The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  Prudence, Catriona knew, entertained few thoughts of marriage, reasoning that horses were much more accommodating beasts.

  Given the males Prudence had spent her life surrounded by, Catriona had to admit that, as far as it went, Prudence’s reasoning was sound. Cynster males, and those like them, were only as accommodating as a lady could persuade them to be.

  Or, as usually happened, love persuaded them to be.

  Catriona glanced at the Cynster by her side. They’d been married for nearly three decades, and the magic was still there, as was the love. For them, for all those like them, love was the great leveler between the sexes—the critical element required to make a marriage work.

  As they moved on through the crowd, Catriona heard Lucilla laugh. She glanced across and saw her daughter look up at the man she had taken to her bed—the man that, Lady-chosen or not, Lucilla had brought to her side, and together they had bound themselves with love and passion.

  They had the right foundation; Catriona had no doubt they would thrive.

  Richard leaned close and whispered in her ear, “One down, four to go.”

  Catriona smiled. “Time enough for the others. Today is all Lucilla and Thomas’s.”

  And yet…through the crowd, Catriona glimpsed a head of pale blond ringlets at the far side of the lawn.

  Niniver Carrick. Thomas’s cousin had given Thomas and Lucilla a female deerhound as a wedding gift; no one was quite sure where she had got the elegant brindle-coated animal, as most had thought the Carrick kennel sold and dispersed. Marcus, meanwhile, had given Thomas and Lucilla a male deerhound from the line he was breeding. There hadn’t been any collusion; the match was simply a happy coincidence.

  In Catriona’s world, happy coincidences were often signs.

  Thomas and Lucilla had, for reasons not even they could explain, wanted the deerhounds at the church. Niniver had offered to hold them. As Marcus had stood as one of Thomas’s groomsmen, the offer had been welcomed.

  But that now left Niniver holding the young pups on leashes to one side of the lawn, out of the crush of the crowd, yet a potent magnet for every one of the many children, Cynster and local alike, who was there.

  Niniver was a quiet, reclusive beauty. Catriona doubted that Niniver liked crowds, yet she was surrounded by a veritable army, all demanding and questioning…

  Marcus must have realized the same thing. He arrived, and moving around to stand beside Niniver, he wisely made no move to take the leashes from her, but started to intercept the questions—and the children, both those who knew him and those who did not, responded to his presence and focused on him, allowing Niniver to breathe.

  Even from a distance, Catriona could see the relief in Niniver, in the loosening of her muscles, in the lines of her face. In the grateful glance she threw Marcus, even though he didn’t notice.

  Catriona watched for a minute more, then—satisfied that all was well on that front, too—moved on.

  “But how fast can they run?” Eleven-year-old Persephone Cynster stood at the rear of the crowd of children and directed her question not at Marcus but at the blond goddess beside him. “Faster than a horse?”

  “For a time.” Niniver looked down at the shaggy head she was stroking; the pups were fretting, wanting to run and leap—initially on all the nice friendly people in their Sunday best.

  “They can run faster than horses for a short way.” Marcus stepped in before Persephone, with the unflinching confidence of her heritage, could further interrogate Niniver. “But they can’t keep that pace up for long—nowhere near as long as a horse can run.”

  He could see that Persephone—intrigued by the fact that it was a girl who had control of the dogs—wanted to pursue Niniver, but Niniver was there, where he knew she truly didn’t want to be, partly because of him, and he wouldn’t have her badgered. Appealing with a look to several of the local boys, who were crouched as close as they could get to the dogs, he invited a question—and they obliged with alacrity. Most were, he noted, Carrick clansmen.

  Given the interest shining in their eyes, he had to wonder from whom Niniver had got Eir, the female she’d given Thomas and Lucilla. Marcus would have sworn the hound was a purebred from the old Carrick line, and Thomas had mentioned that breeding was still going on somewhere on the Carrick estate—he hadn’t been surprised to see Niniver arrive at the door with the squirming bundle under her arm.

  Thomas would know, or could guess, from whom she’d got the dog; Marcus made a mental note to pick his new brother-in-law’s brain.

  He glanced over the crowd at his twin and her new husband and found himself grinning. He would ask, but maybe not tonight.

  “No,” he replied to the next question. “Their coats are never flat and smooth.”

  And, speaking of smooth, he gave thanks that, thus far, the crowd and the width of Thomas’s shoulders had blocked Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher from noticing where he’d gone. If any of the three sighted Niniver, they’d be over to lend a hand in a flash, but situated as they had been at the front of the church, they hadn’t known she was there, at the rear holding the dogs, and she’d come out ahead of the rest of the congregation. Thus far, she was safe.

  While he knew none of his cousins would intentionally do anything to hurt or harm Niniver, he was also convinced that them not noticing her would be best all around for everyone.

  He wasn’t sure how he would screen her from them at the wedding breakfast in the Great Hall, but he would worry about that later.

  Right now, he had children to deflect, and Niniver to protect from their constant encroachment. He pointed to three little boys who’d been sidling nearer. “Back. We don’t want to startle the dogs.”

  Or Niniver; she was jumpy enough as it was. He could all but feel her nervous tension.

