That he didn’t argue spoke volumes.
He studied her, his gaze steady on her face, reading the resolution that she made no effort to hide.
His lips thinned; his amber eyes narrowed. He drummed his fingers on the head of his cane, then simply asked, “What do I have to do to get you to agree to return to Casphairn Manor?”
She felt her eyes widen; that was a great deal more direct than she’d expected, but she was entirely willing to engage on that plane. She held up a hand to indicate that she was thinking—and did so rapidly—before saying, “You are now, in effect, my patient, until your leg heals well enough for you to ride. I will concede that Manachan should continue to improve without being under my day-to-day care, so I can accept that I do not need to remain here, in this house, on his account. I can also understand that Manachan’s way forward will be easier without you in residence, so I would not argue against his request for you to leave the estate. However, while I will agree to travel with you back to the Vale, I must insist that you remain there, at Casphairn Manor.”
Thomas blinked. He rapidly compared what she was suggesting with what he—and Manachan—needed to achieve. He hadn’t thought to remain in the Vale, but if he did, at least for the next few days, he would be close enough to respond quickly if Manachan needed his support again. Regardless of his uncle’s returning strength, given they had no idea who was behind the recent incidents, being close enough to step in and assist might be a very real boon.
He looked at Lucilla, opened his mouth to agree, but she halted him with an upraised hand.
“I have one more stipulation.” Her eyes captured his; her emerald gaze held him captive. “While at Casphairn Manor, you will share my bed.”
A shaft of pure desire lanced through him. He stared at her.
He should have been shocked; instead, he was intrigued.
He let himself remain within the green fire of her eyes—didn’t bother fighting free. Not yet.
He hadn’t realized—not with his conscious mind—how much of his awareness, of his less-conscious self, had been absorbed with her, with the question of whether one night was all she wished for or if, somehow, their liaison might continue…for at least the few days that she was now insisting on.
One night hadn’t been enough for him—indeed, had only whetted his appetite; apparently, one night hadn’t sated her, either.
Which was…good, wasn’t it? To his advantage? Somewhat oddly, he wasn’t so sure of that.
He blinked free of her hold and refocused on her face, her figure—all of her and not just her mesmerizing eyes. “What about your reputation? Your household? What about your brother?”
She waved dismissively. “I’m twenty-eight, and as my mother’s successor in the Vale, everyone knows and accepts that I have my own eccentric road to follow. No one will question—will feel they have the right to question—whatever route I take. Our staff have always supported me, and always will. As for Marcus, he knows me too well to stand in my way.”
He could well believe that—all of that—yet…he felt as if he were being lured down a path that a wiser—less attracted—man would avoid.
But he wasn’t that man; he was as he was, and what she was offering, stipulation and all, was precisely what he wanted on all fronts, personal as well as clan. In this, it seemed his clan and personal needs ran parallel.
For one instant more, he hesitated, but then surrendered to the overwhelming pressure of his instincts and inclined his head. “Done. And we’ll leave immediately after dinner.”
Her brows rose in consideration, then she nodded. “Very well.” She met his gaze. “With that decided, the situation we’re leaving Manachan to pursue… He mentioned that someone had been on the roof and the falling statue had been pushed off.”
He nodded. Guessing—knowing—what tack her mind would take, he concisely recounted the essential findings, much as he had with Manachan a few hours before.
She listened gravely. When he reached the end, she thought, then said, “Assuming that the results of the analyses confirm our suspicions, showing that the Bradshaws and Joy were deliberately poisoned, and although we can’t prove it, we’re also fairly sure someone pushed Faith down the stairs and killed her—and, of course, someone put the adder in the still room, crept into my room with fell intent last night, and then pushed that statue off the roof… Yet in spite of knowing all of that, we can’t point the finger at anyone, because virtually anyone on the estate could have done all those things.”
He nodded. In the hall beyond the door, the dinner gong rang, summoning them to the table.
Shifting forward, he leaned on his cane. Even more swiftly, she rose, came to his side, and offered her hand.
He hesitated, but then put aside his pride, gripped her hand, and allowed her to help him stand. On his feet, he released her, drew breath, then met her eyes. “Not only can’t we point a finger at anyone, we can’t even tell whether all those incidents are connected—whether whoever did for Joy and Faith was also the person who poisoned the Bradshaws’ well, or pushed the statue from the roof today, or…”
She grimaced and turned to the door. “So, in reality, we really do have to leave this to Manachan, because, when it comes to it, you and I can do no more.”
She walked slowly so he could keep up. He followed her from the room, her words repeating in his mind.
And indeed, she was right. In the matter of discovering what was behind the strange happenings on the Carrick estate, there was nothing more he and she could do.
CHAPTER 12
They left Carrick Manor in Manachan’s carriage shortly after dinner. Lucilla had insisted on re-examining Manachan before she left, and on overseeing his evening dose of the restorative.
Manachan had been surprisingly acquiescent, even jovial, throughout; Thomas suspected that, as his uncle was getting precisely what he wanted, he saw no reason not to be magnanimous in victory.
