The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (45 page)

He’d left her windows uncurtained; faint moonlight guided him back to her.

Back to the soft arms that were waiting to wrap around him once more.

He lay down and, for an instant, closed his eyes—unable to imagine how he had ever thought to walk away from this.

From this indescribable wonder.

If he’d known that this was what true surrender felt like, he wouldn’t have fought it—not for an instant.

She settled half across him, her silky red head in the hollow of his shoulder, one hand splayed over his heart. Gently, he closed his arms around her, holding her there.

He debated, for a moment, if this was the right time—decided he wouldn’t find a better. He shifted his head and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Our wedding.” Various approaches ran through his mind. He settled for “How soon do you think we should marry?”

She huffed, her breath tickling his chest. In a questioning tone, she suggested, “Tomorrow?”

He grinned. “That would suit me, but I suspect your parents might have something to say to that.” He drew in a breath. “And I have to confess that I wasn’t so sure of my reception here that I stopped to get a special license. So unless you know a local bishop who might be prevailed upon to grant us one, I assume we’ll still need the usual three weeks…” He squinted down at her face, what he could see of it. “Or am I presuming and there’s some other form of ceremony here?”

She sighed. “I wish there was—I’m sure, if left to the Lady, the entire matter would be much simpler—but no. We need to get married in the church, just like everyone else, or it won’t be legal.”

He’d assumed as much. “So, when?”

“Sunday’s the day after tomorrow, so four weeks after that.” She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “That will please everyone—the family will have time to gather, which they will appreciate.” She glanced up and through the dimness met his eyes. Her lips curved. “And you’ll have time to get used to us all. We’re considered a fairly
robust
clan.”

He picked up the hand resting on his chest; holding her gaze, he raised it and pressed a kiss to her palm. “As long as you’re there, by my side, I’ll endeavor to endure and survive.”

Her smile grew pensive. She slipped her fingers free of his and traced the line of his cheek. “I know you will. We’re here, together, as we were always fated to be. You’re mine at last, and I’m yours.” She drew breath, then murmured, her voice dreamy, faraway, “And no matter the challenges, no matter the years, we will never turn from each other. Come what may, we will hold to each other, and we will never let each other go.”

The words rang softly through the night.

He closed his arms around her, she settled in his embrace, and finally, for both of them, everything felt right.

Those Fate had linked, no one and nothing would ever part.

Lover, consort, protector and defender—husband.

Thomas closed his eyes as the words rolled through his mind, echoed in his heart, then rumbled through his soul. He would always be hers. He would always be here, because this was his place—this was his destiny—now, tomorrow, and forevermore.

CHAPTER 17

Their marriage was formalized before the altar of the tiny church in Casphairn village.

The Cynsters turned out in strength; Thomas’s Glasgow relatives, several old friends, and all those on the Carrick estate helped balance things out somewhat.

The bride wore pearls and a gown of tiered lace; the bridegroom stood straight and tall, broad shoulders clad in regulation black. Everyone agreed they were quite the handsomest couple in the county.

A hush fell over the congregation, packed into every nook and cranny in the small stone church, as Thomas, then Lucilla, spoke their vows. When they shared a kiss and the organ swelled in a triumphal march, joy and happiness abounded.

After the church bells finally pealed and the bride and groom emerged to circulate and talk with the guests spread out on the lawns, every face wore a smile; Thomas’s shoulders were constantly being slapped, and Lucilla’s cheeks were rosy as relative followed friend in kissing her and wishing her and her handsome new husband well.

Standing at one corner of the church’s open porch, Catriona looked out over the throng and smiled.

“Happy?” Richard paused beside her, also casting his gaze over the heads.

“I’m very pleased,” Catriona admitted. “I confess I hadn’t expected quite so many to travel all the way from London.”

“Helena’s eldest granddaughter weds?” Richard snorted. “I’m surprised that more aren’t here, but I gather she put it about that only family were expected.”

“Still, when talking of Cynsters, ‘only family’ is now what? Well over a hundred?”

Richard twined his arm with his wife’s. “I haven’t counted recently, but it must be something like that. Now come along, Mother-of-the-Bride, and let’s greet our guests.”

