The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  She held his gaze and let him see her certainty, her commitment. “Yes.” That was all she needed to say.

  He read her eyes, then inclined his head in acceptance. “All right.” He took another brief sip, then asked, “So what’s been going on at Carrick Manor?”

  She told him from beginning to end, leaving out nothing bar her interactions with Thomas—those, her twin definitely didn’t need to hear described, although she suspected he would still guess that such interludes had occurred.

  Regardless, he took her report in his stride and focused, as she’d hoped, on the conundrums.

  When she reached the end—Manachan’s request for them both to leave, and them acquiescing and doing so—Marcus grimaced. He rose and crossed to the tantalus, and tipped a little more whisky into his glass.

  He arched a brow at her, but she shook her head.

  He returned to the armchair and all but fell into it. Frowning, he sipped, then broodingly said, “Manachan made the right decision. If the culprit lies within the clan, as it seems certain he does, then, as Manachan’s now able to manage again, he—and only he—is the right person to deal with the situation. No one from outside can, and although Thomas is clan, with Nigel resenting him and all the others preferring him, Thomas being there will only make things worse.” Marcus drank, then added, “Especially as worse might stretch to murder.”

  “Indeed.” She paused, then said, “I couldn’t see any way around it—around leaving Manachan to deal with it on his own. Aside from all else, over all these years he’s earned everyone’s respect—he’s always been uncannily shrewd over anything to do with his clan.”

  “Exactly.” Marcus nodded. “Although I don’t in the least approve of having a murderer or murderers—including one who had and may yet have you in his sights—wandering around still free, now that Manachan’s back to reasonable strength, we all, Thomas included, need to give him the time and the space to sort it out—within clan, if at all possible.”

  She could only nod in agreement. That, in a nutshell, was what had brought her home.

  Marcus’s dark gaze rested on her; she couldn’t read his expression, but she could sense his approval. “Presumably”—he paused to drain his glass—“rescuing the Bradshaws and then restoring Manachan to viable strength were the reasons Thomas was summoned back from Glasgow.”

  She knew her twin wasn’t referring to Bradshaw, and then Forrester, writing to Thomas, but to the hand of fate—the fate both she and Marcus accepted ruled them and the lands they watched over.

  “And”—Marcus tipped the empty tumbler, watching the light spark in the cut crystal—“why he had to fetch you, and by extension, why I was left nursing a very sore head.”

  She humphed and rose. “I checked you over before I left you—it wasn’t that bad. And”—she arched her brows at him—“as we all know, you have a very hard head.”

  Marcus’s smile was slow and rather intent. “You and I know that, but I have no intention of letting Carrick off the hook.”

  She snorted and, unsuccessfully battling a smile, turned and walked to the door. Opening it, she left her twin plotting, secure in the knowledge that Marcus understood who Thomas was to her, and that tease him though Marcus undoubtedly would, he would nevertheless protect Thomas in the same way he did her—with his life if need be.

  * * *

  Lucilla climbed the stairs to the first floor, then headed for the southeast turret in which her room was located; one level up, her chamber was a circular chamber with views over the green of the summer pastures to the distant horizon where dawn first arrived.

  She was grateful that Marcus had refrained from asking more questions about her and Thomas, because, as yet, she didn’t know the answers herself.

  Reaching the guest chamber at the base of her turret, the room in which Thomas was sleeping, she quietly opened the door, went in, and equally quietly eased the latch closed.

  Not that she needed to have worried—he remained deeply asleep.

  She walked to the end of the bed and stood looking down at him.

  Letting her eyes trace his features, the fall of one thick lock of dark hair across his brow, the elegant length of his palms and fingers relaxed on the covers, she let the essence of all he was, and all she needed him to be—lover, consort, husband—impinge and sink in to her mind, to her soul.

