The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (35 page)

“Yet you’ve both done it—bowed to that greater power.”

Marcus nodded. “Yes, but not, I contend,
easily
. However, as I said, we—Lucilla and I—have had the experience of being…for want of a better term, chosen for our destinies since childhood. We learned from an early age that fighting against your own destiny is, to put it mildly, a complete waste of time.” Marcus paused, his dark gaze resting on Thomas. “If you’re chosen, you can’t escape. You can try, but you’ll end by ruining your life and living in misery—and you still won’t escape.” After a moment, he added more quietly, “That’s a lesson Lucilla and I learned long ago. And neither of us are the sort to fight battles simply for the sake of fighting.”

After a moment, Thomas dipped his head. “Thank you.”

They let silence fall again. Marcus picked up the news sheet on the top of the pile, one from London, and started to read.

Leaving Thomas sorting through his thoughts, through Marcus’s words, and the understanding he’d gained. Marcus’s talk of personal destinies—of being unable to escape regardless of what one might do—rippled through his awareness, reminding him of the unsettling sensation he’d had of being herded—steered, prodded, and ultimately
guided
down a particular path. One that had led him from Glasgow to where he now was—sitting in the library at Casphairn Manor.

In his case,
people
had been behind the herding—Bradshaw, Forrester, Lucilla, Manachan, and Lucilla again.

A whisper—that perhaps those people were merely the pawns of some greater power—slid through the depths of his mind and sent a sensation suspiciously like a shiver down his spine.

Deliberately, he focused on Marcus and asked the other question he had. “You”—he paused until Marcus looked up and met his eyes—“and everyone else here have accepted my arrival in Lucilla’s train without so much as a blink.” He had no intention of alluding to, much less underscoring, the nature of his relationship with Lucilla, so he simply asked, “Why?”

Any doubt he’d harbored that Marcus didn’t comprehend the true nature of his relationship with Lucilla was slain by the hardness that infused Marcus’s eyes…but, after several seconds, Marcus dropped his almost-challenging gaze and shrugged. “No one has any reason to take exception to your presence here. You arrived quite clearly under Lucilla’s aegis, and whomever she brings to this house will always be welcomed with open arms.”

Marcus raised his gaze and met Thomas’s eyes—and this time Thomas got the impression that Marcus was studying him, trying to see past his mask and into his mind. But then, his lips easing into what might have been a gently commiserating smile, Marcus said, “There really is nothing more to it than that. As we’ve already discussed, she is who she is, and all of us here accept that.”

There was a finality in Marcus’s tone that Thomas, in turn, had to accept. He tilted his head in wordless acknowledgment and let the subject drop.

* * *

Thomas had wondered if Lucilla would rethink her insistence that he share her bed, but no.

That evening, after another meal in the Great Hall shared with the entire manor household, during which the company had been entertained by a group of children practicing madrigals, he, Lucilla, and Marcus had retreated to the drawing room, where he’d learned that Lucilla played the harp like an angel. They’d chatted about music; he hadn’t felt the passing of time, but then the tea trolley had arrived, and after duly partaking, he’d claimed tiredness—and hadn’t been entirely surprised when she declared that she would retire, too.

They left Marcus engrossed in a book in the drawing room; as they climbed the main stairs, she linked her arm with his. They reached the first floor and walked to the door of his room, but instead of releasing him, she tightened her hold and drew him on—to the narrow stairs that spiraled upward a few yards further on.

She had to release his arm, but caught his hand and, raising her skirts, led the way. Curious, he allowed her to tow him, haltingly, up the curving flight and into the turret room above the chamber he’d been assigned.

That the turret room was her private domain was, to his eyes and all his senses, instantly apparent. The room wasn’t a girl’s, but a woman’s, powerfully yet elegantly decorated in myriad shades of green—from the softest spring-green of the sheets, to the vibrant leaf-green of the silk comforter, to the lush velvet draperies that cloaked the windows and the corners of the four-poster bed in the deep dark green of the forests.

She drew him further in, then released his hand and turned back. Behind him, he heard the door shut with a quiet, solid
thunk
of fated finality.

