The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

She’d schooled herself to patience, even though patience was not one of her primary virtues.

  And waited.

  Impatience was dangerous; it fed a reckless, willful part of her she had long ago learned to keep restrained.

  She’d continued to wait.

  Recently, she’d started wondering if waiting was her correct path—or whether, perhaps, she was supposed to act, to do something to initiate their inevitable union. While acting would certainly suit her temperament significantly more than passively waiting, every time she asked the question of the universe—of the Lady—the answer came back a resounding “no.”

  Wait. She was supposed to wait for him to come to her.

  If he didn’t hurry up, she would be in no good mood when he eventually got around to approaching her.

  They’d last met at the Hunt Ball two years ago. They had chatted and shared a waltz—and her heart had soared. That waltz. Those ineluctable moments and their implication had been impossible to mistake, to misconstrue. To ignore.

  After that night, she’d expected him to call any day. For the next month, she’d lived in a state of giddy anticipation.

  But he hadn’t come.

  More, he hadn’t set foot on the Lady’s lands since.

  A sound reached her—the shifting of a stone on the path leading into the grove.

  Her senses immediately focused. Even while her mind was telling her it was doubtless some animal or bird, her senses reached, found—and knew.

  Slowly, she turned.

  As if her thoughts had finally conjured him, he was standing ten feet away, where the crooked path leading to the grove opened into the clearing. Tradition held that only the Lady’s representatives and their consorts could enter Her grove—yet, as he was to be her consort…

  He looked…even more elementally hers than she recalled. An even more perfect construct of her desire. Dark hair, a brown so dark it appeared black in most lights, fell in fashionably cut waves about his well-shaped head. Arched dark brows framed eyes of a curious and compelling shade of golden amber, a complex, mesmerizing blend of pale hazel and gold. Sharp cheekbones rode above aesthetically austere cheeks, complementing a squared chin and finely drawn, mobile lips.

  She hadn’t forgotten his height—significantly greater than her own—or his physique, a riveting combination of muscles stretched over long, heavy bones; she had no difficulty imagining that his physical form had been created by the hand of some god in that god’s own image.

  He was a strikingly handsome man, but what most commanded the attention of any female was the ineffable aura of power that clung to him. That pervaded the very atmosphere around him.

  She was no less susceptible than any other woman—but she had power of her own.

  Noting that he was, somewhat curiously, dressed in clothes more appropriate for town, with a greatcoat thrown over all, she clasped her hands, drew in a breath, raised her chin high, and looked him in the eye. “Thomas Carrick.”

  She said nothing more. What more was there to say? She wasn’t about to fall into the same trap she had two years ago and assume his presence meant anything at all.

  Thomas held Lucilla’s emerald gaze. This was why he’d been avoiding her—that look, that unvoiced challenge.

  It was as if she, the female she was, had some direct link to all that was male in him—she only had to meet his eyes, and he felt as if she’d sunk talons into his psyche and tugged.

  She possessed—no, she embodied—a certain haughtiness, a highhandedness, an imperious feminine confidence that fascinated and drew him.

  It wasn’t anything so mundane as attraction. This struck much deeper, more forcefully, more enthrallingly.

  And that was on top of all the rest—all that made up her undeniable allure.

  Her head didn’t even reach his shoulder; she was petite, delicate, yet well rounded and womanly. Richly red, her fabulous hair was today caught in a knot at the back of her head, leaving soft, puffed waves framing her heart-shaped face. A redhead’s alabaster complexion was the perfect canvas for her startling eyes—brighter, more intense, than the green of the forests—and her lush rose-tinted lips, crafted by some angel’s hand.

  For a long moment, he simply looked at her—met that green gaze, felt the connection, visceral and so real—then he forced air into his lungs and tipped his head. “Miss Cynster.”

  At the formality, one of her brown brows arched.

  He seized the moment. “I arrived at Carrick Manor in response to a summons, and subsequently rode out to the Bradshaws’ farm—it’s on the northern edge of the estate.”

