The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (21 page)

“Hmm.” They reached the end of the terrace and halted. Head up, she gazed across the last stretch of the drive and into the stable yard. Eventually, she said, “There’s a limit to how much you can argue against the dictates of an old man’s pride. However, perhaps we can use his coming down to dinner to our advantage.”

He frowned. “How so?”

Turning, she met his eyes. “It’ll give me a chance to see if I can persuade him to allow me to treat him.”

He held her gaze, then quietly said, “I was going to ask you to leave—now, this afternoon.”

She looked steadily back at him. “Because of the adder.”

Not a question, he noted. Still, he nodded. “There’s no chance that adder got down to the still room on its own. Someone placed it there while you and Alice were out in the herb garden.”

Momentarily, her gaze grew distant, then she refocused on his face. “The herb garden is exposed—anyone from the house or elsewhere could have seen us there, and the doors are never locked here, are they?”

Jaw firming, he shook his head. “The house of a laird is always open to the clan. Which brings me back to my request. Is it possible for you to leave now? Perhaps return tomorrow to continue instructing Alice?”

She stared at him for long enough that his hopes started to rise—then she grimaced. “No. Not really. I don’t want to leave Alice until she’s confident she can manage on her own—in our calling, confidence is a foundation stone. Without it, without being certain and sure, it’s hard to take the decision to prescribe and treat people. But quite aside from that, the truth is that I’m more concerned by what I see in Manachan.”

She laid a hand on his arm; he felt her light touch through coat and shirt, and had to shackle his instantaneous response. They turned and started back along the terrace, and she took back her hand, clasping her fingers before her.

He lowered his arm, glad to be free of her distracting touch, yet, perversely, wanting the contact back. He clasped his hands behind his back the better to ensure he didn’t reach for her.

She glanced at him. “Manachan should not be as he is—I’m convinced of that. There really is no reason he should be so. I can accept that some illness dragged him down, but he should have recovered much better than he has.” She met his eyes and her chin firmed. “I
know
I can, if not completely cure him, at least make him very much better. But to do that, we have to persuade him to accept my help—and the best chance we’ll have of doing that will be over dinner tonight.

“He’ll be dragged down again, but
wanting
to be strong enough to come down to dinner, to interact and play the host. That’s the perfect time to dangle the prospect of greatly improved health before him. He’ll be feeling his weakness and be frustrated by it—we can use that frustration to tip the scales our way.”

The prospect she was dangling in front of
him
—of having Manachan largely restored—was too tempting, too desirable, to dismiss. “If he agrees…you can return to the Vale after dinner, and send whatever tonic you prescribe over tomorrow—”

He stopped speaking, stopped walking, because she’d halted and was shaking her head. Vehemently. Her lips had set in a mulish line.

“No.” The eyes that met his were crystalline hard. “That won’t work. If he agrees—and you’ll allow that if he does, we’ll need to strike then and there, and not let the moment lapse?”

Knowing Manachan, he had to nod.

“Well, then,” she continued. “If he agrees, what I propose is that I’ll examine him, which is a relatively simple thing, and then make up a boosting tonic immediately—something he can take tonight that will make him feel very much better in the morning. If he agrees, I need to take advantage and convince him that, yes, medicine really can make him feel better. Then, in the morning, once I gauge how well he’s responded to the boosting tonic, I’ll make up a restorative that he can take every mealtime to keep rebuilding his energies.”

Lucilla caught Thomas’s gaze and firmly stated, “So I’ll stay for dinner, and if Manachan agrees to let me treat him, I’ll stay for at least one more night.” And, if she could, she would push that to two nights. At least. What with everything that had gone on, she hadn’t had a chance to advance her cause—the Lady’s cause—with him. And if she meekly returned to the Vale, she couldn’t see how that would help, not with him remaining here and, it seemed likely, all too soon retreating to Glasgow.

She’d waited for years for him to come to her. Now that he had, she wasn’t about to let him ride away.

Let him set her back in her usual place and leave.

Her gaze locked with the gold-flecked amber of his, she could feel his resistance as an all-but-tangible force. It was alive in his eyes, in the set of his lips, in the squared masculine beauty of his jaw.