Soft lamplight glowed from sconces on either side of her mahogany dressing table; another lamp sat on the small table beside the bed, shedding light over the wide expanse, laying a shimmering golden sheen over the green silk.

He was vaguely aware of two dressers and two armoires set against the walls and, beyond the bed, a comfortable setting of two armchairs with footstools angled before a fireplace. A fire burned in the hearth, and the tang of pine underlay the perfume infusing the very air. Tempted, he breathed deep, filling his lungs—and recognized the pervasive scent. That curious blend of herbs, flowers, and spring sunshine he associated with her.

He would recognize that scent were he blind; that hook had already sunk deep.

He started to turn toward her, but she came up beside him, took his hand again, briefly met his eyes, then faced forward and drew him on.

The bed was her ultimate goal.

He understood that and was willing enough to follow.

She halted by the bed’s side, released his hand, and with a swish of her silken skirts, turned to him—stepped to him, framed his face with her hands, pulled him down as she stretched up and kissed him.

Her passion hit him full force. No warning, no gentle rise of desire, but with the sudden impact of a raging storm.

She parted her lips under his, but the instant he responded, she changed tack and boldly slid her tongue past his lips, found his tongue, and heavily stroked.

Incited.

With each successive, deliberate caress, she demanded and taunted.

For long seconds, he reeled, rocked back on his mental heels by the sheer force of her desire, the heat, the raging beat, the power—the sheer need she poured into him.

He drank it down—suddenly couldn’t get enough. His own need roared to life, answering hers.

Rising to her call.

His hands had instinctively closed about her waist, holding her… His fingers curled, his palms seized.

His cane cracked on the floor as he moved into her and closed the last inch, then he hauled her against him, into a crushing embrace as he forced her head back, took control of the kiss, and pressed his passion on her.

She didn’t give ground. Didn’t back away an inch.

She speared her fingers into his hair, clutched, and came up on her toes the better to press yet another scorching kiss on his mouth, on his slavering senses.

Curiosity flared; she’d dispensed with all shields, all care, all caution.

How far would she truly go?

The primitive male in him wondered.

Yet he wasn’t prepared to cede to her in this, not in this arena. His fingers tensed, then eased, his senses registering the feminine vitality between his hands, the supple, resilient skin beneath the layers of clothes; once he got his hands on her, on the silken curves of her body, she would yield and the reins would be his once more.

Yet she wasn’t ready to end the passionate plundering of their mouths—and neither was he.

Awareness fracturing, he wrenched enough of his wits free of the kiss, enough to send his hands searching. Tonight, her lacy bodice closed down the back. Starting at the high collar at her nape, he swiftly slid the tiny buttons free, driven by a rising desperation to feel the silk-satin of her skin again, to taste the succulent peaks of her breasts and hear her moan.

Her kiss pulled his mind one way, his desperation pulled in another; he almost felt giddy.

The bodice was loosening, gaping at the back, almost undone… What wits he’d reclaimed from the heated, hungry savoring of their mouths were focused on that. Then his neckcloth whisked away, and the witch in his arms hauled apart the sides of his shirt that she’d already freed—and set her greedy hands to his chest.

To his body; from the way she swept her palms, here, there, and over every inch of bared skin she could reach, it was transparently clear that she wanted it all—wanted to, intended to, seize and lay claim.

The
need
infused in each sweeping caress had him closing his eyes—made him shudder.

This was passion of a different stripe—of a power and force he hadn’t before encountered.

Life. I will always bring you life.
Life, indeed, at an elevated level.

A temptation he couldn’t resist.

He had to step up, had to match her; some innate part of him recognized and accepted that he had no other choice.

He pushed the last button free and hauled open the back of her bodice, then by main force, unrelentingly pulled the garment forward and down—trapping her arms and inexorably forcing her to draw her hands from his already burning skin.

Lucilla had no intention of stepping back, slowing down, or allowing him to dictate this engagement. She—her instincts—saw tonight as hers—her time to convince him of all they could have, of all they could be. The cuffs of her sleeves weren’t tight; in virtually one movement, she lowered her arms, with two swift tugs freed her hands, drew her arms from the confining sleeves—and reached and grabbed handfuls of his shirt, waistcoat, and coat level with his collarbone, then lifted and pushed the garments up and over his shoulders, trapping his arms in return.

