The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (44 page)

He’d spoken of his own vulnerability; he knew what it felt like, recognized the effect of it in others.

Slowly, giving her plenty of time to react if she would, he raised both hands and cupped her face.

Instinctively, she shifted closer as he tipped her face to his.

He looked down into her eyes, reached as deeply as she would allow. With the force of everything inside him, he stated, “I will never—ever—leave you again. I will never quit the place by your side. I want you, but more, I
need
you—you and only you. You are the center point, the pivot, the fulcrum of my life, the anchor about which I must and always will revolve.” Drowning in green, he paused to draw breath. “You are, and always will be, all and everything I want—all and everything I need.”

Her free hand rose to cup the back of his.

And, at last, with that feather-light touch, through that and the thinning of her shields, he saw acceptance bloom within her, gradually strengthening in her eyes.

He lowered his head, drawn to kiss her, to claim her mouth at least.

She didn’t retreat but came up on her toes to meet him.

He paused with a bare whisper separating their hungry lips. So hungry—he could feel her hunger rise to meet his. Once their lips touched, all talk would be behind them.

He spoke breath to breath. “Do you accept me as yours, forever and always?”

Her lids rose; green fire met his eyes. “Yes.”

He exhaled and briefly closed his eyes. “So my lady’s—your Lady’s—prophecy is fulfilled.”

She didn’t answer, just slid her hand to his nape and drew his lips to hers.

* * *

So my lady’s—your Lady’s—prophecy is fulfilled.

But it wasn’t. Not quite.

Thomas knew that as surely as he knew the difference between a negotiated agreement and an effective partnership. They’d managed the first; they had yet to achieve the second.

They walked up from the gardens hand in hand, with their awareness of each other, courtesy of that kiss and the several that had followed, back in full force, and acceptance, carried in the warm clasp of their palms and the gentleness they showed to each other, slowly settling upon them.

It was a curious transition, with them trying to find their way back to the path that his leaving had taken them from.

And even then, it wasn’t quite the same path; they’d rejoined it several bends further along.

As they walked into the house, the luncheon gong rang. Instinctively, he steeled himself. Lucilla cast him a reassuring glance, wordlessly assuring him that all would be well; tightening her grip on his hand, she drew him on.

And she was proved correct. Catriona beamed upon him; Marcus appeared neutral, yet he nodded easily and talked about the dogs. Richard was the only one who appeared watchful, assessing, waiting to see how matters played out.

But most importantly in Thomas’s eyes, Lucilla interacted with him not just as she always had but with a more personal, tentative, exploratory connection that set him apart from everyone else.

He was perfectly willing to work with her on that—to allow what linked them to evolve and deepen, to let it infuse their actions and strengthen the ties that already bound them.

Given the smiles directed their way from everyone in the body of the hall, the existence of those ties was obvious to all.

That was reassuring, but as, seated beside Lucilla, he supped and ate, he realized he wanted, and needed, more. And with his awareness of her deepening with every breath, he knew—somewhere inside, where everything about her wants and needs now resided—that she, too, needed more. Having lived through the drama of his leaving and his return, they both needed to move on more quickly. More definitely.

The meeting with Catriona and Richard in the drawing room after lunch was unavoidable, but as Thomas had expected it and was prepared for all the inevitable questions and Lucilla was increasingly confident of her new footing, the discussion passed off surprisingly well—and Richard stopped viewing him quite so critically.

Richard still watched, but it was more in the way of reassuring himself that all continued well.

Thomas was certain that the full implications of his return had, by that time, occurred to Lucilla’s nearest and dearest; none of them was the least bit slow. Certainly, all of them seemed increasingly amused at his expense. As it happened, he was entirely willing to admit that his return signaled his agreement to living under the paw of a certain flame-haired cat; as the day wound on, he was increasingly impatient to get on with doing just that.

It hadn’t escaped him that the one subject no one had broached was when their wedding was to be. That, apparently, was going to be left entirely to Lucilla and him to decree.

