The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  Refocusing on the problems immediately before him—those facing the clan and the lairdship—he recaptured Manachan’s gaze. “I received a letter from Bradshaw, and also one from Forrester, saying there were problems with the supply of seed stock for the season’s plantings. They wanted me to intercede with you about the matter.”

  Manachan frowned, the expression starting in his eyes and slowly transforming his face. “Seed supply? But….” His gaze grew puzzled, then Manachan glanced at Edgar. “What’s the date?”

  The request was rapped out—still weak, but the tone more like that of the Manachan Thomas knew. Clearly, that man lay inside somewhere.

  “April twentieth,” Edgar promptly supplied.

  Manachan’s gaze swung back to Thomas. “The crops should already have been planted, shouldn’t they? Or at least be about to go in?”

  Thomas nodded. “But there’s been no seed supplied, at least not to the farmers on the northern farms—and, I suspect, not to any in the clan.”

  Still puzzled, Manachan’s gaze turned inward. “There must be some delay…or something.” Refocusing on Thomas, he said, “Ask Nigel—he’ll know.”

  “Nigel and Nolan are in Ayr, and have been for the last few days. They were in Glasgow before that—I don’t know for how long.”

  That that was news to Manachan was clear. His frown returned, darker and more definite.

  “And now,” Thomas said, freeing his hand from Manachan’s and rising, “the Bradshaws have fallen ill. Seriously ill. The whole family.”

  “What?” Manachan stared at Thomas, then glanced questioningly—almost accusingly—at Edgar.

  Edgar folded his hands and piously intoned, “We were ordered not to bother you with any disturbing news.”

  “The devil you were.” Manachan’s tone boded ill for whoever had given that order. He didn’t say anything for several moments, then he looked at Thomas. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Bradshaws’ farm.”

  “Good. Go and find out what the deuce is going on. Take Joy, our healer, with you.”

  “She’s already there—the Forresters sent for her and she went last night.”

  “At least someone’s thinking,” Manachan muttered. After a moment, he looked up at Thomas from under his shaggy brows. “Go and be my eyes and ears, boy. See what you can learn—not just about what’s stricken the Bradshaws, but about this business of the seed supply. As Nigel’s not here to ask, he can’t be surprised if we ask others for information.”

  Thomas nodded, but the comment disturbed him, suggesting as it did that, even in Manachan’s mind, all responsibility for the estate now rested with Nigel. It was one thing for Nigel to be acting in Manachan’s stead, but Thomas hadn’t imagined that Manachan had abdicated his role so completely, to the extent of thinking to be careful about stepping on Nigel’s toes.

  Then again, Thomas hadn’t known how weak Manachan had grown. Perhaps the change had been necessary.

  Regardless… He stepped back from the bed. “I’ll come and report when I get back.”

  He waited for Manachan’s nod, then turned and strode for the door. Closing it quietly behind him, he paused, puzzled by the changes and wondering again just what was going on, then he shook aside the distraction and went down the stairs.

  After collecting his greatcoat from Ferguson, who confirmed that they still hadn’t located Faith Burns, Thomas strode out of the house and back into the stable yard.

  Mitch had Phantom waiting in the aisle of the stable. “Thought he may as well stand in the warm.”

  Thomas smiled his thanks.

  As he mounted, Mitch added, “Sean’s off to the Wattses to see if they know anything of Faith. Odd, that—she’s no giddy girl to go waltzing off anywhere, and, really, whereabouts around here is there anywhere to go?”

  Thomas grimaced and nodded; it was a pertinent point. But how did a maid simply disappear? “If anyone needs to know, I’m off to the Bradshaws’—with the laird’s blessing.”

  Mitch nodded. “Good thing, too. Hope Joy’s got them well again. We’ll be waiting to hear.”

  Thomas walked Phantom out into the yard. The sun had dipped behind the Rhinns of Kells, and the light was already waning. “I doubt I’ll be back before full dark.”

  “Aye, but we’ll keep an eye out, any case.”

