Halfway across the open section of the yard, Thomas halted. Leaning on his cane to ease the pressure on his leg, he lifted his gaze to the surrounding hills, scanning their forested lower slopes and the higher, bald peaks.
Realizing he’d stopped, Marcus halted a few paces ahead and turned to look back at him.
His gaze resting on the hills to the north, on the ridge that separated Carrick lands from the Vale, Thomas murmured, “It’s been so long since I was here, on the land and with my feet on the ground, so to speak. I hadn’t expected my memories to be so clear—so sharp and precise.”
Marcus considered him for a long moment; Thomas felt his steady gaze, but before he turned to meet it, Marcus, too, looked up at the hills, at the northern ridge. “Once this country claims you, it sinks talons into your soul, and as far as I’ve seen, as far as I know, it never lets you go.”
That sounded like some old saying. Given all he knew of Marcus’s situation—his unquestioning acceptance of his future in the Vale—Thomas wasn’t sure how to respond, so he merely tipped his head and resumed his journey toward the house.
Marcus watched Thomas for several moments, then sighed and followed him.
* * *
Late that night, when the manor had fallen silent and all were abed, Thomas lay sprawled on his back between Lucilla’s pale green sheets, with his head on her pillows and with her stretched half over him, sated and asleep.
He was sinking toward slumber, too, equally sated and so deeply satisfied—so very deeply relaxed on the mental plane as well as the physical—that his mind seemed to be floating, hovering, observing.
Able to see and recognize aspects of himself that normally lay concealed.
Such as the reason he was so very at ease, at peace on a level he couldn’t remember ever having attained.
Despite the limitations imposed by his injury, his day—this day—had…suited him. Had unexpectedly fulfilled him. From the first, it had been pleasant—pleasing, engaging, and satisfying in an unprecedented way—and, courtesy of what flared so hotly between him and Lucilla, had ended in soul-wrenching pleasure.
His mind dwelled on the revelation—on the answer to the question of what he needed in order to feel this way. A question he hadn’t previously asked for the simple reason that, until now, he hadn’t realized it was possible to feel so content. So sunk in contentment.
Now he knew, but he also knew it couldn’t last. His wound would heal and he’d leave for Glasgow—and by then this…madness, whatever it was, with Lucilla would have run its course. If their mutual fire hadn’t reduced to ashes by then, the flames would at least have started to subside. To lose their potency, their power.
They hadn’t yet, but they would. Such was the way of life.
To you, I will always bring life.
Perhaps, but all things died with time. Like the screen he’d originally deployed between him and her that their passion had reduced to cinders.
He had to admit that being himself—simply himself—as he was with her was a special boon, yet no matter how much he wished to cling to it, he couldn’t. Being with her would end when he left the Vale and returned to Glasgow and his other—controlled, safe, and forever—life.
She stirred. Tightening his arms around her, he shifted onto his side and rested his jaw on the top of her head. All tension leached from her limbs, and she sank into his embrace. As the delectable perfume that spoke to him of her weaved through his mind, sending tendrils into his dreams, he felt again the swell of that golden emotion—amorphous, but powerful and very real—that she and this place seemed to evoke in him, and mentally smiled.
It might be slated to end, but there was no reason not to enjoy it—even to wallow in it—until then.
The arms of Morpheus closed about him and dragged him down.
Lucilla felt him slip over the threshold into sleep. She reached with her senses, checking again, and once again felt reassurance wash through her.
She could feel his contentment like a tangible thing. While she wasn’t a mind reader and couldn’t even guess his thoughts with any certainty, she was increasingly able to read his emotions, especially now that he’d dropped the last barrier he’d used to screen his true persona and engaged with her directly, man to woman, heart to heart.
The breaching of that barrier had been her first real sign of success. The deep contentment that now held him was another.
Earlier in the evening, Marcus had stopped her in the corridor. Her twin had met her gaze and simply asked, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
He hadn’t needed to specify what he was asking about. She’d inwardly frowned but had answered truthfully, “Yes.”
He’d grimaced but had left it at that, and they’d gone down to the drawing room.
Bothered that it had been Marcus who had—again—doubted her, she’d watched Thomas closely, paying attention to his tone, his gestures, to everything she could read in him—and, of course, she had consulted her own feelings and her sense of the Lady’s directives again, but nothing there had changed.
And now the advances she’d hoped for were falling into place.
So she was on the right track, following the right path—the one she was supposed to lead Thomas down. She’d been convinced she needed to bring him to the Vale and keep him there until he understood what he was to her; what she hadn’t fully appreciated was that a part of what he had to see and learn was what she and the Vale were to him. He’d needed to comprehend that his position as her consort was not simply a matter of standing by her side, but that he had a real and active role to fill in the community and the people were ready to accept him.
This—including the bliss of this night in her bed—was how things were meant to be.
All was well and progressing as it should.
Reassured, satisfied, and as deeply content as he, she let herself slide into dreams.
* * *
Thomas enjoyed two more days of bucolic bliss before the pleasant cocoon of life in the Vale fractured and shattered around him.
He’d known this strange time would end, yet he hadn’t expected that end to come in quite such a dramatic fashion.