As they rattled slowly down the long drive that led to the main road, he spared a thought for Phantom, following the carriage on a lead rein. The gelding wouldn’t be happy. Then again, like his master, Phantom had a rare female to distract him, in the form of Lucilla’s black mare.
Thomas felt much the same way he imagined his horse must be feeling. Unhappy over the manner of his leaving, yet distracted by the company.
As the miles fell behind, he remembered all the little things he’d forgotten through having to deal with more serious events.
He shifted; Lucilla had been right in predicting that he wouldn’t be able to sit in a jostling carriage for long. “I never did learn what was behind Nigel’s changes to the seed supply. Or his other changes on the estate. Or, I suspect, the true story about those horses and carriages in the old barn.” Stretching out his injured leg, frowning, he massaged his thigh.
Seated beside him, Lucilla shrugged lightly. “You told Manachan about them. I can’t imagine he won’t inquire and set things right.”
The carriage slowed, then ponderously turned out onto the main road, heading south, toward the entrance to the Vale. As the wheels picked up speed, rolling more evenly along the better surface, Thomas looked out of the window to the right, into the darkness toward Carrick Manor. “I wish I hadn’t had to leave—to leave him to handle things on his own.”
“But you had to. There was no other way.” She paused, then, as if understanding the frustration he felt in having to accede to Manachan’s wishes, she added, “Sometimes one has to accept that someone else’s right to direct their destiny takes precedence over one’s own desires.”
The comment drew his attention back to her. The carriage running lamps were lit; every now and then the flickering light from outside illuminated the dimness within, enough for him to make out her expression, to catch glints from her fire-red hair.
After several seconds of considering his words, he remarked, “I find it curious that, given your temperament, you seem to so easily accept what you term your Lady’s dec
rees.”
She turned her head, met his eyes through the shadows, then raised one shoulder and faced forward again. “I’ve heard Her—received Her guidance—from my earliest years. Not all of us do. But experience, especially from a very young age, is an excellent teacher. Despite directives that at the time I thought exceedingly strange, She has never steered me wrongly.”
No doubt that accounted for her unwavering certainty, something he sensed so strongly in her. Leaning his aching head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes and found himself pondering that clear difference between them. They were both strong-willed, independent characters, yet even though she recognized what she was doing, she was able to bow to the directives of fate. He, conversely, instinctively opposed any decree that came from any source other than himself.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence, for which he was grateful. He knew of no other lady, young or otherwise, who would have left him in peace, yet not only did she apparently feel no need to converse but that sense of deep calm that was so peculiarly hers spread out and enfolded him—and soothed and calmed him, too.
Yet when the carriage drew up in the forecourt of Casphairn Manor, on the gravel before the steps leading up to the front door, he discovered he was still very far from recovered. His head ached, pain thudded in his temples, and his leg throbbed. He had to allow Lucilla to descend from the carriage first so that she could help him down.
Sean, who had driven the coach, came to help. Once Thomas was steady on his feet, Lucilla sent Sean to ring the doorbell. She remained by Thomas’s side, supporting him as, leaning heavily on the cane, he slowly made his way up the thankfully shallow steps.
He’d just reached the porch and had paused to raise his head and draw in a deeper breath when the door swung open.
It wasn’t the butler who looked out but Marcus Cynster.
Midnight-blue eyes pinned Thomas, but then rapidly skated down his length before, his expression impassive and growing ever more so, Cynster looked at his twin sister. Their gazes met, then Marcus arched a brow.
Imperious as ever, Lucilla waved him forward. “Come and help Thomas—he has a wound in his left calf, so be careful.”
Before Thomas could blink, Marcus was there, coming up on his good side. As tall as Thomas, Marcus gave him his arm; Thomas leaned on it. Marcus’s presence was like that of an oak, solid and unbreakable, beside him.
Somewhat to his surprise, he detected no animosity from the man he’d left unconscious outside Lucilla’s sacred grove. What he did sense was a very shrewd mind paying very close attention to everything, and even though they exchanged no words, Thomas got the clear impression that Marcus and Lucilla were swapping comments back and forth across him.
As they passed through the arched front door, Lucilla announced, “Mr. Carrick will be staying for at least a few days, until his wound is healed well enough to ride.”
With his gaze on the floor before his feet, Thomas thought she was speaking to Marcus, but then the three of them paused and he raised his head—and a veritable sea of friendly faces, all beaming, bringing with them a tangible tide of warmth and concern, engulfed him.
The housekeeper, a Mrs. Broome, patted his arm and told him she’d get a room ready for him immediately. Maids grinned and bobbed curtsies, then whisked off in the bustling housekeeper’s wake. The butler, Polby, was there, consulting with Lucilla while footmen had already gone out to help Sean with his bag, and several grooms had followed, presumably to tend to the horses.
If Thomas had thought about what his welcome at the manor would be like, it wouldn’t have been this; he found it a touch disorienting. For several moments, he stood in the center of that welcoming wave—then scrabbling sounds heralded the arrival of dogs.
