The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (49 page)

Like Niniver, Thomas was studying Nolan as he interacted with other local landowners.

After a moment, Thomas stirred. He looked down and caught Niniver’s gaze. “If you and the clan need help, know you have only to ask.”

Lucilla added her voice in support of that offer, as did Richard and Catriona, who had joined them in time to hear it.

As did Marcus.

Niniver cast them all a small, grave smile, at the last glancing rather shyly at Marcus, then she ducked her head. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” Raising her head, she looked across the lawn, then drew in a deeper breath. “And now, if you will excuse me, I should join the others. No doubt they’ll soon be wanting to return home.”

With murmurs of farewell, they let her go. As Thomas, Lucilla, and his parents moved on to speak with others, Marcus hung back, watching Niniver as she found Norris in the crowd, linked her arm with his, and drew him to join Nolan. But Nolan she didn’t touch, not even his sleeve; it seemed to Marcus that there was a schism there, between Niniver and Norris on the one hand, and Nolan on the other.

It had been agreed—in the vague way that consensus among the families of the district was usually reached—that given the nature of Manachan’s death, his wake should be private, restricted to the clan. Feelings within the clan were unsettled and potentially difficult; best that the clan as a whole had a chance to get together and come to a consensus of their own, literally in the wake of Manachan’s passing, when his steadying influence was still fresh. No one in the district wanted to see the Carricks riven by factional disputes.

Watching Niniver, and studying Norris, and even more Nolan, most especially how Nolan seemed to struggle to find his social feet with the others of the district—and how his expression blanked and he all but withdrew when faced with members of his own clan—Marcus had to wonder, as, from her earlier repetition of Sean’s words, he suspected Niniver was wondering, too, just how Nolan would shape up.

And what would happen if he didn’t.

* * *

Four weeks later, Marcus took a small pack of his dogs out hunting.

Although he carried his gun, he wasn’t truly intent on bringing down any game; the excursion was merely an excuse to go walking in the peace and soothing silence of the forests.

With his twin married, things were changing in the Vale. Thomas was working diligently alongside Richard, learning all the details of how the estate was run. Although until Lucilla’s marriage, Marcus had stood as his father’s second in all things, from the moment of his birth, he and everyone else had known that the future management of the Vale was not a role that would ultimately fall to him.

And he didn’t begrudge Thomas the role now; indeed, he was quietly amused by how single-mindedly his new brother-in-law was throwing himself into it—into learning and understanding all and everything about it.

When Richard finally passed on the reins, the Vale would be in good hands.

That change, however, had left Marcus essentially roleless—without any defined purpose to his life.

And that, he had discovered, didn’t suit him—any more than such an existence would have suited his twin, Thomas, his parents, or any other of his kin.

He now recognized the driving need to have a role, a defined purpose, as a deep-seated trait that made Cynsters, and all like them, what they were.

He’d talked to his mother and he’d talked to Lucilla—not that he’d actually had to find many words for her; she’d understood why he’d come to her before he’d opened his mouth. Both she and his mother had “looked,” each in their own way—Catriona by scrying, Lucilla simply by closing her eyes and consulting—but neither had been able to shed any light on his fated future beyond the facts that it lay, if not in the Vale then close by, somewhere within the Lady’s lands, and that his time to claim it was not yet.

Not yet. And, courtesy of Lucilla’s discoveries, they now knew that “the Lady’s lands” extended far further than they’d previously thought.

So in reality, he didn’t know anything beyond the fact that he did, indeed, have a fated future—some role the Lady intended him to fill, presumably needed him to fill—and that it wasn’t about to find him yet.

In lieu of stepping into that role any time soon, he’d spent the last few weeks thinking, and had devised an interim plan. If he didn’t have some challenge to sink his teeth into, he would go insane; when he’d explained his idea to his father, Richard had understood and had wholeheartedly agreed.