She broke from the kiss as, with one last, downward shove, she pushed his bunched clothes to his elbows. Then she seized a second for the battle to catch her racing breath.

Her bodice fell away; she heard the
clink
of the buttons as he let it fall from the fingers of one hand to the floor.

His hands, large and strong, were splayed on her back, his touch burning through the fine silk of her chemise.

She’d broken the kiss, but their faces remained only inches apart. They were both breathing rapidly, heated breaths mingling. Their gazes met and locked—his glinted, gold in amber, from beneath the thick lashes of his lowered lids. She flicked the tip of her tongue over her lips. “How’s your leg?” The one restriction still hovering in her mind.

Thomas blinked. For an instant, he didn’t know what she meant…then he remembered and inwardly checked, but it wasn’t his leg that was aching. “It’s not hurting.” The words came out in a low growl.

“Good.” She shifted closer and, with calculated deliberation, pressed herself to him like a cat, rubbing her barely clad breasts against his lower chest, the warm, curvaceous mounds impressing his skin, his senses.

His jaw locked as he battled vainly to ignore the provocation—in the movement, in her intensely green eyes.

With his arms trapped, he was at her mercy, but to free himself, he would have to take his hands from her—lose the last vestige of control over her.

Her eyes on his, she swayed, the tight peaks of her breasts dragging across his skin; the sensation made the muscles of his abdomen quiver, then lock even harder than before.

He muttered a curse and drew his hands from her. Lowering his arms, he pulled and shook the constricting garments down and free of his hands.

But she was on him the instant he moved. Small hands bracing, fingers spread, on the heavy muscles on either side of his chest, she placed a hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss in the small hollow in the center of his chest—and branded him.

Scalded him; the heat from that claiming touch raced through him and spread, igniting a need he had to assuage.

He reached for the laces anchoring her skirt.

Lucilla pressed her lips once more to the beckoning hollow, then she licked, laved. Closing her eyes, she gave her senses over to tasting him as he had her—to savoring the slightly salty tang of him and drawing the arousing scent of pure male deep, to her bones.

He filled her senses to overflowing, and she welcomed and embraced the knowing. Then she set about tasting him some more. She found the flat discs of his nipples hidden beneath the fine mat of curly dark hair. She fingered them—learning them by touch, by feel—then she closed her lips about them and tasted, closed her teeth and lightly scraped, then with her lips tugged.

She read his response in the flickering of his skin, in the tensing of iron-hard muscles, in his increasingly harried breathing.

Her own breaths were shallow; if she thought of it, she’d feel giddy, but in that moment, she was focused on only one thing.

Him.

On claiming him.

She felt the frantic tugs at her waist and knew she was on the right road. Recognizing the opportunity, she used the moment to let her hands slide down, fingers lightly gripping, tracing over the tensed ridges of his abdomen to his waist.

To the buttons securing the waistband of his trousers.

Two flicks and she had the buttons undone.

He cursed and yanked her skirt down, pushing it down in a profusion of silk folds, then he set about unraveling the laces of her petticoats.

It fascinated her that he could unknot the laces without seeing, yet he seemed quite adept; she left him to it.

Left him worrying at that while she peeled back the front placket of his trousers, sought and found the slit in his linen underpants, and slid her hand within.

She palmed his erection and his breath hitched, then halted. She closed her fingers about the rock-hard length, heavy as marble, corded with thick veins, the skin unbelievably delicate and fine. And sensitive. His breath stuttered and shook when she brushed her fingertips over the smoothness of the broad head. Her fingers dallied on the moistness of the slit—and he came at her again.

He yanked the laces loose, shoved her petticoats down to join her skirt.

Before he could seize her and lift her—and break her hold on him—she stepped out of her skirts and kicked them aside. Closing her hand more firmly about his erection, she reached with the other for his nape. She caught him and hauled him into another kiss.