That resistance didn’t waver, but then another insight bloomed. Without shifting her gaze from his, she arched her brows. “If I understood you correctly, in order to help your clansmen with the strange problems that have cropped up on the estate, you need Manachan hale and strong once more. Strong enough to, if not retake the reins of the estate, at least exert influence over how they are managed. I want to help your uncle because that’s what I do—it’s a part of my duty just as much as helping your clan is to you. He might not be one of my people, but he is, indubitably, living under the Lady’s protection. To walk away without making every effort to help him…that’s not something I will readily do.”

She infused enough determination into that last phrase to leave him in no doubt that she would refuse to leave if he attempted to pressure her. It only remained for her to point out, “As I see it, our goals are aligned. Both of us want the same thing—Manachan well again.”

He didn’t argue; he couldn’t.

But when his capitulation came, it was no real capitulation at all. “Very well.” The words were quiet and clipped. “But the instant you’ve dealt with Manachan and Alice is able to manage on her own, I will escort you back to the Vale.”

There was little she could say to that, either. She inclined her head regally and turned to continue their perambulation back to the front door. Ultimately, him returning her to the Vale wasn’t of itself any real threat. It wasn’t the same as him leaving.

CHAPTER 9

The gathering about the dinner table was similar to that of the evening before. The same people sat in the same places. The only real change was that Manachan was, as Lucilla and Thomas had expected, even more worn down.

That, and the clear impression Lucilla received that Nigel and Nolan had decided to blame her and her presence for their father’s stubbornness in insisting on exerting himself and coming down to dinner.

The brothers were the last to arrive. On walking into the dining room and discovering Manachan already seated at the table’s head, Nigel frowned. “I’m sure, Papa, that Miss Cynster won’t be offended if you remain abed. This is too much for you.”

Manachan slowly turned his head, and, from beneath his heavy brows, studied Nigel. Although his voice had yet to regain its strength after his slow journey down the stairs, there was no mistaking the temper in his tone when he stated, “It’s not she who would be offended by the slight, but the clan, and while I have breath and strength enough left in this aging body, I won’t shy from what I know should be.”

Nigel clamped his lips shut. With a sour look at Lucilla, he took the seat to Manachan’s left.

Nolan followed, taking the chair beside Nigel’s and likewise directing a look of distinct antipathy at her.

She ignored them but seized the opening they’d given her. Under cover of the soup course being served, she leaned closer to Manachan and said, “Shortness of breath and general weakness often linger after an illness, but are usually quite easy to treat.”

Manachan’s blue eyes fixed on her face. After a moment, he murmured, “Is that so?”

She sat back to allow Ferguson to ladle game soup into her plate. When the butler moved on, she met Manachan’s eyes, which had remained on her face. “Indeed. There are several tonics that are effective in reversing the debilitation caused by an illness.”

Manachan arched his brows. “What about the debilitation that comes with age, heh? Do you have a tonic that can turn back the clock?”

Nigel was listening, of course; he snorted in disparaging agreement.

Serenely, she replied, “The effects of age cannot be reversed, but are you so very sure that age alone is the cause of your current state?”

Manachan paused in sipping his soup, his spoon suspended.

She didn’t give him time to respond but rolled on, “The truth is that you cannot be sure, any more than anyone else can be certain. But, therefore, what harm can there be in trying a tonic or two to see if there’s any improvement?”

Lightly shrugging, she returned her attention to her soup. Lifting a mouthful to her lips, she paused and softly—for Manachan’s ears only—added, “I know the clan would rejoice to see you up and about again.”

She fixed her gaze on her plate and ate her soup. Although she felt Manachan’s gaze—and Nigel’s and Nolan’s, too—on her face, she didn’t react, didn’t meet their gazes, but left them to consider the seeds she’d sown.

Thomas asked Niniver about the gardens on the far side of the house. Although Lucilla pretended an interest, she kept most of her attention on Manachan, waiting and hoping that he would, of his own accord, return to the subject of his health.

They were most of the way through the main course before she was rewarded with a rumbling humph and the question, “Do you really think this godforsaken weakness isn’t just old age?”

