been forced to knock Marcus Cynster unconscious.

On reaching the stable, he walked inside. A quick glance around found no Sean, Mitch, or Fred, which surprised him. He hadn’t expected to see any of his cousins about at that hour, but the stablemen were usually at work by now.

Yesterday, he’d made time to speak with Sean about finding Joy Burns’s canteen and getting some water from the Bradshaws’ well, and sending samples from both sources off to Glasgow for analysis. As well as his other duties, Sean handled the various soil- and water-related tests the estate ran in the continuing effort to eke out the best from their lands. Thomas wanted to check that Sean had found Joy’s canteen, and when he thought the results from the laboratory might come back.

But he would have to check later, because Sean was nowhere in sight.

Mentally shrugging, Thomas went down the aisle. He spent the next fifteen minutes grooming Phantom, then stepped into the next stall and started brushing the black mare’s glossy hide. She shifted, not accustomed to him. Phantom hung his head over the wall between the stalls, as if intrigued by the mare’s prancing. She quieted after that, allowing Thomas to groom her.

When both horses were gleaming, he relatched their stalls. He was replacing the brushes on the wall at the end of the stable when, in the distance, he heard a horse whicker.

The noise came from outside, from beyond the end of the stable. But he hadn’t heard anyone ride up, and there weren’t any horse paddocks in that direction.

Puzzled, he walked out of the stable. Another whicker carried on the breeze drew his gaze—to the old barn.