  She’d secured the first; they were lovers, and he hadn’t tried to pull back from or deny that connection. As for being her consort, he’d been protective of her from the first; with regard to her, that was a part of his nature he hadn’t attempted to suppress, nor, she suspected, would he be able to. It was the last title that would be the hardest for him to embrace; it would, in effect, be a public declaration that he was hers and would remain by her side for the rest of his days.

  Him agreeing to be her husband would be the true and final commitment—the only one that, for her and him, really mattered.

  She knew beyond doubt that he would never be at peace, would never find any true and lasting satisfaction in life if he wasn’t there, living beside her, where he was supposed to be.

  Filling the role he was supposed to fill, destined to fill, despite his resistance fueled by his belief that his life lay elsewhere.

  But there was nothing she could do to advance their cause—hers, his, and the Lady’s—tonight.

  Although he’d insisted on his sleeping pants, he apparently slept without a nightshirt; the muscled strength of his arms, the power inherent in the heavy width of his shoulders, lay exposed, displayed against the ivory sheets.

  The potion she’d given him had contained enough poppy juice to take the edge from his pain and tip him into a healing sleep; he wouldn’t be stirring any time soon.

  She stood silently considering his sleeping form for a moment more. She’d insisted that, here in the Vale, he had to share her bed, but in gaining what she needed, she was willing to be flexible.

  * * *

  Thomas woke to find the gray light of predawn filtering through the uncurtained windows—and Lucilla, a warm armful, tucked against his side.

  He was lying on his back, his head cushioned on thick pillows. Without shifting his head, he studied the segment of room he could see. Although his memories were hazy, he was fairly certain this was the room, the bed, in which he’d fallen asleep last night.

  So she’d adjusted her strategy; not her room, not her bed, but she was still sharing it with him.

  His lips curved. He let his lids fall again, thinking that would improve his ability to think clearly. Instead, with his eyes shut, his other senses expanded, and awareness of her presence swamped him.

  There was an earthy reality in the moment. An adult man, an adult woman, sharing a bed. Simple. Uncomplicated.

  They lay warm beneath the sheets, their muscles relaxed, heavy in slumber. The door was closed, and beyond it, no one was stirring.

  Slowly, his nerves, his skin, came alive.

  She’d donned a nightgown, the fine cotton an insubstantial barrier separating naked skin from skin. The ripe swell of her bottom was snuggled against the side of his waist, the elegant curve of her spine pressed along his side.

  The ache in his head had eased to almost nothing; he could still feel the wound in his calf, but the pain had dulled and was easy to ignore.

  Not so the intensifying ache in his loins.

  He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs—with the alluring scent of her. A mixture of herbs and flowers, a complex medley of scents that reminded him of spring edging into summer, of bright freshness transforming via a luscious ripening into something beyond desirable—into something to be coveted.

  That promise was there in her, carried to his senses in so many ways, on multiple planes.

  He reached for her, for that promise—compelled, unable to resist.

  Having no need to resist, not here, in this quiet, private world.

  He opened his eyes and turned to her, careful not to jostle her.


  She was curled on her side, facing away from him, her head ducked, her face half buried in the pillow, the covers drawn over her shoulder. Her hair lay in wild disarray over the pillows; several tresses lay beneath his cheek, the silk strands catching in his stubble.

  The soft fabric of her nightgown caressed his chest. He was already hard and ready for her, his erection tenting the front of his sleeping trousers. But relief was pending and so very near to hand; the tug of desire was so real, so palpable, he gave up trying to think, surrendered all thought of attempting to plot and control the engagement and, instead, simply sank into the moment and let it lead him where it would.

  However it would.

  Reaching around her, he pressed his hand beneath her arm, then gently closed palm and fingers about her breast. The mound filled his hand; he squeezed and felt her flesh firm. She stirred, the small movement languorous. He continued caressing until her nipple was a tight pearl beneath his palm, then he shifted his attention to her other breast.