Shifting to face him, she met his eyes. “I’ve never known you that well, but from what I remember, bolstered”—she glanced briefly at Edgar, standing as usual within reach of his master—“by what those closer to you report, I would say that there’s a very real chance that much of the tiredness that’s holding you back has nothing to do with old age but, instead, is a lingering aftereffect of some illness.” She paused, then added, “One thing age does affect is the body’s ability to recover after an illness. It could simply be that you had some illness and have never thrown off the effects. And that sort of lingering weakness can become entrenched.”

Manachan’s gaze bored into her eyes. She met it without flinching and just waited.

After several long moments, he sat back in his chair, his gaze still locked on her face. “
If
I decided that it was time to put myself in a healer’s hands—given, as you say, that there’s surely no harm in trying a potion or two—and if
you
were the healer I challenged to put me right again, what treatment would you recommend?”

He was a wily old fox. A challenge? As if he were merely amusing himself, merely accommodating a guest…but she could see how to use that, too. Letting a smile infuse her features, she leaned toward him and replied, “If I were given the opportunity to test my skills on you, I would need to briefly examine you—to check your eyes and your skin, and see what you can tell me about how you feel, and whether you can recall what illness precipitated your weakness. And then I would work up a boosting tonic for tonight.” She held his gaze. “You would know by morning if it had had any effect, and if it had, I would make up a restorative you can continue to take, which will help you to improve further.”

Manachan studied her for several long moments. No one else about the table said a word.

Then he pulled a face. “Why not?”

Ferguson hovered, waiting to remove Manachan’s plate. Manachan noticed and waved; Ferguson replaced the plate with one for the poached pears in syrup that a footman had placed on the table.

Once the fuss of changing the courses had ended and they were all engaged with eating the dessert, Manachan returned to the topic now exercising the minds of all those about the table. “As you said, no harm in trying, and indeed, one might even say that it’s my duty to the clan, heh?”

She inclined her head, although she suspected the words were more for the benefit of everyone but her. Nigel, for instance, looked plainly shocked at the notion of his father allowing her to treat him. Nolan looked blank, Niniver hopeful, and even Norris had blinked and taken notice. As for Thomas seated beside her, she hadn’t turned sufficiently to see his face, but she could feel his relief that she’d succeeded where he had doubted she would, together with his hope that she could, as she’d claimed, set Manachan back on the road to health.

The instant they completed the meal, Manachan laid down his napkin and beckoned to Edgar. “I’ve had enough for today—I’m going up.” He focused on Lucilla as she rose, along with Niniver. “You go off and have your tea—I’ll send for you after I’ve had my nightcap.”

Lucilla met his gaze, smiled confidently, and nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

Manachan humphed as, leaning heavily on Edgar’s arm, he turned away. “And then we’ll see if you and your Lady are up to the challenge of healing an old reprobate like me.”

Everyone heard his soft cackling as he stumped out of the room.

Eyes wide with hope as well as surprise, Niniver joined Lucilla. They followed Manachan and Edgar out, and headed for the drawing room.

* * *

Thomas remained at the dinner table with Nigel, Nolan, and Norris. Ferguson and the footmen quickly removed the platters and plates, then set the usual three decanters on the table before Nigel, along with a selection of cut-crystal glasses.

Nigel reached for the whisky decanter, poured a healthy dose into a tumbler, then passed the decanter to Nolan, on his right. Nolan did the same, then passed the decanter to Norris, who somewhat absentmindedly poured himself a dash.

Thomas seized the moment to study Norris; as always, Manachan’s youngest son’s mind seemed to be far away—on a different plane, or at least in some different place. He was increasingly getting the feeling that Norris had cut himself off from everything around him. Thomas wondered how Norris spent his days, and made a mental note to inquire…probably of Niniver.

Norris pushed the decanter Thomas’s way. He reached out, snagged the neck, and proceeded to pour himself a restrained single finger of the rich malt Manachan favored. Setting the stopper back in the decanter, he considered the relief, and the strange pride, he’d felt over Lucilla inveigling Manachan to agree to her treating him. Sitting back, he felt his lips curve and raised the glass to conceal his smile; she had, in fact, gone one better, and allowed Manachan to couch his agreement in terms of obliging a guest with a challenge.