  Faint puzzlement blooming in her eyes, she nodded. “I know it, but not well. I’ve met the Bradshaws.”

  That made things easier. “They’re ill—very ill. Whatever struck them down happened, I think, the night before last. Others found them yesterday and sent for the clan’s healer. As far as I can make out, the healer arrived late last night, and the others left the Bradshaws in her care.” He paused, then simply said, “I arrived at the farmhouse less than an hour ago. I think the healer—Joy Burns—must have had some sort of seizure. I think she’s dying—she’s certainly very low. I don’t think she had time to treat the Bradshaws at all—they’re still very ill.”

  Lucilla blinked. “But they’re alive?”

  Lips tightening, he nodded. “For the moment.”

  “I’ll come.” The words were past Lucilla’s lips before she’d thought—not that she had to think, not in this. A summons such as Thomas had brought was her reason for being—at least for being the Lady’s representative in those lands.

  He eased out a breath. “Thank you. The clan doesn’t have another healer, at least not that I know of.”

  She shook her head. “No.” She looked around for her gloves, spotted them on a mossy rock by the altar. Bending, she picked them up. “Joy was training a younger woman, but I spoke with Joy a few months ago, and she said…Alice, I think the name was, wasn’t yet up to taking on the role in any independent way.”

  Pulling on her gloves, she walked toward Thomas, but her mind was already ranging ahead. “Joy would have taken all she needed, and I carry the essentials wherever I go, so there’s no reason I need to go back to the manor and fetch anything…” She halted beside Thomas and, surprised, reached with her senses…

  Abruptly, she looked at him. “What did you do to Marcus?”

  Thomas grimaced and gripped her elbow.

  She struggled to suppress her reaction to his touch. Even muted by the velvet of her riding jacket, it scorched.

  But her twin…was where she’d left him at the entrance to the path, but he wasn’t…aware. He wasn’t thinking.

  Thomas turned as if to follow the path out of the grove, but she stood her ground. And waited.

  She’d grown very good at waiting, thanks to him.

  His lips tightened, but—wisely—he didn’t attempt to physically urge her on. “My clansmen need your help urgently. Cynster—your brother—would have argued. Persuading him to let you ride north with me, even if he came, too, would have taken time.” He met her eyes. “Time Joy Burns and the Bradshaws may well not have.”

  She held his gaze. “So…?”

  “I tapped him on the head. Not too hard, but he’s unconscious.”

  She drew in a long breath, searched his eyes, then shook her head, twisted her elbow free of his hold, and started walking. “You do realize he’s never going to forgive you for that?” And as Marcus would be his brother-in-law eventually, “never” was going to be a very long time.

  Falling in beside her, Thomas shrugged. “If it means I get you to the Bradshaws in time to save them, I’ll live with his animosity.”

  The images—of Joy Burns lying on the kitchen floor, as still and as cold as death, and even more those of the Bradshaw children, wracked and weak in their beds—had filled his mind as he’d ridden away from Casphairn Manor. Realizing that Marcus, being with his sister, would almost certainly be standing
guard—almost certainly looking out over the Vale—Thomas had foreseen the inevitable argument and delay, and had acted to avoid both.

  He’d circled and reached the grove from higher ground. He’d left Phantom a short distance from where he’d spotted Marcus’s and Lucilla’s mounts, then quickly, but with a woodman’s caution, he’d made his way to where he’d guessed the grove had to be.

  Not far from the entrance to the path into the grove, Marcus had been sitting on a rock, looking out over the Vale; he’d been so deep in his own thoughts that Thomas had had no difficulty coming up behind him without Marcus realizing.

  One swift blow was all it had taken. He’d caught Marcus before he’d toppled and laid him carefully on the ground.

  Marcus was still there, exactly as Thomas had left him, when, beside Lucilla, Thomas stepped clear of the enclosed path.

  Lucilla halted and looked down at her twin, then she crouched and touched his cheek, his neck. Apparently satisfied, she reached into Marcus’s jacket pocket, rummaged, and drew out a small notebook and pencil. She opened the notebook, flicked to a blank page, and started writing.

