The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (28 page)

Thomas glanced at her face, but she was looking down, holding up her skirts with her free hand as she climbed. Beyond his brief wonderings at breakfast, he’d been so engrossed in thoughts of Joy’s and Faith’s deaths, of what was going on at the manor, and of Manachan and his illness, that he hadn’t, yet, reached any real conclusion regarding her and him. Until last night, he hadn’t known there would ever be a “them”—that there would ever be anything more substantial than unfulfilled desires connecting her and him—yet now there clearly was… Was that connection an ongoing one, or had it ended when he’d left her room that morning?

He didn’t know.

Even more disconcerting, now he’d finally thought of it, was that he didn’t know what he actually wanted—if he would be happy to let their liaison end after just one night, or…

But there wasn’t any future in it, so perhaps he should simply let matters flow as they would—as she seemed so adept at doing.

As they stepped into the gallery, he glanced at her as, letting her skirts fall, she raised her head. Calm certainty, that serene self-assurance of hers, infused her features. Given his own less-than-certain state, he could almost resent that inner certitude.

He prowled by her side, wondering why he felt so oddly off-balance with her, even though interacting and dealing with her, and generally being in her company, had grown easier in the wake of the events of the past night.

They were nearing Manachan’s door when it opened, and Nolan, followed by Nigel, stepped out.

Seeing Thomas and Lucilla approaching, the pair halted and watched them. Nigel pulled the door closed behind him.

Lucilla stopped a few yards away.

Thomas halted beside her.

Nigel’s and Nolan’s gazes had gone to the bottle in Lucilla’s hand. After a second of staring, Nigel asked, “Is that it? The medicine that will keep Papa improving?”

“It is,” Lucilla replied. “How is your father?”

Nigel’s gaze rose to her face. “Better.” The admission was grudging. “Even after the funeral.”

“Amazingly better.” Nolan’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I just hope it lasts.”

Lucilla’s chin rose; her smile had sharp edges. “I know of no reason his strength and vigor shouldn’t continue to improve.” She raised the bottle. “This will help.” She paused for a split second, then imperiously said, “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

No real question, of course. With reluctance, Nigel and Nolan moved aside.

Lucilla tapped on the door. When Edgar opened it, she held up her bottle and smiled. “I’m here to see my patient.” With that, she walked in.

Thomas inclined his head to his cousins, still loitering, and followed her, letting Edgar close the door behind him.

Lucilla was already with Manachan in his private sitting room. She was checking his pulse when Thomas walked in.

He stood to one side of the fireplace and listened as she questioned his uncle, queries that were clearly designed to assess his relative strength compared to how he’d been earlier, before the funeral.

When she ended her inquisition, Manachan fixed her with a sharp glance. “Satisfied?” He tipped his head at the bottle she’d placed on the mantelpiece. “Going to give me the rest now?”

She studied him for a moment, then smiled and reached for the bottle. “This won’t have as dramatic an effect as what I gave you last night, but if you consistently take a spoonful every morning when you wake, and again with your luncheon, and at night before you settle for sleep, then over the next week, and week by week after that, you should see further improvement.” After showing the bottle to Manachan, she handed it to Edgar. Her gaze returning to Manachan, she continued, “You can’t make yourself ill by taking too much. However, taking more than I’ve prescribed won’t get you better any faster. It’s designed to work steadily over time, as your appetite improves.”

Manachan humphed and glanced at Thomas. “I can’t say I’ll be sorry to get my appetite back. The only thing worse that eating pap is wanting to eat pap because all else is too much bother.”

Thomas managed a grin.

“I’ve already instructed Alice in how to make more,” Lucilla said.

“Aye, and how are you finding her, heh?” Manachan slanted a glance at Lucilla. “I have high standards in healers, these days—will she do, do you think?”

Thomas listened as Lucilla responded, and Manachan confirmed for himself that despite having buried Joy that morning, the clan would nevertheless be adequately served.

“And if she runs into any problem she doesn’t know how to treat,” Lucilla concluded, “she now knows me, and I’ve already told her to feel free to send to the Vale for any assistance we can provide.”

