The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (46 page)

They finally found Manachan; he was standing at one corner of the lawn, leaning heavily against the stone wall and gripping two canes, both planted in the lawn to either side.

His hat was pulled low over his face, and a fine woolen scarf swathed his jaw, rising nearly to his beak of a nose.

When Lucilla and Thomas reached him, Manachan dipped his head as low as he could. “Congratulations to you both.” He straightened, and his piercing eyes, just visible in the shadow cast by his hat’s brim, lifted to Thomas’s face. “You’ve made me very proud, boy. Your father and mother would have been thrilled.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I did tell you to learn to think with your heart and not just your head.”

“You did, indeed.” Thomas dipped his head; although his uncle was swathed top to toe, with only a small section of his face visible, it was clear the earlier improvement in Manachan’s health hadn’t lasted. Lowering his voice, he asked, “How are you?”

Edgar was, as ever, at Manachan’s side. Thomas glanced at Edgar as he spoke—and was even more disturbed by the stony blankness in Edgar’s expression. Rather than meet Thomas’s gaze, Edgar stared straight ahead.

Manachan waved irritably. “I’m well enough—well enough to be here to see you wed.”

Lucilla’s eyes had narrowed on his face. “Which means you’re not as well as you should be.” She would have stepped closer and peered at Manachan’s face, examined his eyes, but he shifted one of his canes into her path, forestalling her.

“Never you mind about me. As I told all of my dear family”—Manachan flicked one of his canes toward Nigel and Nolan; having spotted Thomas and Lucilla speaking with Manachan, the pair had detached from the crowd and were approaching—“I will not be the black witch at your wedding.”

Nigel halted beside Thomas, his gaze on his father. “We tried to tell him you wouldn’t mind if he didn’t come, not given his ill health, but, of course, he wouldn’t listen.”

“I’m still The Carrick, boy,” Manachan growled. “You mind your manners—and have you wished Thomas and Lucilla well?”

Nigel’s lips tightened; turning to Thomas, he offered his hand. “Congratulations, cuz.”

Nolan followed Nigel; releasing Thomas’s hand, he bowed to Lucilla. “Miss—” Nolan paused, then amended, “Mrs. Carrick.” His brows rose and he glanced at Thomas. “I suppose that makes you a part of the clan, too.”

Lucilla smiled. “Indeed. And my new position gives me an even better right to treat the head of the Carrick clan, don’t you think?” She turned her green gaze on Manachan.

He held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “Tomorrow. You can come and see me tomorrow afternoon—both of you. But for my sake, promise me you’ll enjoy this day without a care—it’s your wedding day, and by the grace of God and the Lady, you’ll only ever have one.”

Even shadowed by his hat brim, even though he was physically weak and, it seemed, under some degree of strain, Manachan’s gaze was still strong; Thomas could feel its weight as it rested on him and Lucilla, demanding and compelling acceptance, obedience.

Inwardly sighing, Thomas inclined his head. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. We’ll call on you then.”

Manachan went to say something, but his breath caught in his chest. He half bent, wheezed—but when Thomas and Lucilla reached for him, he fended them off. “No—off you go. You’ve your other guests to see to.” He managed to breathe again. Straightening, he continued, “Now I’ve seen you and paid my respects, I’m going to head off home.” He looked at Lucilla. “If you see your parents, please give them my regards and my apologies for not dallying to speak with them.”

“Of course.” The look Lucilla threw Thomas was questioning.

He understood what she was asking, but Manachan patently did not want any fuss made.

Pride. He understood the emotion. And given that Manachan seemed even more infirm than he had been before, leaning heavily on Edgar as he pushed away from the wall and turned toward the gate, perhaps his pride was one thing they needed to acknowledge and support.

Closing his hand about Lucilla’s, he held her beside him as Manachan moved away. “Until tomorrow.”

Manachan gave a small tilt of his head and continued making his way very slowly toward the gate. Beyond it, Thomas could see his uncle’s carriage waiting in the lane. Two good-looking hacks were tied to the back.

His gaze on Manachan’s retreating back, Nigel paused beside Thomas. “We’ll follow the carriage home.” Nigel turned away, and Thomas followed his gaze to Norris.