  Thomas shifted, impatient to get on. The sense of urgency that had sent him racing to the Vale was escalating with every passing minute.

  “Trust me.” Lucilla’s words were clipped. “Neither you nor I want to leave him without an explanation.”

  Recalling the level—warning—look he’d received from Marcus the last time their paths had crossed—at the Hunt Ball—Thomas had to accept that she knew of what she spoke. Cynsters were not known for being understanding over territorial incursions, and knocking Marcus out and whisking his twin sister away was not going to endear him to Marcus.

  Thomas frowned. “Your parents are away, so he’s running the Vale.”

  Lucilla nodded. She glanced at the sky, which remained clear, then tucked the open notebook into her twin’s hand. Then she rose. “As long as he knows—from me—where I’ve gone, he won’t come after me. Not unless I send for him.”

  Thomas inwardly admitted that Marcus turning up unannounced was one encounter he was happy to know he wouldn’t have to face. He reached for Lucilla’s arm. “We need to get going.”

  Lucilla allowed him to keep a light grip on her arm as they made their way over the rough terrain to where she’d left her horse. A flighty but very fast black, the mare pricked up her ears as they approached. Lucilla untied her reins. “What’s the fastest route from here?”

  She asked the question to distract him—and herself—as she drew the mare around. She would have to allow him to lift her to her side-saddle; there was no other option.

  Steeling herself against his touch, she stood beside the mare and waited.

  Somewhat to her surprise, Thomas’s lips set, and he looked almost grim—almost as steeled against the moment as she. “North,” he replied, then he closed his hands about her waist and hoisted her up.

  He released her the instant she was stable, but the few seconds of contact, the sensation of being entirely within his control, had been every bit as riveting, as senses-stealing, as she’d expected.

  As exhilarating, as transfixing.

  Ostensibly busying herself settling her boots in her stirrups, from beneath lowered lashes, she watched him stride to a big gray that had been cropping the sparse grass a short distance away. She watched him grab the gray’s reins, then swing effortlessly up to the saddle, the movement drenched with male power and grace, and a certain sense of reined aggression.

  Realizing that she’d stopped breathing—that the moment had only set an edge to the need that, with him close once again, was rising within her—she drew in a tight breath, raised her head, lifted her reins, tapped her heel to the mare’s side, and trotted forward to join him.

  This might not be anything like the reunion she’d hoped for, but in the circumstances, she would take whatever situation the Lady handed her. And once she’d done her duty for those the Lady held within her care, she would turn the opportunity to her own purpose—to fulfilling her own very real need.

  Thomas was waiting, every bit as impatient as she. Without further words, they set out, riding as fast as safety allowed for the Bradshaws’ farm.

  * * *

  They rode up to the Bradshaws’ farmhouse as the last glimmer of daylight was fading from the western sky.

  Lucilla reined in before the farmhouse door, kicked free of her stirrups, and slid to the ground; she didn’t need the distraction of feeling Thomas’s hands close about her waist at that moment. Untying her saddlebag, she glanced at him.

  Already dismounted, he reached for the mare’s reins. “I’ll stable the horses. Joy’s on the sofa in the main room.”

  Lucilla nodded. Her saddlebag in one hand, she headed for the front door. Opening it, she paused, waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, then walked in.

  The Carrick healer was still lying on the sofa. There was no fire, no light, no warmth in the house. After setting her saddlebag on the table, Lucilla went into the kitchen, but the lamp she found was empty. The stove was cold, the fire in the kitchen hearth long gone to ashes. No candles lay in sight. Walking back into the main room, she scanned the furniture, the mantel—and saw a candle in a holder sitting beside a tinderbox.

  She made quick work of lighting the candle, then carried it to the sofa.

  Two minutes were enough for her to confirm that Joy Burns had passed beyond her ability to help. The healer was still alive, but barely, and she wasn’t long for the world.

  Lucilla straightened; she looked up as Thomas came inside and shut the door.

  “How is she?” He crossed to stand behind the sofa and looked down at Joy. His face hardened. “She hasn’t moved since I laid her there.”

