The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (31 page)

If Thomas had thought about what his welcome at the manor would be like, it wouldn’t have been this; he found it a touch disorienting. For several moments, he stood in the center of that welcoming wave—then scrabbling sounds heralded the arrival of dogs.

Hounds—deerhounds, a small pack of them—came pouring out of one archway. The foyer was large and irregular, with stairs and lots of corridors and archways leading from it; the hounds came out of the largest and most impressive archway. The dogs were young or in their prime; sniffing and snuffling, ears flapping, jaws open, and tongues lolling, they surrounded Thomas, Marcus, Lucilla, and Polby—all of whom absentmindedly greeted them, patting huge heads and scratching ears and shaggy chins.

And at the rear of the pack came two animals Thomas hadn’t seen in ten years; although they’d been much smaller then, something in him recognized them instantly. His cane balanced against his leg and with both his hands absorbed with stroking and petting, Thomas glanced at Marcus. “You bred from them?” With his head, he indicated the pair ambling toward them.

Marcus, likewise absorbed with the dogs, nodded. “We got others from other breeders.” Briefly, he met Thomas’s eyes. “You’re responsible, in a way—you gave us Artemis and Apollo, and everything started from there.”

The two older dogs had finally reached them. The younger beasts instinctively gave way, falling back. Both Artemis and Apollo halted in front of Thomas, looked up and, with their amber eyes, searched his face, then both sat and raised their paws.

Thomas was disarmed. He laughed and took each paw, squeezed lightly, then he released the dogs and rubbed their shaggy heads. “They’re in excellent condition.” He might not have bred them any longer, but he still knew everything there was to know about deerhounds.

Marcus shrugged. “They were good stock to begin with.”

The front door had been shut, and the press of people had thinned; Thomas had distantly registered the sound of Manachan’s carriage being driven away, and he’d glimpsed a footman disappearing up the main stairs with his bag.

Lucilla turned to him. “Would you like to join Marcus and me in the drawing room for a nightcap, or would you rather retire? Mrs. Broome has your room ready.”

She’d insisted that he would share her bed but, given they’d only just arrived, perhaps he would get a reprieve for tonight—which, considering how woozy he felt, was probably just as well. “I’m…not thinking as clearly as I would like.” The simple truth. “I suspect I had better retire.” While he still had some hope of negotiating the stairs upright.

A burly footman stepped forward. “If you’d like to lean on me, sir, we’ll get you up to your room.”

Marcus stepped back. He caught Thomas’s eyes and gave a curt nod. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

There was a promise in the words Thomas would have had to have been dead to miss, yet there was no aggression in Marcus’s expression or stance.

Which, as he allowed Lucilla to take his arm, and between her and the footman, he made for the stairs, Thomas had to wonder at.

The effort of ascending the stairs wiped all thoughts beyond lasting long enough to fall into the wonderfully plumped bed from his mind. Luckily, the room they’d prepared for him was on the first floor, at the base of one of the turrets.

He dismissed the footman, but he lacked the strength to dismiss Lucilla. He tried, but she just sent him a “don’t be ridiculous” look and set about helping him undress.

Finally semi-decently clad in his sleeping trousers, he had to stop and catch his breath. Sitting on a chair, arms braced on his thighs, his head hanging forward, he murmured, “Even though I dislike the notion of taking any of your potions, if you have something that will ease the pain, I’ll gladly swallow it.”

She regarded him for an instant—he could feel her gaze—then she touched the top of his head. “Wait there.”

He had no idea how long she was away, but it seemed no more than a moment before she was back and pressing a small beaker into his hand. It contained a reddish-pink potion, not the usual green her potions seemed to be. He glanced at it, then downed the dose in one gulp.

She took the empty beaker, set it aside, then urged him up and into the bed.

He literally fell into it. She’d pulled down the covers, and as he rolled to his side, she drew them over him.

A soothing sense of peace enveloped him.

Warmth ran beneath it, the lingering threads of the welcome in the foyer.

How very different from the welcome he’d received from his cousins.