Manachan accepted that as the final word; knowing his uncle, Thomas suspected it had been the final declaration he’d been angling to hear. Manachan inclined his head to Lucilla in as much of a bow as he could manage. “Thank you, my dear. I’m honestly not sure what me and mine would have done without your assistance.”

While Lucilla repeated that the Vale would always answer any call for help from the Carricks, Manachan’s gaze rose to Thomas’s face and, lips lightly curving, Manachan fractionally inclined his head—a gesture that brought to mind the words:
Well played.

Unsure what his uncle had meant—on what aspect of Lucilla’s presence Manachan had been commenting—Thomas followed her out of Manachan’s suite and into the gallery.

She swept to the head of the stairs, then turned and looked back at Manachan’s closed door. There was calculation in her expression, then she looked at Thomas as he halted beside her. “The one thing I still cannot understand is why he never asked Joy to, at the very least, take a look at him. She might not have been as skilled as I or my mother, but she would still have brought him some degree of betterment.”

That was one of the many issues he’d spent the morning pondering. He held her gaze for a moment, then glanced around before waving her down the stairs. “Let’s go for a stroll.”

She immediately took his meaning and nodded. “An excellent idea.”

Side by side, they walked down the stairs, out of the front door, circled the house, and started along the side terrace.

As they settled to an easy pace, she simply asked, “Why?”

Looking down, he considered his words. “Because,” he eventually said, “someone in the clan has to be behind what’s going on. At least one member, and it might be more.”

After a moment, he went on, “As to your point, I originally thought, as I believe you did, too, that Manachan’s refusal to see a healer stemmed from his pride, in one aspect or another. Yet as we’ve seen, he was ready enough to allow you to treat him. But according to Edgar and Ferguson—and Mrs. Kennedy, too—Manachan’s been more or less in the state we found him for months.” He paused, then continued, “I’ve asked, and no one knows of any reason Manachan might have taken against Joy, yet he steadfastly refused to listen to Edgar’s suggestions that he consult her. Yet you heard him today, at the funeral—he told us what he thought of Joy. Manachan might be many things, but he isn’t good at prevarication, at putting on a polite show.”

She snorted. “According to my parents, that’s never been his style.”

“Exactly. So what he said about Joy, he meant. Which means there was no reason he didn’t ask her to help him
except
—and this is what I now believe purely because I’ve seen no evidence of anything else—someone convinced him, whether intentionally or otherwise, that everything he was suffering from was simply due to old age.”

She walked on for several seconds; like him, her gaze was fixed on the flagstones ahead of them. “We have heard that explanation put forward several times since we’ve been here.”

Her tone was exceedingly even; he had to give her points for remaining, apparently at least, detached. “Indeed.” His own temper wasn’t so accommodating; the word had been clipped. Then again, Manachan was his uncle, not hers. “But setting aside the question of why he didn’t seek help before now, I wanted to ask—your tonic and restorative. How do they work?”

Glancing at her, he saw a slight frown claim her face.

“Do you mean what aspects of a person’s vitality the two potions are designed to affect?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “I think that’s what I mean. I was wondering if knowing what you’re building up might tell us anything of what brought him low.”

“Ah, I see.” She raised her head. “Unfortunately, the answer is no. The treatment is specifically to boost his strength—muscle tone, but even more his energy levels. That’s circulation, breathing, and digestion. But lack of vitality—vigor, strength, whatever one calls it—is a general symptom. If I had seen him soon after he’d first been taken ill, I probably could have said what caused it, but after such a long period of debilitation, it’s not possible to define what sent him into that state to begin with.”

He grimaced. “What sort of things might it have been?”

“It might have been something relatively ordinary—like a lung infection.” They reached the end of the terrace and turned to walk back. She shook her head. “It’s not really possible to guess after all this time.”

He took two paces before saying, “Would it be true to say that, regardless of what initially brought him low, the critical issue that’s kept him ill for so long was that he didn’t seek help?”