  She murmured, no real words, just a sound born of pleasure. Then she stretched, her spine arching like a cat, the movement pressing her breast more firmly into his hand and rubbing her derriere against his erection. She stilled for a heartbeat—then, more deliberately, shifted her hips against him, wantonly caressing him. A wordless invitation.

  One he had every intention of accepting, but in his own time—or, to be more accurate, according to the rhythm that had laid hold of his senses.

  He shifted closer, using the weight of his hips, his legs, his chest to pin her, not immobilizing her but leaving her little leeway to filch the reins.

  Lucilla came sufficiently awake to register the sensation of him pressed to her back, of being surrounded by him, held trapped. The veils of sleep still lingered, hazy clouds of comfort, of reassurance that all was well and that no active thought was necessary, yet the feel of him so close, so warm, so strong, sparked her nerves to alertness and brought her senses alive.

  Intrigued, dazedly wondering, she caught her breath on a soft sob of pleasure as his hands continued to massage her breasts with a touch that, while firm, was almost languid.

  One of his legs lay heavy over hers; he lay half over her. She debated turning to him, into his arms, but…all her intentions fell away as, having opened the front of her nightgown, he slid one large hand beneath the gaping side and wrapped his hard palm—slowly, gently, yet inexorably—about her swollen breast.

  Her senses focused solely on his touch, on the simple claiming.

  Her breath hitched, and what conscious thought she’d managed to marshal unraveled and slipped away.

  Eyes closed, she tipped her head back and let her senses take her, let them and him overwhelm her.

  His shoulders against the backs of hers, he raised his head and dipped his lips to the curve of her throat. He traced the taut line with his lips, all the way up to the hollow beneath her ear. Then he opened his mouth and placed hot, wet kisses down along the same line.

  All the while, his hand continued to play, continued to knead and claim her breasts.

  Until they grew unbearably heavy, the peaks excruciatingly tight.

  Until she could barely breathe through the pulsing weight of the heat rising inside her.

  With one hand, she reached blindly back, found his face, and with her fingers lightly traced one lean cheek. “Thomas…”

  She hadn’t known she had so much need in her, yet it thrummed in that word—that plea.

  He murmured something, but she couldn’t make it out; hearing wasn’t a priority, not then, there, in their sensual cocoon.

  He drew his right hand from her breasts, but only to curl that arm around her and lift her enough to slide his left arm beneath her. He settled her on that arm, tucking her even more securely against him. To her body’s relief, his left hand replaced his right, sliding through the opening of her nightgown to caress her breasts, his touch just as hot, as heavy, as expertly knowing.

  Just as expertly stoking the steadily rising tide of desire he’d set welling within her.

  Then his right hand trailed down, over her cotton-clad thigh. Her nerves sparked, then tightened. Reaching past her knee, he found her nightgown’s hem. He slid his hand beneath, cupped his palm to her skin, and ran his hand upward. He paused to caress the hollow behind her knee, then set the back of his crooked fingers to her skin and ran them slowly up the back of her thigh.

  She felt the touch to her marrow, tensed, but when he reached the top of her thigh, he drew his fingers away.

  The back of her nightgown had risen, caught on his wrist and forearm. He grasped the folds and lifted them higher, pressing them up over her waist, baring her bottom. Prickling awareness flashed over her skin. She felt the brush of his sleeping trousers against her naked curves. Felt the jut of his arousal screened by that last layer of fabric. Releasing her nightgown, he eased his hips back—just enough to set his hand to the globes of her bottom.

  And freely trace, stroke, and caress.

  Languidly.

  Heat built, inexorable and strong—edging toward fierce—yet there was no urgency, either in his touch or in the solid beat of passion she sensed rising within them both.

  It thrummed beneath their skins, holding them captive to the slow, steady, swelling beat.

  Her skin dewed. A restless empty ache of wanting expanded and filled her.

  Then his fingers skated down, dipped to the hollow between her thighs, and delved.

  Scalding wetness met Thomas’s senses. Lids heavy, eyes closed, he breathed deep, and pressed two fingers further, finding her entrance and spreading the welcoming slickness over her pouting lips.