  Lucilla hated to say the words, but she’d had to often enough to know the importance of simply saying them. “You thought she was dying, and you were right. There’s nothing I can do to help her. I’m sorry.” After a moment, she added, “As she hasn’t moved, I don’t think you could have done anything for her, even when you first found her.”

  His face had set, the lines harsh and unyielding; for a moment he said nothing, then he glanced up and met her eyes. Briefly, grimly, he nodded. “The Bradshaws?”

  “Pray they’re in better straits.” She lifted the candleholder from the small table beside the sofa and turned to the archway she assumed led to the bedrooms. “I’ll check on the youngest first—the little girl, isn’t it? Which room is she in?”

  He came around the sofa and pointed to an open door to the right of the corridor. “The three girls share that room. The two boys are in the end room, and Bradshaw and Mrs. Bradshaw are in the room to the left.”

  “I’ll examine them all—children, then the parents.” She walked into the corridor.

  Behind her, he said, “The lamps had burned down. I’ll see if I can find more lamp oil.”

  Without looking back, she nodded. “And if not that, see if you can find more candles. I—we—will need better light.”

  Pushing open the door to the girls’ room, she went inside.

  To her relief, the youngest girl, about seven years old, seemed to be recovering; she roused from what appeared to have been normal sleep when Lucilla laid a hand on her brow.

  Quickly reassuring the child, Lucilla checked on the older girls, about thirteen and fourteen. Both also roused, but were weaker, groggier, than their younger sister.

  But all would live; Lucilla was certain of that.

  It seemed odd that the youngest, and most lightweight, should be recovering fastest, but assuming the same would hold true for the others afflicted, Lucilla returned to the youngest girl and encouraged her to describe what had happened, what she’d felt and when. The child’s report was clear enough; all the family had started to feel ill from about noon the day before. One by one, they’d started vomiting, then had taken to their beds, but the cramps hadn’t stopped. The girl complained that her stomach—by which Lucilla confi
rmed she meant her abdominal muscles—still hurt dreadfully.

  By the time the Forresters had arrived late in the afternoon, the entire family had been laid low. The Forresters had said they would send for the healer, but the girl knew no more; she’d fallen asleep.

  She’d woken again that morning, but she hadn’t felt well enough to do anything at all, and had continued to lie in her bed, drifting in and out of sleep.

  The girl’s eyes looked sunken. Lucilla had noticed that the child had been moistening her lips in between speaking; she had glanced around, but the water jug on the dresser was empty, as were the glasses each girl had on her nightstand.

  Then the girl blinked up at her and in a thready voice asked for water.

  Lucilla patted her hand and rose. “I’ll bring some. Just close your eyes and rest, and I’ll bring you some water and perhaps something else to drink soon. But first I want to check on your brothers and parents.”

  Her eyes already closing, the girl nodded.

  In the boys’ room, Lucilla found much the same situation—the ten-year-old was recovering more quickly than the sixteen-year-old. As in the girls’ room, each boy had been provided with a bucket, and although the smell was dreadful, the evidence led Lucilla to conclude that whatever they’d eaten since breakfast the day before hadn’t stayed down, which explained the prevailing weakness.

  She reassured both boys and moved on to their parents’ room.

  There, she found further confirmation that what was principally ailing the Bradshaws now was lack of nourishment, lack of water, and overall exhaustion brought about through the pain of their earlier violent spasms.

  But the spasms themselves seemed to have passed.

  Mrs. Bradshaw seemed the most dragged down; Lucilla theorized that as a working farmer’s wife with a large family, of said family, Mrs. Bradshaw very likely had the lowest reserves.

  Lucilla had to climb up on the bed to examine Bradshaw himself. A bear of a man, he roused as she was leaning over him. His eyes opened, then flared wide.

  Having been told that she resembled some people’s idea of an angel, she was quick to reassure him. “Mr. Thomas brought me to help.” Bradshaw knew her by sight, and the mention of Thomas’s name helped recognition flow.