So they were in the process of buying the old Hennessy estate. It lay to the north of Carsphairn village, but on the opposite side of the main road. The estate was mostly gently rolling hills, and in the past had carried good flocks of sheep, but old man Hennessey had gradually let his flocks, and his staff, dwindle. He’d been living as a recluse for the last ten years, hiding in the old farmhouse at the center of the estate.

Richard knew the old man; he’d also known where the Hennessey children were to be found. He’d made the family as a whole a very good offer, and after much internal discussion, they’d accepted.

Soon, the old Hennessey place would be Marcus’s. He would have a place to call his own, a place to
make
his own, where he could house and continue to breed his deerhounds, and indulge in his other passion—making sheep-farming more profitable. In the latter enterprise, he already had a very useful potential partner-in-experimentation in Thomas, who through his firm, Carrick Enterprises, also had the contacts and links to better match production and supply to the most profitable demand.

They’d already drawn Thomas’s cousin Humphrey, who had stepped into Thomas’s previous role in Glasgow, into their discussions.

As he paced through the cool quiet of the forests cloaking the eastern slopes of the Rhinns of Kells, Marcus looked inside, and sensed that the tremors that had rippled through the bedrock of his life over the last month or so were finally subsiding.

He wasn’t like his twin; he didn’t have her connection to the Lady. Only when he was outside, tramping over Her land and embraced by it, did he have any sense of Her presence.

Today, he sensed that all was well, and that all would be well. His interim plan was well chosen.

The impression he received was that She approved.

Deep inside, he found that comforting. He rarely lacked for confidence; that was a trait he’d been born with in abundance, and his family and its standing had only further fostered it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t question, didn’t ask himself those most important questions in life. Such as what was he doing there, and what did he want to achieve? What would he leave for future generations? What would his name mean to them?

The same fundamental questions he felt sure everyone asked of themselves at some point. That said, he suspected that, when facing such questions, those born with supreme confidence suffered from commensurately deeper uncertainty, simply because the doubts generated by those natural and unavoidable questions grated so very powerfully against their innate assurance, undermining something they normally took for granted.

The dogs rambled to either side of him. Halting in a deeply shadowed clearing, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs—and finally felt anchored again.

On the right path—a new path, but the right one for him, at least at this time.

Confidence fully restored, he smiled and opened his eyes.

Just as the dogs to his far right alerted.

But not in any way that signaled game. He’d brought six dogs out; all drifted to the same point, all looking, heads up, ears pricked.

Tails slowly wagging.

Then the lead dog—an experienced bitch—looked back at him, tail waving more definitely. Asking for permission to go forward.

He walked across the forest floor, his steps muted by the thick mat of fallen needles. Joining the dogs, he looked ahead but could see nothing to account for the dogs’ behavior. But he couldn’t see all that far; the trees grew more thickly in that direction, and the staggered boles largely blocked his view.

Murmuring to the dogs to stay close, at heel, he started forward.

The bitch kept pace with him; he took his direction from the angle of her snout.

Whatever lay ahead, it was something the dogs were interested in.

The thick band of trees ended a few yards from the edge of an escarpment. He stepped free of the shadows—and saw another, larger pack of deerhounds scrambling to their feet. They’d been napping in the sunshine around a wide, flat-topped rock on which a lone figure sat, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them, staring out over the Carrick estate.

The movement of her dogs brought Niniver’s head around.

He’d halted, halting his dogs as soon as hers had reacted.

Meeting Niniver’s eyes across the narrow strip of clear ground between the forest and the cliff’s edge, he waved at his dogs, then at hers. Both packs—hers was the larger by several animals—were alert, but holding still, waiting for some indication of whether the other group was friend or foe.

He arched a brow. “All right?”

She smiled slightly and nodded. She said something to her dogs—he thought it was “friends”—and the pack stood down.

He used the same word to his dogs, then walked forward.

His dogs ranged at his sides, and then the two packs were weaving together, snuffling and snorting and getting acquainted.

Reaching the stone on which Niniver sat, he looked out at the vista. “How are things going with the Carricks?”