Hounds—deerhounds, a small pack of them—came pouring out of one archway. The foyer was large and irregular, with stairs and lots of corridors and archways leading from it; the hounds came out of the largest and most impressive archway. The dogs were young or in their prime; sniffing and snuffling, ears flapping, jaws open, and tongues lolling, they surrounded Thomas, Marcus, Lucilla, and Polby—all of whom absentmindedly greeted them, patting huge heads and scratching ears and shaggy chins.
And at the rear of the pack came two animals Thomas hadn’t seen in ten years; although they’d been much smaller then, something in him recognized them instantly. His cane balanced against his leg and with both his hands absorbed with stroking and petting, Thomas glanced at Marcus. “You bred from them?” With his head, he indicated the pair ambling toward them.
Marcus, likewise absorbed with the dogs, nodded. “We got others from other breeders.” Briefly, he met Thomas’s eyes. “You’re responsible, in a way—you gave us Artemis and Apollo, and everything started from there.”
The two older dogs had finally reached them. The younger beasts instinctively gave way, falling back. Both Artemis and Apollo halted in front of Thomas, looked up and, with their amber eyes, searched his face, then both sat and raised their paws.
Thomas was disarmed. He laughed and took each paw, squeezed lightly, then he released the dogs and rubbed their shaggy heads. “They’re in excellent condition.” He might not have bred them any longer, but he still knew everything there was to know about deerhounds.
Marcus shrugged. “They were good stock to begin with.”
The front door had been shut, and the press of people had thinned; Thomas had distantly registered the sound of Manachan’s carriage being driven away, and he’d glimpsed a footman disappearing up the main stairs with his bag.
Lucilla turned to him. “Would you like to join Marcus and me in the drawing room for a nightcap, or would you rather retire? Mrs. Broome has your room ready.”
She’d insisted that he would share her bed but, given they’d only just arrived, perhaps he would get a reprieve for tonight—which, considering how woozy he felt, was probably just as well. “I’m…not thinking as clearly as I would like.” The simple truth. “I suspect I had better retire.” While he still had some hope of negotiating the stairs upright.
A burly footman stepped forward. “If you’d like to lean on me, sir, we’ll get you up to your room.”
Marcus stepped back. He caught Thomas’s eyes and gave a curt nod. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
There was a promise in the words Thomas would have had to have been dead to miss, yet there was no aggression in Marcus’s expression or stance.
Which, as he allowed Lucilla to take his arm, and between her and the footman, he made for the stairs, Thomas had to wonder at.
The effort of ascending the stairs wiped all thoughts beyond lasting long enough to fall into the wonderfully plumped bed from his mind. Luckily, the room they’d prepared for him was on the first floor, at the base of one of the turrets.
He dismissed the footman, but he lacked the strength to dismiss Lucilla. He tried, but she just sent him a “don’t be ridiculous” look and set about helping him undress.
Finally semi-decently clad in his sleeping trousers, he had to stop and catch his breath. Sitting on a chair, arms braced on his thighs, his head hanging forward, he murmured, “Even though I dislike the notion of taking any of your potions, if you have something that will ease the pain, I’ll gladly swallow it.”
She regarded him for an instant—he could feel her gaze—then she touched the top of his head. “Wait there.”
He had no idea how long she was away, but it seemed no more than a moment before she was back and pressing a small beaker into his hand. It contained a reddish-pink potion, not the usual green her potions seemed to be. He glanced at it, then downed the dose in one gulp.
She took the empty beaker, set it aside, then urged him up and into the bed.
He literally fell into it. She’d pulled down the covers, and as he rolled to his side, she drew them over him.
A soothing sense of peace enveloped him.
Warmth ran beneath it, the lingering threads of the welcome in the foyer.<
br />
How very different from the welcome he’d received from his cousins.
Acceptance, and the gentle contentment that came from that, closed around him and dragged his senses down.
Lucilla watched him slide into slumber.
While his pain and his present lack of strength didn’t please her, she hadn’t been surprised by either, and she was immeasurably reassured that he’d asked for and accepted her aid.
He was there, in the Vale, under the manor’s roof, and only one floor down from where he ultimately should be—in her room, in her bed.
With the Lady’s help and by Her grace, she’d accomplished that much. As for the rest…she had to have faith that the following days would play out as they should, and the rest—Thomas’s realization that he was hers and she was his—would come in time.
One step at a time.
His breathing had evened out, slow and steady; his features had eased, showing no signs of tension, of continuing pain.
Satisfied with the outcome of the day, she picked up the lamp, went out, and shut the door. She paused on the landing, debating, then accepted the inevitable and started down the stairs. Marcus, she knew, was waiting.
* * *
Lucilla walked into the drawing room and closed the door behind her. Although it could be used for formal gatherings, it was the room the family used on a daily basis to gather in before and after dinner. Her mother had accordingly decorated the room with comfortable rather than fashionable furniture, the sort of well-stuffed chintz-covered sofas and armchairs that invited ladies to relax and sink into, and gentlemen to sprawl at their ease in.
Occupying one of the armchairs near the hearth, Marcus was engaged in the latter. A glass of whisky cradled in his long fingers, he sipped and watched her as she crossed to the armchair opposite his.
When she sat, he lowered the glass and met her gaze directly. “First question—do you know what you’re doing?”
The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Page 24