Not that the final act had yet been played out; that was still to come. Once he’d realized… The right place and the right time to ask his questions was patently after he and Lucilla retired to her room, so with steely resolve, he’d waited through dinner and now sat in the drawing room with her and Marcus.
As they had over the previous evenings, he and Marcus idly discussed this or that—or, as they were presently doing, flicked through the gentlemen’s periodicals with which the manor seemed well supplied, while Lucilla entertained them and herself by strumming airs on her harp.
Those previous evenings had struck him as immensely comfortable; tonight, he was impatient for the tea trolley to arrive. But he was adept at hiding his emotions, a necessity in business negotiations; Marcus, at least, seemed to have no inkling of any storm brewing, of any tension in the air.
Lucilla was more sensitive. She’d been watching him from the instant she’d first seen him after he’d strung the pieces together and had finally seen her design, but he’d made sure she couldn’t see past his façade. That the façade was back in place was, of course, what had alerted her to the change in him.
There was nothing he could do about that; she would just have to wait until they could speak privately and he could drop that screening façade and let her see just how much anger was roiling behind it.
Looking back, the clues had been there all along, on open display from the instant he’d crossed the manor’s threshold, but he hadn’t been aware of what was really going on, and so he hadn’t noted them. But that morning after breakfast, when Lucilla had departed about her daily chores and Marcus had been summoned to deal with a broken fence, leaving him sitting sipping his coffee alone at the high table, a man had approached, introduced himself as the head herdsman, and asked for his opinion on the manor’s herd of Highland ca
ttle.
He’d explained he had little knowledge of the beasts, but the man had seemed set on showing him the manor’s breeding stock, which were accommodated in the nearer pastures; with nothing else on his plate, he’d mentally shrugged and gone. He’d wanted to walk anyway, to check how far he could go without the cane. Although the stitches were still there, and would remain for some days yet, he’d discovered the injury no longer troubled him. So he’d walked the fields, observed the beasts he’d been shown, absorbed quite a lot from the knowledgeable herdsman, and had discovered that, as with the sheep, he hadn’t forgotten snippets he’d picked up long ago and that he did, therefore, have something to say. Something to contribute.
He and the herdsman had parted on good terms.
Immediately after luncheon, the head forester of the estate, a grizzled older man named Gibbins, had stopped him on his way out of the Great Hall and asked for his views on logging. As it happened, he knew considerably more about that subject than about cattle, or even sheep. Gibbins had been excited to hear of his experiences with the export and import of timbers; several others—the other farmers who were involved in logging on the estate—had gathered around, and they’d spent a comfortable hour discussing the current state of the local forests and the demand for various timbers.
Eventually parting from the men, he’d been left with a strange feeling—something about the way the men had looked at him at the end, as if they’d expected something more from him, some directive, but that wasn’t his place.
He’d been ambling toward the library, musing on what might have been behind that air of expectation, when Cook had come hurrying after him.
“Mr. Carrick, sir.” Halting before him, the ruddy-faced woman had bobbed a curtsy. Wiping her hands on her apron, she’d said, “I’ve been meaning to ask, sir, if you could let me have a list of your favorite dishes.” Bright-eyed, she’d rattled on, “What with you joining the household and all, we in the kitchen like to make sure we provide favorite dishes for the family every now and then…”
She’d gone on, but he’d stopped listening, his mind seizing on the words “joining the household” and “for the family.”
That had been the first crack in his pleasant world.
In a daze, he’d agreed to make a list—not that, even then, he’d had any intention of doing so—but saying anything else would have revealed too much, risked exposing too much of the turmoil erupting inside him.
Cook had beamed, dropped another curtsy, and hurried back to her kitchen.
He’d walked on to the library, gone in, and shut the door. He’d been relieved to discover that Marcus wasn’t there.
Over the next two hours, he’d paced before the hearth while his mind had ranged over every incident of the last days—replaying every conversation, reassessing from the perspective of what he now suspected.
Most especially, he’d reviewed every single word he’d exchanged with Lucilla.
And now he waited to have it out with her.
Finally, the tea trolley arrived. She stopped playing, and he and Marcus set down the magazines they’d been perusing.
She poured and handed around the cups, and they all drank. In between sips, they made idle conversation, which, thanks to his years in Glasgow and his reinstituted façade, he managed well enough.
But his impatience was rising, and she, at least, sensed it.
When he set down his empty cup and declared he would retire, she rose with him.
Leaving Marcus picking up a magazine, he and she quit the library and walked to the foyer. They climbed the stairs and, as they had for the past several nights, ignored the door to his room and continued up the turret stairs to her chamber.
She led the way inside; he followed and shut the door.
He turned—to find she’d halted and swung to face him; she was watching him, and for the very first time in all the years he’d known her, her emerald gaze was unsure.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was steady. He sensed she truly had no idea.
He locked his gaze with hers; despite a wish to remain impassive, he felt his jaw clench. “What have you told the people here—the household and all those in the Vale—about me? About why I’m here?”
She frowned in open puzzlement. “I haven’t told them anything.” She shook her head. “I haven’t discussed you at all.”