She returned her gaze to the view, which, as far as he could tell, took in the bulk of the Carrick lands. “Well enough, I suppose. Nolan is running things—indeed, he’s so quickly picked up the reins that Norris and I suspect that, while Nigel might have been making the decisions, it was actually Nolan implementing them, handling the day-to-day management through the months since Papa gave it up.” She paused, her eyes on the fields, then went on, “So Nolan is trying, but he’ll never be Papa—those shoes are far too big for him to fill. That said, he’s a lot less…insufferably arrogant than Nigel was. So Nolan is, one might say, easier to swallow than Nigel was, but the clan is still withholding judgment. No one is yet convinced that Nolan will be able to hold the clan together.”

A formal inquest had been held into her father’s death, as a result of which her brother Nigel had been charged in absentia with patricide. Yet despite all the efforts of the authorities and the clan, no trace of Nigel had yet been found. Many now believed he had fled the country, possibly taking ship for the Americas.

That left Nolan Carrick as the laird-elect.

Marcus debated asking Niniver what she thought would occur if Nolan was rejected by the clan. That could happen; the clan could elect a different laird, and the Carrick family could be forced to transfer the clan assets they controlled—namely the estate—to the new laird and his family. Marcus didn’t know where that would leave Niniver and her brothers.

Not that he cared all that much about her brothers.

He shifted. “If you ever need help, remember that you can always call on us—on Thomas and Lucilla, my parents, and on me.” When she turned her head and looked up at him, he caught her gaze. “If you are ever in need, please don’t hesitate—just ask and we’ll help.”

When Thomas had said much the same thing on the day of Manachan’s funeral, Niniver had replied politely, but noncommittally,
I’ll keep that in mind.
Marcus could still hear her voice saying the words, but even more clearly had he heard—still could hear—the dismissal running beneath her tone; she’d had no intention of taking them up on their offer.

So he made it again, because he sensed it was important—important to her, and possibly to him.

She studied his face; her own expression was free of any guile, but she wore a faintly grave, slightly concerned air that seemed something of a hallmark.

Then, as if she, too, understood that this offer merited a different response, she dipped her head. “Thank you.” She looked back out over what, in terms of her concern, she no doubt saw as her domain. “I’ll remember your words. One never can tell—one day, I might hold you to them.”

He tried to think of some reply, but no words came to mind, so he let the silence stretch.

Looking down at her as she gazed out over her family’s lands, he was filled with an awareness of her focus and absorption—and a rising restlessness of his own.

Responding to the latter, he stirred, then whistled to his dogs. Glancing at Niniver, he caught her gaze. “I’ll leave you to your cogitations.”

Instead of reacting to the faint reproach in his tone, with a regal graciousness to rival Lucilla’s, she inclined her head. “Thank you. Goodbye.”

He echoed the farewell, then, with the dogs gamboling about him, he walked on.

He passed into the shadows beneath the trees, then paused and looked back.

Niniver sat looking out, exactly as she had been when he’d arrived—a lone figure brooding on the welfare of her clan.

He took a moment to set the sight in his mind, then he turned and strode on.

Niniver listened to his footfalls fade away. She waited until she was sure he’d passed beyond her sight before, unable to stop herself, she glanced in the direction in which he’d gone.

She wasn’t Lady-touched as he, his sister, and his mother were, yet…

How much was divine inspiration, how much simple understanding?

She looked back at the pastures and the coppices spread before her. Let her gaze rove across the distant fields, now ploughed and finally planted. There was so much that was wrong, yet so much that was right—that was still good and worth fighting for.

She hadn’t expected to be one of those fighting, or at least not the one leading the way, but she’d made a silent vow over her father’s grave that she would do all she could—everything she could—to preserve the clan and the Carrick family’s honor. And she could already see—predict—where this was heading, which road the Carricks and their clan were stumbling, all but drunkenly, and apparently irresistibly and irreversibly, down.