The point was never far from his mind through the later afternoon, when Lucilla had to go down to the still room to deal with her apprentices, and Polby, still beaming, came to ask him what to do with the trunks that his landlady had duly sent down.

By dinnertime, he had made several decisions. He bided his time through the meal—the usual combined gathering of the household in the Great Hall—and through Richard and Catriona’s announcement of the pending union between Lucilla and him, a declaration that was greeted with thunderous cheers and a wave of goodwill that was all but palpable.

The smile he directed over the occupants of the hall was entirely genuine, as was the warmth in his gaze as he looked at Lucilla.

No more shields. None. Not for him, or for her.

She read enough in his eyes for color to rise in her cheeks; raising her napkin, she patted her lips, then reached for her wine goblet.

He felt his smile deepen and looked away. Content, for now.

As usual, the ladies led the way from the Great Hall. Catriona had linked her arm in Lucilla’s; from the snippets of conversation drifting to his ears as he followed alongside Richard and Marcus, Lucilla and her mother were discussing fabrics for redecorating the drawing room.

Richard grunted. In a low voice, he murmured, “Just as long as they don’t decide to redecorate the library.”

“Don’t even think it,” Marcus murmured back. “You know that’s enough to put ideas into their heads.”

Thomas slowed as he reached the archway to the front foyer; stepping through, watching the ladies go ahead, he slowed still more, then halted.

Richard and Marcus had instinctively matched their pace to his. Both halted, too, and turned to him.

He flexed his left leg and winced. “I left Glasgow at dawn and rode hard—I might have overdone it.”

Neither Cynster male looked as though they believed the lie, but neither did they challenge it.

Realizing that they—being the sort of men they were—probably understood, and might even applaud his direction, he went on, “If you would proffer my apologies to Catriona and Lucilla, I believe I’ll retire.”

Marcus tilted his head as if considering the strategy.

Richard slowly blinked, then nodded. “Sound idea. Best to conserve your strength rather than fritter it away in the drawing room. We’ll make your excuses.”

Thomas didn’t wait for more; he turned and strode for the stairs.

* * *

Lucilla wasn’t sure whether Thomas’s leg was truly troubling him, or if his retreat signaled something else.

What else? was the question.

On learning that he’d retired, she dallied for just long enough to take tea—only waiting until then because she didn’t want to appear so needy before her family—then she excused herself and made for the stairs. She was walking briskly toward Thomas’s door, intending to go in and inquire about his health, when that lurking, uncertain part of her reached out and hauled on her reins.

She halted and stared at the door.

What was she doing?

He’d retreated—retired—and immediately she was running after him.

They were partners, yes, but what did that mean?

And regardless of what it might come to mean, what did it mean now? Tonight?

If his leg was troubling him, if he had exhausted himself riding down from Glasgow, she should leave him to recover; they had the rest of their lives to grow closer and spend their nights together—she shouldn’t be so needy as to demand even this one.

And if this was some sort of convoluted ploy?

She didn’t think it was—didn’t see him playing those sorts of games—yet he had made it plain what he thought of her manipulation. Would he, perhaps, stoop to using the same, just to see if he could? If she would respond to him tugging on her heartstrings?

Whether she believed that or not, that scenario, too, suggested that the last thing she should do was go to him.

She wanted to go to him, wanted to lose herself in his arms so they could find their way back to what they’d had; until they did that—at least that—the lurking unease inside her, a lack of confidence she’d never before known, wouldn’t leave her.

Life had been so much easier when she’d always been sure.

She sighed. She was
dithering
. For a second, she closed her eyes, feeling that uncertainty still wrapped about her heart, seeping into her soul, then she opened her eyes and forced her feet away from his door.

She climbed the turret stairs. Eyes cast down, absorbed with her thoughts, she opened the door to her room, went in, turned, and shut the door, then swung back and took two steps into the room.

And noticed the unusual brightness of the lamplight. Slowing, she blinked, raised her head—and saw Thomas sprawled in her bed.