“Ah.” He’d left his cane in his room; he wished he had it—something to grip, to have in his hands. He remained where he was, his back to the door, and kept his gaze locked with hers. “So the desire of so many to hear my opinions—on the crops, on the cattle and sheep herds, on the blacksmith’s new forge, on logging, and on so many other matters—is merely them being friendly?” He saw realization flicker in her eyes. “And what about Cook’s request for a list of my favorite foods? Because every now and then, the kitchen likes to provide favorite dishes for the family.”
The flicker steadied and strengthened; realization flooded her features. “Oh.” She blinked, then grimaced. After a second, she refocused on his eyes. “As I said, I haven’t told them anything, but of course, that doesn’t mean they haven’t guessed, doesn’t mean they don’t know.”
“Know what?” He rapped out the question and felt his façade of sophistication fracture and fall. “What do they know that I don’t?”
She studied him for an instant, as if realizing he was dealing with her directly again—without that façade of manners between them—then she drew breath and lifted her head. “That according to the Lady, you are my consort.”
He blinked, sensed a ripple in the atmosphere, and put it down to pure shock. He drew in a breath, then breathed deeper still, forcing himself to take an extended moment to grapple with his surprisingly diverse reactions, to muzzle and suppress them without examining them and allowing them to distract him. That accomplished, he fixed his gaze once more on her eyes and, with carefully reined aggression, asked, “What, exactly, does that mean?”
He needed to hear the whole story, and he needed to hear it directly from her rose-red lips.
They parted, and she said, “My consort is the man fated to be my one true lover, my protector, my husband, the father of my children.”
Again, he felt that odd ripple in his awareness—stronger this time, a schism opening within him as if reality had ruptured. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the cause; her words had evoked, provoked, a torrent of turbulent emotions, half of which he didn’t recognize—he shoved them down, locked them away. He couldn’t want to be her consort—couldn’t want any part of the position, the life, she was defining.
That, apparently, she and everyone else in the Vale had been anticipating he would accept.
As if to confirm that, she added, “He will rule here by my side.”
He frowned. “What about Marcus?”
She shook her head. “His path lies elsewhere. He can’t rule in the Vale—only the Lady of the Vale, the one chosen by the Lady in each generation, can. She and her consort together.”
Me and you together. She didn’t say the words, but he heard them.
It didn’t really matter. This wasn’t the life he wanted—the life he’d chosen, the life he’d spent years crafting for himself. The life he was determined to have.
That life lay in Glasgow, not here.
But anger and resentment simmered—that she’d brought him to this, to feeling the tug he was determined to deny. To feeling the connection with her, with this place—to experiencing again the comfort of his roots, the very real pleasures he’d so steadfastly blocked from his mind.
All that he’d turned his back on long ago. All he’d consistently refused over the years.
Including her.
Yet she had pulled him back—back to where emotions he didn’t want to acknowledge, much less feel, seethed in a restless reckless sea inside him.
And she’d done it deliberately, even after he’d explained it wasn’t what he wanted.
That life here, with her, wasn�
��t something he would accept.
“How long have you believed that your fated one was me?” Some part of him was curious; he wanted to know.
She hesitated, but then she raised her chin and, her gaze still meshed with his, replied, “Since that Christmas Eve we spent in the Fieldses’ cottage. I had suspicions before, but after that, I knew.”
“And you never thought to mention it?” It took effort not to pace, to prowl; he forced himself to remain where he was and return her steady gaze. “We’ve met often enough since, yet not even over the last week and more we’ve spent together did you feel it appropriate to say a single word?”
Her chin firmed. Her eyes narrowed; the green started to sharpen and spark. “When, exactly, could I have told you? You didn’t believe—you still don’t believe. And without some degree of acceptance of the Lady’s power, of her influence, telling you that you were one of Her chosen—chosen to be my consort—would have achieved precisely what?”
Her voice had grown stronger, her accent more clipped. Before he could answer, she went on, “It was patently obvious that the only way you would ever come to accept the position that is rightly yours was if you spent time here—with me, in the Vale—long enough to see and understand for yourself.” She crossed her arms and stared him in the eye. “That was all I could influence—all I could accomplish. All I could do was bring you here and trust that you would open your eyes and see.”
Her plan had worked, but he wasn’t, even now, going to concede. “That’s all very well, but the life of your consort is not the life I want.”
He made the statement coldly, clearly—deliberately brutally. Although she didn’t move a muscle, didn’t flinch, he felt her reaction—he might as well have slapped her.
But then a furious flame erupted in her eyes; she seemed to grow taller as she lowered her arms and raised her chin. Her eyes seared his. “So. You’ve decided on a particular path, and no matter what evidence is laid before you—nor how compelling that evidence is—you will not turn aside.” Her voice resonated, thick with power—the power of her personality, of all she was. Ruthlessly, with a harshness all her own, she stated, “The path you’ve chosen is the wrong path, but because it’s the one you’ve decided on, you refuse to turn from it. Pigheaded doesn’t begin to describe you, for in this you are deliberately harming yourself.”
The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Page 30