Manachan’s youngest son had held back, hovering on the edge of the crowd. He dipped his head to Thomas and Lucilla and murmured his congratulations.

“You’d better fetch Niniver.” Nigel’s tone was hard, as was the gaze he directed at Norris. “The pair of you should go in the carriage with Papa.”

Norris’s expression remained impassive, but he gave a slight nod. “I’ll get her.” He inclined his head again to Thomas and Lucilla, then turned and made his way into the crowd.

Lucilla glanced at Thomas, clearly wanting to follow—to question Niniver, the one person who might tell them more about Manachan’s condition.

Thomas agreed; he gripped her hand and, with brief nods to Nigel and Nolan, parted from them.

He and Lucilla started back through the crowd, following in Norris’s wake—but there were many who had not yet had a chance to speak with them and wish them well. They progressed by fits and starts. By the time they’d traveled far enough that Thomas could look over the heads, he searched along the wall where Niniver had been, then sighed. “She’s already gone.”

Lucilla looked up at him. He let her see his welling concern for Manachan; she read his eyes—and he saw the same anxiety reflected in hers. But then she sighed. Leaning closer, she squeezed his arm. “I think this is one of those times we have to accept that whatever will come, will come.”

He dipped his head and brushed his lips to her temple. “He did want us to enjoy our day.”

“Indeed.” With a brisk nod, she straightened. “So that’s one thing we can do for him—we can honor his wish.” Settling her arm again in his, she turned him to the next group waiting to speak with them. “And tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’m going to ask Mama and Papa to come with us.”

Thomas thought that an excellent idea.

Leaving dealing with tomorrow for tomorrow, he joined with his new wife in honoring his uncle’s wish; thereafter, they devoted themselves to enjoying their day, on every level and in every way.

* * *

The wedding breakfast proved a riotous event. Speeches were declared the order of the day, and they were many and varied, from the sincere to the hilarious, delivered by a host of characters ranging from Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, to Christopher Cynster.

Even Quentin, Winifred, and Humphrey joined in, along with several of Thomas’s old school friends.

And from noon until late in the afternoon, the feasting rolled on.

Later, after waving away all those returning to their homes, the contingent who were staying at least until the next day adjourned to the drawing room, the library, the Great Hall, the large schoolroom, or Carter’s attic studio, as their ages, genders, and inclinations disposed them.

Thomas and Lucilla ended lolling on a sofa at one end of the long library, surrounded by their Cynster peers, along with Antonia Rawlings, who had claimed a small love seat facing the sofa. Sebastian lay sprawled in an armchair, Marcus in another, while Prudence had curled on the other end of the sofa. Michael and Christopher had elected to lie on their backs on the floor, all but filling the space between sofa and armchairs.

“So,” Sebastian murmured, his gaze traveling the group, “who’s going to be next?”

Eyes closed, Michael replied, “Not you.”

Everyone laughed, but none of them volunteered any further reply.

Antonia asked whether Thomas and Lucilla had any plans for coming south that year, and the talk, desultory as it was, moved on.

Thomas listened and learned; he’d never been a part of a family such as the Cynsters, yet in the same way he had so quickly felt at ease with Marcus, so, too, he felt surprisingly relaxed with and accepted by this group—those closest to Lucilla, her particular circle within the larger family.

And while family was very like clan, in this particular family, while the similarities were there, it still wasn’t quite the same. He finally decided it was because clan was so hierarchical, with so much power vested in the head of the clan, while the Cynsters were a family of powerful individuals, linked by blood and heritage, yet each strong and capable in their own right—the combined strength of the Cynsters would outweigh that of any simple clan.

And, if anything, they worked together and looked out for each other even more than clansmen did.

In proof of that, a few hours later, Marcus, Prudence, and Antonia arranged a diversion that allowed Thomas and Lucilla to escape all further imminent teasing and retire.

Laughing, her hand gripping his, Lucilla rushed up the turret stairs. She hauled him into their room and slammed and bolted the door.

Laughing, too, he fell back with his shoulders against the door. He tipped his head at the bolt. “Is that really necessary?”