Catriona laughed softly and let him draw her down to the lawns. Pausing to greet her cousin-in-law Angelica and her handsome Highland earl, Catriona glanced at Lucilla and Thomas and found them surrounded by what the Cynster parents referred to as “the older set.”

Sebastian, Marquess of Earith, was their leader; tall, with near-black hair and his father’s pale green eyes, he was already a commanding figure, a quality dependent not only on his stature, but even more on his personality. His brother, Michael, stood shoulder to shoulder beside Sebastian—which, in itself, said much. Alongside Michael, Christopher Cynster was holding the group’s attention by relating some story; he was a natural raconteur, yet Catriona sensed he used that art as a deflecting shield behind which dwelt a far more complex character. Marcus, of course, was one of the group, but aside from Lucilla, leaning on Thomas’s arm, the only female was Prudence, she of the curly blond-brown hair, blue eyes, and passion for all things equine.

Prudence, Catriona knew, entertained few thoughts of marriage, reasoning that horses were much more accommodating beasts.

Given the males Prudence had spent her life surrounded by, Catriona had to admit that, as far as it went, Prudence’s reasoning was sound. Cynster males, and those like them, were only as accommodating as a lady could persuade them to be.

Or, as usually happened, love persuaded them to be.

Catriona glanced at the Cynster by her side. They’d been married for nearly three decades, and the magic was still there, as was the love. For them, for all those like them, love was the great leveler between the sexes—the critical element required to make a marriage work.

As they moved on through the crowd, Catriona heard Lucilla laugh. She glanced across and saw her daughter look up at the man she had taken to her bed—the man that, Lady-chosen or not, Lucilla had brought to her side, and together they had bound themselves with love and passion.

They had the right foundation; Catriona had no doubt they would thrive.

Richard leaned close and whispered in her ear, “One down, four to go.”

Catriona smiled. “Time enough for the others. Today is all Lucilla and Thomas’s.”

And yet…through the crowd, Catriona glimpsed a head of pale blond ringlets at the far side of the lawn.

Niniver Carrick. Thomas’s cousin had given Thomas and Lucilla a female deerhound as a wedding gift; no one was quite sure where she had got the elegant brindle-coated animal, as most had thought the Carrick kennel sold and dispersed. Marcus, meanwhile, had given Thomas and Lucilla a male deerhound from the line he was breeding. There hadn’t been any collusion; the match was simply a happy coincidence.

In Catriona’s world, happy coincidences were often signs.

Thomas and Lucilla had, for reasons not even they could explain, wanted the deerhounds at the church. Niniver had offered to hold them. As Marcus had stood as one of Thomas’s groomsmen, the offer had been welcomed.

But that now left Niniver holding the young pups on leashes to one side of the lawn, out of the crush of the crowd, yet a potent magnet for every one of the many children, Cynster and local alike, who was there.

Niniver was a quiet, reclusive beauty. Catriona doubted that Niniver liked crowds, yet she was surrounded by a veritable army, all demanding and questioning…

Marcus must have realized the same thing. He arrived, and moving around to stand beside Niniver, he wisely made no move to take the leashes from her, but started to intercept the questions—and the children, both those who knew him and those who did not, responded to his presence and focused on him, allowing Niniver to breathe.

Even from a distance, Catriona could see the relief in Niniver, in the loosening of her muscles, in the lines of her face. In the grateful glance she threw Marcus, even though he didn’t notice.

Catriona watched for a minute more, then—satisfied that all was well on that front, too—moved on.

“But how fast can they run?” Eleven-year-old Persephone Cynster stood at the rear of the crowd of children and directed her question not at Marcus but at the blond goddess beside him. “Faster than a horse?”

“For a time.” Niniver looked down at the shaggy head she was stroking; the pups were fretting, wanting to run and leap—initially on all the nice friendly people in their Sunday best.

“They can run faster than horses for a short way.” Marcus stepped in before Persephone, with the unflinching confidence of her heritage, could further interrogate Niniver. “But they can’t keep that pace up for long—nowhere near as long as a horse can run.”

