She liked the situation no better than he. “If we had any proof,” she murmured, “it would be a different story, but we don’t, as yet, have any evidence, and even if Joy’s canteen shows traces of poison, we have no idea as to who any putative murderer might be. Sir Godfrey Riddle—he’s currently the magistrate—won’t thank us for needlessly stirring up a hornet’s nest.”
Thomas grimaced. “No, indeed.” He glanced at her door. He tensed as if to step back, toward the door to his room just a few feet further down the corridor.
Lucilla’s pulse spiked. Was she going to allow him to retreat without getting even one step further?
But he paused and his gaze returned to her face. “Thank you—from me, from the clan—for what you’re doing for Manachan.”
The words were simple, heartfelt.
She didn’t stop to think. Instead of inclining her head in acceptance—as he plainly assumed she would—she stepped boldly across the corridor, stretched up, and pressed her lips to his.
And, this time, his response was both immediate and unfettered, unrestrained. He didn’t make the slightest attempt to hold back, but immediately engaged, his lips firming against hers, then his free hand rose, and he cupped her head and held her steady as he took control.
Took over the kiss and scripted it to his liking—to his need, his desire. He plunged them both into the maelstrom of their whirling senses and anchored them there, his tongue plundering evocatively, stroking hers, drawing forth and compelling a response that reached deeper, one even more primally visceral than she’d felt before.
She curled her fingers around his lapels and clung as her wits waltzed and her senses spun.
Thomas could have avoided the engagement; he’d read her intent in the glorious green of her eyes in the instant before she’d moved. He could have stepped away, but he hadn’t.
Because something in him wanted her.
After walking into the house and hearing her scream, after feeling her shaking in his arms, and now having to accept that he simply didn’t know, couldn’t be sure, whether a murderer lurked close or not…
Because of all that, he needed this—this contact, this moment.
It was that simple, and that devastating. To know beyond question that—as he’d always suspected—she spoke to that inner him, the primal male who lived inside him, and when she called, that side of him ruled.
She was all fire and promise in his arms, a temptation he couldn’t resist, regardless of the fact that he’d made the decision, absolute and irrevocable, that she would never be his. That she wasn’t his to take—or, more accurately, that accepting what she was so blatantly offering wasn’t what he wanted to do.
Accepting would mean staying—with her, under her spell.
He’d spent a lifetime crafting his own life, ensuring it remained, in all respects, his to determine and define.
He wouldn’t—couldn’t—give that up, not even for her.
Not even for the paradise he knew he would find in her arms.
Her lure clashed with his self-will, and he was determined that his self-will would be the stronger.
But he could take this much, indulge in one last heated kiss, without risk.
So he took, and gave, and reveled in the heat. In the slick softness of her mouth, in the pliancy of her lips, in the warmth of the curves she pressed against him.
She was a quick study, yet there was much more he could teach her; figuratively taking her hand, he angled his head, pressed deeper, and led her on.
Into a wild exchange weighted with the heady lure of forbidden pleasures, with the dark, pulsing heat of passionate need. Through the kiss, in his mind he could almost see her, a passionate nymph whose flame-colored tresses rippled down her back as she tipped up her head and laughed delightedly, glorying in the sweet rush of arousal, then she plunged into the rushing stream of desire, bathing herself in its heat.
In his heat, his passion.
She opened her heart, her mind, her body, and drew him in. On…
He pulled back, drew back—a primal reaction to the primitive warning of standing on an invisible brink, of being about to take one step too far.
Retreat took more effort, more strength than he’d expected—until that moment, he hadn’t comprehended just how definitely he would have to wrestle with himself as well as her.
But this was one battle he wasn’t about to lose. He was still holding the lamp in one hand, an added disadvantage. Blindly reaching, he set the lamp down beside him. Finally, finally, he lifted his head and forced his hands to do what they had to and set her back, apart from him. Then he dragged in a huge breath.
And looked down, into her emerald gaze.
She blinked up at him, swirling passion still sparking in the jewel depths of her eyes. Her gaze roamed his face, then returned to his eyes. She moistened her lips and simply asked, “Why?”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she elaborated, “Why are you resisting this?” She waved between them. “What’s between us.”
A direct question, one he didn’t want to answer, but as he looked into her face and saw both her stubbornness and her honesty clearly writ in her fine features, it occurred to him that answering in the same vein, holding to the same standard of personal clarity, might, in this instance, be the fastest route to ending this. More, to bringing an end to this in the right way, with understanding and honor.
She didn’t press him but waited, a tactic only those with supreme self-confidence tended to use.
But he knew his own self-worth, had his own self-confidence. “I have a very clear idea of what my future life will be. I’ve planned it for years—ever since my parents died and I spent a year here. From that time on, I’ve been planning my path.”
He had her complete attention; with her gaze fixed on his face, she nodded for him to go on.