  Thomas tipped his head, then tapped his heels to Phantom’s sleek sides. The big gray shifted smoothly into a trot, then into a canter. Once out of the stable yard, Thomas turned the gelding to the north and eased the reins.

  * * *

  The Bradshaws’ farmhouse lay along the northern boundaries of the Carrick estate, where the country was less hilly and the fields more open. As he rode in that direction, Thomas noted that many fields lay fallow; some were partially tilled, but none bore the neater regimentation of planted rows. The estate primarily ran sheep, with a small herd of cattle and two small goat herds; only a handful of farmers had fields useful for grain, most of which went to supplying the clan’s needs through the rest of the year.

  With the fields not yet planted, the concern of the farmers over not having a sufficient crop—of having only a single crop that year instead of their usual two—appeared, to Thomas, to be justified; as far as he recalled, year to year, the clan used most of the grain produced on the estate.

  The shadows were lengthening when he rode up the slight rise to the front of the Bradshaws’ long stone farmhouse. As the temperature had also started to fall, he was surprised to see the front door left ajar.

  A glance confirmed that no hint of smoke was wafting from the chimneys—which seemed decidedly odd. It was late April, and while winter had lost its grip, warmer days, let alone evenings, were some way off.

  He dismounted and tied Phantom’s reins to one of the rings set in a post to one side of the door, then walked to the doorway and looked in. The light from the open door reached only so far, and the windows were fully curtained and no lamp had been lit; he couldn’t see deeper into the shadows wreathing the long room, but regardless, he saw no one, and no one stirred. He couldn’t hear anyone, either; silence, undisturbed, enveloped the house.

  He raised a hand and rapped on the wooden door frame. “Hello? Bradshaw?”

  The eerie silence stretched, but then a creak followed by a weak shout came from deeper in the house.

  Thomas stepped across the threshold. Leaving the door open, he strode through the main room, beneath an archway, and into a long corridor; the shout had come from that direction.

  The first door he came to stood ajar. He pushed it open and found himself looking into the Bradshaws’ bedroom. Mrs. Bradshaw lay curled and slumped in an armchair by the cold fireplace. She looked dreadful, her face a ghastly hue, her graying hair bedraggled and coming loose. She was fully dressed but didn’t stir at Thomas’s arrival; she was breathing through her mouth, and her breath came in shallow, barely there pants. A pool of half-dried vomit lay beside the armchair.

  Thomas’s gaze shifted to the bed. Bradshaw had fallen across it. He was also fully dressed but, like his wife, had curled up and looked haggard and drained. He, too, had emptied his stomach, apparently violently, beside the bed, and his skin was the same ghastly shade as his wife’s.

  Unlike her, Bradshaw was awake, but only just; as Thomas looked his way, Bradshaw tried to raise a hand in greeting—in supplication—but couldn’t.

  The action—and the helpless plea in the man’s wretched gaze—sank talons into Thomas’s soul. “Wait.” Rapidly defining what he most needed to know, he asked, “Where’s the healer? Did she reach here?”

  Bradshaw managed a fractional nod.

  Thomas frowned and glanced down the corridor. About to search further, he glanced back to see Bradshaw moisten his cracked lips.

  “She came…last night.” The words were a bare thread of sound. “Forresters were here…got her here.”

  Abandoning the doorway, Thomas strode to the bed. He swiftly surveyed the nightstand,
the dresser, but there was no water he could offer Bradshaw. Leaning closer, ignoring the stench, he concentrated on Bradshaw’s lips.

  Bradshaw seemed relieved he was nearer. He summoned the effort and croaked, “Joy came and saw us, then she looked in on the bairns. She put her head in to say…that she was going to make us something…heard her go to the kitchen…talk to Forrester.” Bradshaw closed his eyes. His lips, his features tightened. A soft moan escaped him as pain seemed to wrack his entire body.

  Helpless, Thomas watched.

  As the spasm eased, Bradshaw drew in a shuddering breath and whispered, “Joy never came back.”

  Thomas was no healer; he had only instinct to guide him. Placing a hand on Bradshaw’s meaty shoulder, Thomas gripped. “Rest. I’ll get help.” As he straightened, he murmured, “Hold on.”