Acceptance, and the gentle contentment that came from that, closed around him and dragged his senses down.

Lucilla watched him slide into slumber.

While his pain and his present lack of strength didn’t please her, she hadn’t been surprised by either, and she was immeasurably reassured that he’d asked for and accepted her aid.

He was there, in the Vale, under the manor’s roof, and only one floor down from where he ultimately should be—in her room, in her bed.

With the Lady’s help and by Her grace, she’d accomplished that much. As for the rest…she had to have faith that the following days would play out as they should, and the rest—Thomas’s realization that he was hers and she was his—would come in time.

One step at a time.

His breathing had evened out, slow and steady; his features had eased, showing no signs of tension, of continuing pain.

Satisfied with the outcome of the day, she picked up the lamp, went out, and shut the door. She paused on the landing, debating, then accepted the inevitable and started down the stairs. Marcus, she knew, was waiting.

* * *

Lucilla walked into the drawing room and closed the door behind her. Although it could be used for formal gatherings, it was the room the family used on a daily basis to gather in before and after dinner. Her mother had accordingly decorated the room with comfortable rather than fashionable furniture, the sort of well-stuffed chintz-covered sofas and armchairs that invited ladies to relax and sink into, and gentlemen to sprawl at their ease in.

Occupying one of the armchairs near the hearth, Marcus was engaged in the latter. A glass of whisky cradled in his long fingers, he sipped and watched her as she crossed to the armchair opposite his.

When she sat, he lowered the glass and met her gaze directly. “First question—do you know what you’re doing?”

She held his gaze and let him see her certainty, her commitment. “Yes.” That was all she needed to say.

He read her eyes, then inclined his head in acceptance. “All right.” He took another brief sip, then asked, “So what’s been going on at Carrick Manor?”

She told him from beginning to end, leaving out nothing bar her interactions with Thomas—those, her twin definitely didn’t need to hear described, although she suspected he would still guess that such interludes had occurred.

Regardless, he took her report in his stride and focused, as she’d hoped, on the conundrums.

When she reached the end—Manachan’s request for them both to leave, and them acquiescing and doing so—Marcus grimaced. He rose and crossed to the tantalus, and tipped a little more whisky into his glass.

He arched a brow at her, but she shook her head.

He returned to the armchair and all but fell into it. Frowning, he sipped, then broodingly said, “Manachan made the right decision. If the culprit lies within the clan, as it seems certain he does, then, as Manachan’s now able to manage again, he—and only he—is the right person to deal with the situation. No one from outside can, and although Thomas is clan, with Nigel resenting him and all the others preferring him, Thomas being there will only make things worse.” Marcus drank, then added, “Especially as worse might stretch to murder.”

“Indeed.” She paused, then said, “I couldn’t see any way around it—around leaving Manachan to deal with it on his own. Aside from all else, over all these years he’s earned everyone’s respect—he’s always been uncannily shrewd over anything to do with his clan.”

“Exactly.” Marcus nodded. “Although I don’t in the least approve of having a murderer or murderers—including one who had and may yet have you in his sights—wandering around still free, now that Manachan’s back to reasonable strength, we all, Thomas included, need to give him the time and the space to sort it out—within clan, if at all possible.”

She could only nod in agreement. That, in a nutshell, was what had brought her home.

Marcus’s dark gaze rested on her; she couldn’t read his expression, but she could sense his approval. “Presumably”—he paused to drain his glass—“rescuing the Bradshaws and then restoring Manachan to viable strength were the reasons Thomas was summoned back from Glasgow.”

She knew her twin wasn’t referring to Bradshaw, and then Forrester, writing to Thomas, but to the hand of fate—the fate both she and Marcus accepted ruled them and the lands they watched over.

“And”—Marcus tipped the empty tumbler, watching the light spark in the cut crystal—“why he had to fetch you, and by extension, why I was left nursing a very sore head.”

She humphed and rose. “I checked you over before I left you—it wasn’t that bad. And”—she arched her brows at him—“as we all know, you have a very hard head.”