Drawing breath, he eased back to rest his shoulders against the wall. Briefly, but clearly, he described his life in Glasgow, how he was the principal of Carrick Enterprises, what that entailed and the sort of work he did, all of which flowed into and informed his decisions about the sort of life, and the style of wife, he wanted.
He employed no obfuscation but continued to speak directly, as if to a close friend rather than a would-be lover.
And to his surprise, she listened without any strong reaction that he could see. She heard and drank in everything he said; her attention was of the same quality he’d seen her giving to mixing Manachan’s tonic—complete and absolute. And because of that, he didn’t need to specifically point out that she—wedded to the Vale as she was, and in several other ways so very much not what he was looking for in a wife—didn’t fit his bill. Rather than stating that she was far too strong a character, with the potential to be far too demanding, to require too much of him, of his attention, of his time, all he had to do was describe his wife—the lady he needed by his side. A lady with the right social connections in Glasgow, who would keep his house, bear his children, manage his household, and appear on his arm whenever he required her presence.
Lucilla listened to his considered, rational, and no doubt carefully constructed vision, and was mildly surprised to discover that, far from feeling as if her heart was being rent in two, far from experiencing his words as nails crucifying her soul, all she felt was a burgeoning impatience that he was still so far from seeing the truth.
Her confidence in that truth—in the Lady’s view—had never wavered, and despite his words, it didn’t waver now. And that wasn’t simply due to her lifelong belief in the Lady, nor yet her own stubbornness and a general unwillingness to let his direction trump hers.
Her certainty came from something even deeper. From an absolute conviction that, for him and her, there was no alternative, no matter what he thought or said.
He could argue until the cows came home, resist until he turned blue in the face, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t change the simple fact that he was hers and she was his.
She’d
known for years that them being husband and wife was the Lady’s wish, Her plan, but until now, until this minute when she sensed that deep, abiding certainty in the bedrock of her soul, she hadn’t truly understood the simple fundamental truth.
This wasn’t simply a matter of the Lady’s decree. This was much more a matter of who they were—he and she.
They were lock and key.
Neither would ever be who they could be, not without the other by their side.
He reached the end of his recitation. His amber gaze sober, steady on her eyes, he softly concluded, “So I hope you now see why…” He paused, then mimicked her earlier gesture, waving between them. “Why this, what’s between us, can never come to be.”
She understood why he believed so, but she wasn’t sure where to go from there. She waited, but no obvious answer came; slowly, still holding his gaze, she inclined her head. “I understand and accept that that’s your decision.”
At this moment. At this time.
Her lungs felt tight, but even now, she didn’t feel cast down. Instead, she understood and accepted that the obstacle blocking their correct way forward was rather larger, and more deeply entrenched in his mind than she’d realized.
She could see in his eyes that her stance—her lack of the sort of fiery response he’d expected from her—was puzzling him. Confusion was already dawning in his eyes.
If he asked, she couldn’t explain her position—not now, not yet. She raised her head; pressing her palms together before her, she nodded more definitely. “Thank you for telling me.” She tipped her head, her eyes on his. “And now I believe I should bid you good night.”
She infused just enough wryness into her expression and tone to ease his mind—to avoid his confusion turning into suspicion, as it would if left unaddressed, undistracted. Subtle relief eased through his body and he pushed upright, away from the wall.
A gentle, reassuring expression on her face, she reached for the doorknob, opened the door, then with a last dip of her head, slipped into her room.
She closed the door and leaned back against it.
Several moments passed before, beyond the panels, she heard him shift, then she heard the soft click as he opened the door to his room, followed by another click when he closed it.
He’d stood staring at her closed door for those moments; no matter he hadn’t asked, he was wondering what she was thinking.
As to that, she wasn’t sure herself.
Moving into the room, she reached for the pins anchoring her hair. A maid had lit the lamp on the dressing table. In the low light, she got ready for bed, going through the motions absentmindedly, her mind absorbed with the critical question: So, what now?
Now she knew of his direction, what should she do? Was the next move hers, or his?
By the time she turned down the lamp and climbed between the sheets, she’d achieved some degree of clarity on that point.
Because everything hinged on “claiming”—on reciprocal, mutual claiming.
She’d always known that, between them, “claiming” was the operative word. That in order to have the life they were supposed to live, he had to claim her and she had to claim him.
But claiming was an active decision—no one could be made to claim something they didn’t wish to. Claiming was the same as a declaration, open and clear and unequivocal. A deliberate decision, one everyone could see.
She couldn’t force him to that decision. Not even the Lady could. The decision to accept what she was offering, the decision to claim the position by her side, had to be made of his own free will.
The most she could do was persuade, and in the circumstances, given his view of his future, it seemed clear that whatever opportunity presented, she would be wise to seize it and use it to that end.
She couldn’t afford to simply sit back and let him barrel ahead. He was stubborn, even more stubborn than she. She was going to have to use every wile, every weapon she possessed and that fate sent to her hand, to open his eyes and show him the truth.
Whether she would succeed or not, she didn’t know—couldn’t tell—but she had no choice.