  “The bairns…” Bradshaw moaned.

  “I’ll check on them.” Thomas turned and went to do so, not knowing what he might find.

  To his relief, while all five children were in similar straits to their parents, they were all alive.

  All showed signs of having been subject to violent, stomach-cramping pain; all five children lay listless, close to comatose, in their beds. Like their parents, all were dressed.

  The Forresters had found the family ill and had sent for the healer. Thomas couldn’t imagine the Forresters leaving their kin—not unless the healer had arrived and reassured them. Joy Burns must have believed she was capable of caring for the Bradshaws and making them well again. So she had arrived late last night, checked over the Bradshaws, understood what ailed them, and sent the Forresters home. All that had to have happened during the night.

  And Bradshaw hadn’t seen or heard from Joy since.

  It was now late the following day—nearly night again.

  So where was Joy?

  Leaving the room that was occupied by Bradshaw’s two sons, Thomas paused in the doorway to Bradshaw’s room to say, “I’m going to find Joy and sort out what’s going on. I’ll bring help as soon as I can.”

  Bradshaw managed an infinitesimal nod and closed his eyes again.

  Thomas went back into the farmhouse’s large main room—sitting room, dining room, and kitchen all in one, although the kitchen was partially walled off from the dining room. Through an archway, the huge fireplace used for cooking that filled the center of the far wall of the kitchen was visible, but there was no sign of any fire in that hearth, or in the nearer fireplace in the sitting area. There had been a fire burning there, but it had burned to cold ashes.

  A glance out of the open door confirmed dusk was steadily falling. No point opening the curtains. His eyes now adjusted to the dimness within, Thomas looked around and spotted a lamp sitting on the dining table. Skirting the sofa and armchairs, he walked to the table, picked up the lamp—and realized it was empty. By the look of the wick, the lamp had burned until it ran out of fuel.

  Setting the lamp back down, Thomas walked into the kitchen. There had to be matches and surely another lamp.

  Joy Burns lay curled on the stone floor.

  She looked even worse than her patients.

  Thomas swore. For a moment, he simply couldn’t think, then his brain started working again. Stepping around Joy, he crouched by her side. “Joy?”

  He lifted one of her hands. It was limp, without life.

  He touched her face; her skin was deathly cold. He patted her cheek lightly, then more firmly, but her lashes didn’t flicker. Her features didn’t shift.

  She was breathing, but so shallowly he could barely detect it. He couldn’t see any signs that she’d emptied her stomach, but the way she lay—arms and legs curled tight, her skirts tangled beneath her—suggested she’d been in extreme pain. He searched for a pulse at her throat; all he found was a thready tremor.

  The Bradshaws might be sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, but he’d known none of them, even the children, had been unconscious.

  Joy—the healer—was.

  The situation was bizarre.

  Also beyond serious. Eight lives—seven Bradshaws plus Joy—hung in the balance, and of them all, Joy seemed to have the most tenuous hold on life.

  Thomas had no ability to help any of them—not directly.

  Cursing softly, he levered his hands under Joy, praying that, unconscious as she was, he wasn’t causing her more pain. Straightening, he lifted her. She was a tallish, well-built woman, now a dead weight, but he managed to angle her through the kitchen archway and around the dining table.

  Gently, he laid her on the worn sofa before the cold hearth.

  Stepping back, he glanced at the grate, debated whether spending the time to get a fire going would be well spent—decided against it.

  His clansmen desperately needed help, and given their healer was among those struck down, he knew of only one place he could get that vital help from.

  * * *

  He rode hell for leather for the Vale, striking east to join the road near the village of Carsphairn, then thundering south before veering down the long drive that led to Casphairn Manor.

  It had been over ten years since he’d last ridden that way. Then, he’d trotted slowly, balancing two squirming deerhound puppies across his saddle. He’d given the pups—Artemis and Apollo—to Lucilla and her twin brother, Marcus. As the manor rose before him, he wondered if the dogs still lived.