Marcus’s smile was slow and rather intent. “You and I know that, but I have no intention of letting Carrick off the hook.”

She snorted and, unsuccessfully battling a smile, turned and walked to the door. Opening it, she left her twin plotting, secure in the knowledge that Marcus understood who Thomas was to her, and that tease him though Marcus undoubtedly would, he would nevertheless protect Thomas in the same way he did her—with his life if need be.

* * *

Lucilla climbed the stairs to the first floor, then headed for the southeast turret in which her room was located; one level up, her chamber was a circular chamber with views over the green of the summer pastures to the distant horizon where dawn first arrived.

She was grateful that Marcus had refrained from asking more questions about her and Thomas, because, as yet, she didn’t know the answers herself.

Reaching the guest chamber at the base of her turret, the room in which Thomas was sleeping, she quietly opened the door, went in, and equally quietly eased the latch closed.

Not that she needed to have worried—he remained deeply asleep.

She walked to the end of the bed and stood looking down at him.

Letting her eyes trace his features, the fall of one thick lock of dark hair across his brow, the elegant length of his palms and fingers relaxed on the covers, she let the essence of all he was, and all she needed him to be—lover, consort, husband—impinge and sink in to her mind, to her soul.

She’d secured the first; they were lovers, and he hadn’t tried to pull back from or deny that connection. As for being her consort, he’d been protective of her from the first; with regard to her, that was a part of his nature he hadn’t attempted to suppress, nor, she suspected, would he be able to. It was the last title that would be the hardest for him to embrace; it would, in effect, be a public declaration that he was hers and would remain by her side for the rest of his days.

Him agreeing to be her husband would be the true and final commitment—the only one that, for her and him, really mattered.

She knew beyond doubt that he would never be at peace, would never find any true and lasting satisfaction in life if he wasn’t there, living beside her, where he was supposed to be.

Filling the role he was supposed to fill, destined to fill, despite his resistance fueled by his belief that his life lay elsewhere.

But there was nothing she could do to advance their cause—hers, his, and the Lady’s—tonight.

Although he’d insisted on his sleeping pants, he apparently slept without a nightshirt; the muscled strength of his arms, the power inherent in the heavy width of his shoulders, lay exposed, displayed against the ivory sheets.

The potion she’d given him had contained enough poppy juice to take the edge from his pain and tip him into a healing sleep; he wouldn’t be stirring any time soon.

She stood silently considering his sleeping form for a moment more. She’d insisted that, here in the Vale, he had to share her bed, but in gaining what she needed, she was willing to be flexible.

* * *

Thomas woke to find the gray light of predawn filtering through the uncurtained windows—and Lucilla, a warm armful, tucked against his side.

He was lying on his back, his head cushioned on thick pillows. Without shifting his head, he studied the segment of room he could see. Although his memories were hazy, he was fairly certain this was the room, the bed, in which he’d fallen asleep last night.

So she’d adjusted her strategy; not her room, not her bed, but she was still sharing it with him.

His lips curved. He let his lids fall again, thinking that would improve his ability to think clearly. Instead, with his eyes shut, his other senses expanded, and awareness of her presence swamped him.

There was an earthy reality in the moment. An adult man, an adult woman, sharing a bed. Simple. Uncomplicated.

They lay warm beneath the sheets, their muscles relaxed, heavy in slumber. The door was closed, and beyond it, no one was stirring.

Slowly, his nerves, his skin, came alive.

She’d donned a nightgown, the fine cotton an insubstantial barrier separating naked skin from skin. The ripe swell of her bottom was snuggled against the side of his waist, the elegant curve of her spine pressed along his side.

The ache in his head had eased to almost nothing; he could still feel the wound in his calf, but the pain had dulled and was easy to ignore.

Not so the intensifying ache in his loins.

He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs—with the alluring scent of her. A mixture of herbs and flowers, a complex medley of scents that reminded him of spring edging into summer, of bright freshness transforming via a luscious ripening into something beyond desirable—into something to be coveted.

That promise was there in her, carried to his senses in so many ways, on multiple planes.