Turning on her side, she tugged the covers up over her shoulder. “At least we’ve both acknowledged the existence of ‘what’s between us.’”
Closing her eyes, she followed that point further.
And smiled. She’d never had the chance to play the siren before.
While she considered the prospect, sleep drew her down.
* * *
She woke in the dead of night with no notion of what had disturbed her.
She’d left the window beside the head of the bed uncurtained. Faint moonlight streamed in, casting everything in grays and shadow.
Then she heard a stealthy sound, the quiet placing of a shoe on carpet.
She pushed back the covers, raised her head, and looked.
And saw a man in a cowled cloak, a cushion held between his hands, mere steps away.
Creeping closer.
She screamed and flung up her hands, ready to keep the cushion from her face.
To keep him from smothering her.
That was clearly his intention.
His head lifted. For a split second, he paused, then he cursed, flung the cushion aside, and charged for the open door.
He swung into the corridor. She heard his thudding steps pounding down the corridor runner, fading away.
A door crashed against a wall, and Thomas appeared in her open doorway. He’d thrown a loose robe over his nightclothes, although he didn’t appear to be wearing a shirt. Gripping the doorframe, he stared across the room at her, then he looked in the direction the man had fled.
He cursed, too.
She’d come up on her elbows as the man had raced off. Now, suddenly struggling to breathe, she clapped a hand to her chest, over her racing heart, and fell back on the pillows.
Thomas hesitated, then stepped into the room and shut the door. Her scream had been enough to summon him, but the visitors’ wing was long and their rooms were near its end; he couldn’t hear anyone else stirring, much less racing to her rescue. “What happened? All I glimpsed was a shadowy figure disappearing into the gallery—they were too far away for me to see clearly.”
She’d closed her eyes; she raised her lids a fraction, studied him for several long seconds, then said, “Some man.”
Her voice was thready. Coming up on her elbows, she looked about; her gaze came to rest on the pitcher of water and glass on the bureau.
Thomas found himself standing before the bureau, pouring a glass of water, before he’d even thought.
Indeed, at that moment, he wasn’t thinking well at all; his entire brain seemed overloaded with impulses, furious anger, and rising need. He would have preferred to somehow levitate the glass over to her but… He walked to the bed and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” The underlying tremor in her voice raked across his senses.
Taking the glass, she sipped, then sipped again, then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Before you ask, no, I have no idea who he was.” Her voice quavered, and she waved to the other side of the bed. “I woke up, and he was there.” Opening her eyes, she clutched the glass in both hands, then said, “He had a cushion in his hands and was coming closer.”
The vision chilled him to the marrow. Rounding the bed, he saw the cushion, lifted from the armchair closer to the door and now flung against the legs of the dressing-table stool. He bent and picked up the cushion. It was nice and plump. Perfect for holding over a woman’s face…
He very nearly snarled and flung the cushion away. Reining in the impulse, he carefully placed the cushion on the stool, then turned to her.
And noticed the moonlight shafting through the window. He looked at her. “You didn’t see his face?”
She shook her head. “No. He had a cowl up over his head. He’d pulled it forward. It completely shaded his features. I didn’t even catch a glimpse of his chin.”
His face felt li
ke granite; he couldn’t manage even a grimace. “So it could be anyone—anyone at the manor, anyone in the clan.”
She didn’t answer, just closed her eyes again. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply. Reaching for calm.
“Are you all right?” The question fought its way out of his chest and emerged in a tone one step from a growl.
She didn’t open her eyes, but her head shifted as if she was considering… “I took no harm, but I’m not sure, at this moment, that that equates with being ‘all right.’”
He glanced at the closed door, then at the armchair. “I’ll remain for a while.” In case her attacker returned; he truly hoped the bastard would. He started for the armchair.
“Wait.”
The command brought him up short. He glanced back and watched her open her eyes and sit up, reaching, stretching, trying to place the glass on the small table beside the bed.
He stalked back to the bed, took the glass from her, and set it on the table.
Her fingers locked in the silk of his robe.
He wasn’t wearing a nightshirt; the brush of her thumb against his skin sent desire lancing through him.
He looked down at her hand, at the knuckles white beneath her fine skin. As declarations went, it was fairly clear. “Lucilla…”
He couldn’t look at her face, not while standing at the side of her bed, with her en déshabillé a mere foot away, with her skin warm and her hair sleep-tousled—the whole made even more compelling by the inevitable consequence of shock and fear he knew he would see in her wide green eyes.
He knew he shouldn’t look, not if he wished to save himself, and her, from what raged inside him.
From the primal, primitive urges that her scream and the need swimming in her eyes had sent rocketing through him.
Possession had never felt so desperately needful.
Desire had never ripped at him so powerfully, with such sharp claws.
“Stay.”
The single word had him meeting her eyes. They captured his soul.
“Stay.” Her lips moved again, a siren whispering in the night. “Stay and be my protector until dawn.”
The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Page 19