“Oh, yes.” Lucilla’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. “You don’t yet know my cousins. Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher are bad enough, although I expect self-preservation will exert at least some tempering influence on them, but the younger ones?” Smiling fondly, she shook her head. “Trust me—we’ll need to exercise great caution when we walk out of that door in the morning.”

He studied her—the light dancing in her emerald eyes, the glow happiness had laid over her skin, the rumpled glory of her hair. Earlier, she’d changed out of her delicate bridal gown into a simple round gown—which was just as well; given the emotions rising within him, he doubted he would have been able to manage the lace without ripping it.

She was studying him, too.

Lucilla drank in the reality that was now acknowledged to be hers—her husband. His strength, as always, was blatantly on display in his shoulders and chest, the thews of his arms and thighs. Her gaze swept over him, noting the thick fall of his hair that would feel like silk as she raked her fingers through it, and the telltale tenting of his trousers.

Passion shimmered in the air, now so potent and powerful between them.

She raised her gaze to his face, took in the golden embers smoldering in the amber of his eyes.

His lids were low; he was watching her with the calculation of a lion eyeing its next meal.

A giggle bubbled up.

Another joined it, and she laughed, whirled, picked up her skirts, and raced for the bed.

He caught her before she reached it.

Thomas swept her up in his arms and tumbled them both onto the bed.

Onto her silk comforter, into the softness.

They fell on each other with hands, lips, and tongues. Clothes flew, then they fell into each other, joined and whirled each other on, into and through the heady dance of their passions.

Of their needs and desires, fueled by their yearnings and their hopes and dreams for now and the future.

All swirled about them in the confines of her bed.

And that night, they grabbed all—gave and took and seized
everything
.

Every last nuance, every last gasp of ecstasy.

“I love you.”

“Never leave me.”

“You’re mine and I’m yours.”

“I’m yours until I die.”

The words fell from their lips—from her, from him—breathed at the last with knowledge and acceptance. With a reverence, a devotion, nothing could hide.

Between them, they no longer hid anything; no screen or veil was able to hide her heart from him, much less his from her.

They were ruled by a togetherness that sank deep, abiding and binding.

This they had; it would be theirs, come what may.

Ecstasy raked them, shattered, then remade them.

Separate no more.

Sated and satisfied, certain at last and buoyed beyond belief, they slumped into each other’s arms, and let their future have them.

* * *

Lucilla woke before dawn and knew what she had to do. Turning over in her bed, she rose on one elbow and leaned over Thomas. He was still asleep, held deep, his heavy body more relaxed than she’d ever seen it.

Framing his face, she kissed him, woke him.

Drew him down the long slow road that was now theirs to travel. To enjoy these sweet minutes that were solely theirs, to glory in the pleasure of their love.

She didn’t need to hear him claim the emotion; it lived in his heart, in his mind, his soul, and nothing, she felt certain, would ever mute it, much less cause it to fade.

Later, eminently pleased with this way of waking up, she lay boneless over his chest and listened to his heart thud.

When the beat had slowed sufficiently, she raised her head and looked into his eyes.

At her movement, he’d raised his lids. From beneath his lashes, he searched her face. “What?”

“I should go—I need to go—to the sacred grove.”

“To pray?”

When she nodded, he lightly shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs of sleep away. “What does it say that such a manic idea actually makes sense to me now?”

She was starting to love the way he made her laugh—usually at the most unexpected times. Growing serious again, she looked into his eyes. Held his gaze. “It’s tradition for the Lady of the Vale—or in my case, the Lady-in-waiting—to introduce her consort to the Lady in the grove. It’s also tradition—one my father keeps to this day—for a consort to keep watch over his lady while she prays.” She hoped he would want to do the same, but she wasn’t sure. “Will you come?”

“Of course.” He sat up, tumbling her from her position across his chest. “By keeping watch, you mean like Marcus was doing that day I came to plead with you to help the Bradshaws?”

Climbing from the bed, she nodded. “Just like that. It’s not as if there is any danger—it’s more symbolic.”

Thomas glanced at her lithe, naked figure as she walked to the washstand. Symbolic be damned. She was very real, and so was the protectiveness he felt—had always felt—for her. He tossed back the covers and rose. “I take it we’ll ride there.”