He didn’t appear to be wearing a stitch.

Her steps faltered; she nearly tripped over her toes before she halted.

Her eyes grew round, then rounder; her mouth dried.

He was lying against her pillows, his magnificent chest fully on display. One powerful arm was bent, that hand behind his head; his other arm lay invitingly relaxed on the sheets beside him.

Beyond her control, her gaze—which had been absorbed in tracing every last line of his powerful shoulders and upper chest—tracked down, over the hollow in the center of his chest—the one she loved to set her lips to—and down, over the muscled ridges of his abdomen to his narrow waist…the sheet was draped across his hips, but so low…as she looked, the sheet shifted.

She jerked her gaze back to his face. And registered how warm she’d grown. This was ridiculous. They’d been intimate how many times?

But she hadn’t seen him like this before—this naked, this exposed.

This much hers.

She understood the declaration. He’d said he was hers, and here he was, in her bed, with not so much as his sleeping trousers to shield him from her.

And he’d taken steps to ensure that she could see; he’d moved the lamps so they surrounded the bed and flooded the interior of the four-postered expanse with soft, golden light.

She looked, saw, and her mind blanked.

He was patently, blatantly, waiting for her.

“Ah…” And, yes, she was speechless. What could she possibly say—to this?

He didn’t seem to have the same problem. “I wondered how long you’d be.” His eyes held hers, golden fire smoldering in the amber. Then he raised his hand and gently beckoned. “Come here.”

Not an order, a suggestion.

One she followed.

Instinct took over; she could almost see the threads of what linked them glimmering in the air between him and her.

She reached the bed, raised her skirts, and set one knee on the edge of the mattress. She extended an arm, placed her hand in his, and let him grasp and pull her up. On her knees, she shuffled closer, still upright. Still gripping his hand, still lost in his eyes, held by them and the promise—the future—she saw burning brightly in their depths.

This
was what she wanted, what she needed.

Him. All of him.

She let go of all restraint and let him lead her on—let the power that held them swell, coalesce, and take control.

Leaning down, curling her fingers in his and using his grip for balance, she framed his face with her free hand and kissed him.

Opened her mouth and, when he responded, drew him in.

Their fingers eased; they drew their hands apart only to place them on each other. To relearn the curves, the hollows. To reacquaint their senses with the delight each brought the other; to taste and breathe each other in—until their hearts beat in time and the familiar urgency rose within them.

Passion shivered around them, all but tangible as—together, piece by slow piece—they shed her clothes. As, together, to an unhurried and deliberate beat, they knowingly and willingly surrendered and slid deeper into love’s embrace.

Even if he wouldn’t yet acknowledge the affliction, he had already admitted openly to having every symptom.

And that, she acknowledged, as she rose up and—her skin afire, her nerves thrumming with desire—sank down and took him in, sheathed him in her body, held him deep, and pleasured them both, was enough. Enough from someone who had been so very afraid of loving at all.

The lamplight played over his skin and hers, allowing neither of them any shadows in which to hide any part of what they now were, of what together they could be.

And together they reached for that, strove for that moment of elemental joining.

They touched the glory and came apart, shattering, then shuddering as ecstasy claimed them.

Gasping, barely able to breathe, they sank into each other, and with nothing any longer held back, with every last barrier breached and cindered, with their fingers locked, their hearts in rhythm, and their souls entwined, together they reached…and let incandescent love, honored and accepted, fill them, fuse them, and forge them, finally, into one.

* * *

Thomas eventually stirred. He wanted nothing more than to lie exactly where he was forever, but the lamps were still burning.

On a long, almost silent sigh, he gently eased her from him.

Immediately, her fingers clutched, sinking into his sides, and she raised her tousled head.

“
Sssh
. I’m only going to turn down the lamps.”

Huge green eyes, still utterly dazed with spent passion, blinked at him, twice, then she eased her grip and let him slide from the bed, but shifting onto her back, she continued to watch him as he circled the bed, turning down the wicks.