She nodded decisively. “Definitely. That can be stated without any equivocation.”

After a moment, she turned her head and studied him, then said, “And yes, if you’d visited more often, you would have ensured he got treatment earlier and he wouldn’t have been so drawn down for so long, but no one told you, so you weren’t to know. But now you’ve come, and I’ve seen him and treated him, and that’s all that can be done.”

Jaw setting, he halted and waited until she did the same. Locking his eyes on hers, he simply said, “Indeed. So will you leave now?” When she blinked, he added, “Please.”

She frowned. “What brought this on?”

“An adder inexplicably appearing in the still room. A man creeping into your room in the dead of night, apparently intent on smothering you while you slept. Those two incidents, for a start.” Along with his growing conviction that whoever was behind whatever was going on had already committed murder twice. He kept his lips clamped, holding back those words.

Much good did the restraint do him.

Her frown grew black. “No. I will not simply waltz off home, not until I’m sure Manachan—who is now officially my patient—is firmly on the road to recovery.” With a swish of her skirts, she started walking again. “And before you ask, I imagine that will take at least two more days.”

He gritted his teeth and followed. “Do you have any idea what”—exasperated, he waved—“
interfamily ructions
will ensue if anything happens to you while under this roof?” He threw out a hand. “More, with your standing in the area, something happening to you while you’re here will very likely break up the clan.”

After finally getting him into her bed, Lucilla wasn’t going to meekly pack up and go home. She halted and swung to face him. “That’s—”

The warning struck her like a mental slap.

She stopped speaking and looked straight up.

A grinding scrape drew her gaze to the roof—to a stone gargoyle as it tipped, then tumbled and fell.

She screamed and grabbed Thomas, flinging them both to the side.

He’d followed her gaze. Seizing her in return, he added his much greater strength to throwing them both along the terrace.

They landed on the flagstones—or rather he did; she landed more or less cushioned in his arms.

She heard a dull crack—then a horrendous
crash
drowned out everything else.

Stone shattered and flew, shards lancing into their clothes, a thousand tiny pinpricks. She ducked and covered her head. Wrapped around her, Thomas jerked and grunted. A rock rolled against her shoe and halted.

Then fine dust spread, a cloud enveloping them, and silence fell.

She choked, coughed, then struggled up, pushing back Thomas’s shielding arm.

His arm slid away. He didn’t move.

She looked at his face.

And felt the blood drain from her own. “Oh, God.”

He was unconscious. He was injured somewhere.

For a second, panic clutched at her throat, then her healer’s training rose through her. She hauled in a deeper breath and dragged herself up to a sitting position. Then she gently touched his face. Slowly easing her hands and fingers around his skull, she closed her eyes and felt…

No break. No blood. Just one sizeable, already thickening lump above his left ear.

“God!”

“Miss!”

“Are you hurt?”

“Mr. Thomas!”

The exclamations came from multiple throats. The stablemen came rushing up, and other staff streamed from the front of the house.

She didn’t look up but continued her careful visual examination, scanning down Thomas’s body—to his left calf.

A large shard of splintered rock had embedded itself in the thick muscle.

“Miss?”

She glanced up as Sean crouched beside her.

He looked into her eyes. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and drew in another breath.

Mitch and Fred, hunkering beside Thomas, reached to turn him onto his back.

“No! Don’t move him. Not yet.” The sharpness of her tone had the desired effect; they all froze and looked at her. She nodded again, this time more determinedly, and reached for her usual brisk manner. “There’s a fragment of rock in his calf. See?” She pointed it out; it had been screened from Mitch’s and Fred’s view. “We need to take it out first. Moving him with it still in there risks jiggling it and doing more damage.”

From the fragment’s position, it might well have cut a major blood vessel; she wasn’t going to take any chances.

She’d worn a black silk scarf to the funeral. It still hung about her throat and shoulders—the perfect material from which to fashion a tourniquet. Drawing it off and starting to twist the long length between her hands, she explained to Sean, Mitch, and Fred—and Ferguson and several maids and footmen who came to join them—what they were going to do and why.