  Around them, the room lay silent. The only sounds that reached them were of their own tight breaths and the thudding of their hearts.

  There was barely light enough to see, and the covers hid all, and they had their eyes closed.

  Yet their senses had never been so full, so alive, so overwhelmed. With his awareness reduced to touch and nothing more, her skin had never felt so silken and smooth, so fine and perfect, her curves had never seemed so lush, so delectably formed. So alluring.

  And the same sensual restrictions that limited him also limited her. He could only imagine what, in this heightened state, she was feeling…just thinking of that laid a visceral edge to his escalating need.

  Their heated, heavy, commanding need.

  He pressed his fingers deep, then deeper, stroked, and she shifted her hips, seeking, needing—brazenly wanting.

  He drew his hand from her and pushed down the front of his sleeping trousers. His erection sprang free and he pressed closer. Adjusting her upper thigh and the angle of his hips behind hers, he slid the rigid shaft into the hollow between her thighs; he gripped her hip and held her immobile as he aligned the head with her entrance, then he sank home.

  In. Deeper.

  His weight propped on one elbow, one hand filled with her breast, the other clamped over the curve of her hip, he held her still and steadily forged into her body, until he came to rest engulfed to the hilt in her searing softness.

  Her body clamped about his in a welcoming embrace that had him shuddering—with need, with desire, and so much more.

  But even as he let his weight settle on her, shifting into the best position in which to ride her, the control that the moment had imposed on him, that had held and set the pace to that point, continued to restrain him.

  He withdrew from her clinging heat, almost to the point of losing it, then—slowly, heavily, and deliberately—he surged back, filling her anew, his groin pressing against the lush curves of her bottom.

  She murmured and pushed back, taking him deeper yet, but even as he continued the measured dance of thrust and retreat, she, too, seemed to accept the compelling beat.

  As if it thudded through both their hearts, down both their veins, not just his.

  Beneath the covers in the gray light of early dawn, they continued dancing to the strict beat, so slow,
so steady, so heated—so achingly intense. So overflowing with reined desire that it almost choked them. Every nerve he possessed was excruciatingly alive, seared alive by a passion so demanding, so relentlessly commanding.

  They could have gone faster at any time, but neither made any move to break the spell. Instead, they clung, each to the other, and let it play out—let it unravel them both.

  Sinking her fingertips into his thigh, she held him to her as the tension ratcheted one last notch—then, arching wildly, she came apart on a sobbing cry.

  The sound filled his ears, and blindly he followed, holding her immobile and thrusting deep into her rippling sheath.

  Release slammed through him. Scoured and emptied him.

  He pumped into her surrendered body, felt his seed jet into the dark warmth of her womb—and all tension left him. Abruptly released, he collapsed over her; gasping, his heart thundering, barely aware, he tightened his arms and held her close.

  And felt her sink back into him, accepting, holding him to her in her own way.

  Ecstasy rolled over him—over them. It stole away the last shreds of control, of any ability to think. In a wave as long and as steady as the undeniable beat that had commanded them throughout, the glory rolled on and through them, and only very slowly receded, finally leaving them wrung out, exhausted, and steeped in pleasure. Shared pleasure, where awareness of hers heightened his, where a thrum of connection remained, resonating within him, even when the fading tide had fully ebbed away.

  That connection fascinated, but he couldn’t focus. The dark warmth of satiation beckoned; slumping under the covers with her locked against him, he let go and allowed his senses to slide into that soothing embrace.

  * * *

  Perhaps it had simply been that they were there, in the Vale, in a place of peace and assured safety, and no longer surrounded by the uncertainty, the questions, and suspicions that now haunted Carrick Manor. Lying in the bed with his arms crossed behind his head, Thomas wondered if that was reason enough to account for the contentment, the abiding sense of rightness and peace that had swamped him after the act and, even now, lay heavy and oddly reassuring within him.