He could see that Persephone—intrigued by the fact that it was a girl who had control of the dogs—wanted to pursue Niniver, but Niniver was there, where he knew she truly didn’t want to be, partly because of him, and he wouldn’t have her badgered. Appealing with a look to several of the local boys, who were crouched as close as they could get to the dogs, he invited a question—and they obliged with alacrity. Most were, he noted, Carrick clansmen.

Given the interest shining in their eyes, he had to wonder from whom Niniver had got Eir, the female she’d given Thomas and Lucilla. Marcus would have sworn the hound was a purebred from the old Carrick line, and Thomas had mentioned that breeding was still going on somewhere on the Carrick estate—
he
hadn’t been surprised to see Niniver arrive at the door with the squirming bundle under her arm.

Thomas would know, or could guess, from whom she’d got the dog; Marcus made a mental note to pick his new brother-in-law’s brain.

He glanced over the crowd at his twin and her new husband and found himself grinning. He would ask, but maybe not tonight.

“No,” he replied to the next question. “Their coats are never flat and smooth.”

And, speaking of smooth, he gave thanks that, thus far, the crowd and the width of Thomas’s shoulders had blocked Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher from noticing where he’d gone. If any of the three sighted Niniver, they’d be over to lend a hand in a flash, but situated as they had been at the front of the church, they hadn’t known she was there, at the rear holding the dogs, and she’d come out ahead of the rest of the congregation. Thus far, she was safe.

While he knew none of his cousins would intentionally do anything to hurt or harm Niniver, he was also convinced that them not noticing her would be best all around for everyone.

He wasn’t sure how he would screen her from them at the wedding breakfast in the Great Hall, but he would worry about that later.

Right now, he had children to deflect, and Niniver to protect from their constant encroachment. He pointed to three little boys who’d been sidling nearer. “Back. We don’t want to startle the dogs.”

Or Niniver; she was jumpy enough as it was. He could all but feel her nervous tension.

He wished he could do something to ease it, but the best he could do was keep the children amused and that weight, at least, off her shoulders.

In the middle of the crowd, grasping the distraction created by Antonia Rawlings joining their group, Thomas dipped his head toward Lucilla’s. “Have you seen Manachan?”

She looked around. “No. And I have been looking.”

So had Thomas. After their engagement had been announced, he and Lucilla had wanted to call on Manachan, to confirm that his recovery was progressing and also to learn if he’d made any headway in identifying who had been behind the various incidents on the estate, but the day after their banns had first been read, Manachan had written, both to heartily congratulate them and to ask them to stay away.

He’d written that matters were tense within the clan, and he would appreciate it if they kept their distance at that time.

They had, of course, acceded to that request. Their lingering concerns had been somewhat allayed when Manachan had responded to the invitation to the wedding, both on behalf of the clan and of himself and his family, declaring that they would all be present.

But Manachan hadn’t come forward to take the position reserved for him at the end of the front pew. Thomas and Lucilla had both noticed the empty spot, but as yet they’d seen none of the Carrick family other than Niniver, who was presently engaged.

“I can’t imagine,” Lucilla said, “that after what he wrote, he wouldn’t have come. Perhaps he didn’t feel up to being swallowed by the crowd and stayed at the back of the church.”

Thomas nodded. If Manachan had stayed back, Nigel, Nolan, and Norris would have, too. Raising his head, he scanned the crowd. “Perhaps we should circulate and see if he’s by the edges somewhere.”

Lucilla squeezed his arm. “We should circulate anyway, but that’s an added incentive.”

Turning to her cousins and Antonia, she excused the pair of them, and they moved into the crowd.

A stone wall surrounded the church grounds, keeping the crowd tightly packed; the day was fine, if cool, and no one was in any great hurry to pile back into their coaches. For all those present, weddings were gatherings designed to catch up with family and friends; everyone was content to stand in the fresh air and chat.

Several chairs had been carried out from the church and set here and there. Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives—old and frail but with eyes that still saw everything—sat in one, commanding a small circle of attendants; Lucilla and Thomas had already paid their respects, so they didn’t pause there, but continued wending around the edges of the crowd.