  Pulling up immediately before the front steps, he swung out of the saddle. He released Phantom’s reins, knowing the horse wouldn’t stray, then climbed the steps and grasped the iron chain that connected with a bell somewhere inside; he tugged the chain and heard a distant clang.

  In less than a minute, footsteps approached, a measured tread, then the door opened, revealing the butler—the same one Thomas remembered from his last visit.

  The butler looked at Thomas and, somewhat to his surprise, smiled in recognition. “Mr. Carrick, isn’t it?”

  Unable to keep the grimness from his features, Thomas nodded. “I—my clan—need help. I’ve just come from the Bradshaws’ farmhouse to the north. The entire family—Bradshaw, his wife, and their five children—are all gravely ill and in pain.” Thomas had to pause to haul in a breath against the constriction banding his chest. “And our healer is there, too, but I think she’s dying. She’s unconscious, and I couldn’t revive her.”

  “Good gracious!” The butler was as shocked and as concerned as Thomas could have wished. “You’ll need Miss Lucilla, then.”

  Thomas managed not to frown. “I was hoping Algaria might come—or, if not her, then Lady Cynster.”

  The butler’s expression grew commiserating. “I’m afraid, sir, that Algaria passed on several years ago, and Lady Cynster is holidaying with Lord Richard on the Continent. It’s Miss Lucilla who is—so to speak—holding the fort, healer-wise. But I’m sure she’ll aid you—of course, she will.”

  Thomas knew she would, but… Jaw setting, he forced himself to nod. Clan trumped personal considerations. “Very well. If I could speak with her?”

  “Ah.” The butler grimaced. “She’s at the grove at the moment, but she should return very soon.”

  Having swallowed the necessity of having to appeal to Lucilla herself—of having to meet with her, look into her eyes, and hear her voice again—Thomas wasn’t inclined to further delay. “The grove?”

  “The sacred grove.” The butler waved to the north. “Where she prays to the Lady. Mr. Marcus is with her.”

  Looking in the direction the butler had indicated—on the way back to Carrick lands as the crows flew—Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Where exactly is this grove?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Lucilla had finished her devotions.

  The ancient trees of the grove—a dense mix of beech, spruce, fir, and birch—ringed the small clearing, enclosing her in a living shell of shifting green. Branches extended overhead, tips entwining to create an arched ceiling, cocooning all within from the wind—in effect, from the world.

  Opening her eye
s, she softly exhaled. Part prayer, part meditation, part simply communing with the land around her—and with the deity that claimed it as Her own—the quiet moments, as always, left her feeling anchored, more assured. More connected with the flow of life and with her own destiny, her own thread among the myriad strands.

  Moving slowly, ceremonially, she rocked back from the rectangular stone of the rustic altar before which she’d been kneeling; originally rough-hewn, but now worn smooth by the centuries, the unadorned rock was more symbol and practical support than anything else.

  She rose, feeling the skirts of her riding habit shift about her legs, and paused. Fingertips lightly brushing the smooth stone, for just one moment more she resisted the tug of the world beyond the grove; she knew what frustration awaited her there, yet it wasn’t something she could avoid.

  Avoiding life wasn’t in her lexicon, much less in her stars.

  Surrendering to the inevitable, she relaxed the meditative leash she’d imposed on her mind and allowed it to return—not to her duties in the Vale, to the role she filled, the tasks she confidently and capably performed, but to its abiding obsession. To brooding over her preordained fate, and when said fate would come to claim her.

  She’d been waiting for the past ten years.

  Along with her cousin Prudence and their best friend, Antonia Rawlings, she’d been presented to the ton nine years ago. As she’d fully expected, not one gentleman, eligible or otherwise, had caught her eye. But then she’d already known that her future did not lie south of the border but here, on the Lady’s lands.

  The man she was fated to marry was here, too—occasionally. She’d assumed that, over time, he would find his way to her side. Over the past decade, they’d met several times, and every time the connection—real, intense, and undeniable—had flared, growing stronger, more compelling, with each repeated exposure. And he knew it; he was as susceptible to that irresistible force, as governed by it, as she.