  He wished he could do something to ease it, but the best he could do was keep the children amused and that weight, at least, off her shoulders.

  In the middle of the crowd, grasping the distraction created by Antonia Rawlings joining their group, Thomas dipped his head toward Lucilla’s. “Have you seen Manachan?”

  She looked around. “No. And I have been looking.”

  So had Thomas. After their engagement had been announced, he and Lucilla had wanted to call on Manachan, to confirm that his recovery was progressing and also to learn if he’d made any headway in identifying who had been behind the various incidents on the estate, but the day after their banns had first been read, Manachan had written, both to heartily congratulate them and to ask them to stay away.

  He’d written that matters were tense within the clan, and he would appreciate it if they kept their distance at that time.

  They had, of course, acceded to that request. Their lingering concerns had been somewhat allayed when Manachan had responded to the invitation to the wedding, both on behalf of the clan and of himself and his family, declaring that they would all be present.

  But Manachan hadn’t come forward to take the position reserved for him at the end of the front pew. Thomas and Lucilla had both noticed the empty spot, but as yet they’d seen none of the Carrick family other than Niniver, who was presently engaged.

  “I can’t imagine,” Lucilla said, “that after what he wrote, he wouldn’t have come. Perhaps he didn’t feel up to being swallowed by the crowd and stayed at the back of the church.”

  Thomas nodded. If Manachan had stayed back, Nigel, Nolan, and Norris would have, too. Raising his head, he scanned the crowd. “Perhaps we should circulate and see if he’s by the edges somewhere.”

  Lucilla squeezed his arm. “We should circulate anyway, but that’s an added incentive.”

  Turning to her cousins and Antonia, she excused the pair of them, and they moved into the crowd.

  A stone wall surrounded the church grounds, keeping the crowd tightly packed; the day was fine, if cool, and no one was in any great hurry to pile back into their coaches. For all those present, weddings were gatherings designed to catch
up with family and friends; everyone was content to stand in the fresh air and chat.

  Several chairs had been carried out from the church and set here and there. Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives—old and frail but with eyes that still saw everything—sat in one, commanding a small circle of attendants; Lucilla and Thomas had already paid their respects, so they didn’t pause there, but continued wending around the edges of the crowd.

  They finally found Manachan; he was standing at one corner of the lawn, leaning heavily against the stone wall and gripping two canes, both planted in the lawn to either side.

  His hat was pulled low over his face, and a fine woolen scarf swathed his jaw, rising nearly to his beak of a nose.

  When Lucilla and Thomas reached him, Manachan dipped his head as low as he could. “Congratulations to you both.” He straightened, and his piercing eyes, just visible in the shadow cast by his hat’s brim, lifted to Thomas’s face. “You’ve made me very proud, boy. Your father and mother would have been thrilled.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I did tell you to learn to think with your heart and not just your head.”

  “You did, indeed.” Thomas dipped his head; although his uncle was swathed top to toe, with only a small section of his face visible, it was clear the earlier improvement in Manachan’s health hadn’t lasted. Lowering his voice, he asked, “How are you?”

  Edgar was, as ever, at Manachan’s side. Thomas glanced at Edgar as he spoke—and was even more disturbed by the stony blankness in Edgar’s expression. Rather than meet Thomas’s gaze, Edgar stared straight ahead.

  Manachan waved irritably. “I’m well enough—well enough to be here to see you wed.”

  Lucilla’s eyes had narrowed on his face. “Which means you’re not as well as you should be.” She would have stepped closer and peered at Manachan’s face, examined his eyes, but he shifted one of his canes into her path, forestalling her.

  “Never you mind about me. As I told all of my dear family”—Manachan flicked one of his canes toward Nigel and Nolan; having spotted Thomas and Lucilla speaking with Manachan, the pair had detached from the crowd and were approaching—“I will not be the black witch at your wedding.”

  Nigel halted beside Thomas, his gaze on his father. “We tried to tell him you wouldn’t mind if he didn’t come, not given his ill health, but, of course, he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I’m still The Carrick, boy,” Manachan growled. “You mind your manners—and have you wished Thomas and Lucilla well?”

  Nigel’s lips tightened; turning to Thomas, he offered his hand. “Congratulations, cuz.”

  Nolan followed Nigel; releasing Thomas’s hand, he bowed to Lucilla. “Miss—” Nolan paused, then amended, “Mrs. Carrick.” His brows rose and he glanced at Thomas. “I suppose that makes you a part of the clan, too.”

  Lucilla smiled. “Indeed. And my new position gives me an even better right to treat the head of the Carrick clan, don’t you think?” She turned her green gaze on Manachan.

  He held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “Tomorrow. You can come and see me tomorrow afternoon—both of you. But for my sake, promise me you’ll enjoy this day without a care—it’s your wedding day, and by the grace of God and the Lady, you’ll only ever have one.”

  Even shadowed by his hat brim, even though he was physically weak and, it seemed, under some degree of strain, Manachan’s gaze was still strong; Thomas could feel its weight as it rested on him and Lucilla, demanding and compelling acceptance, obedience.

  Inwardly sighing, Thomas inclined his head. “Tomorrow afternoon, then. We’ll call on you then.”

  Manachan went to say something, but his breath caught in his chest. He half bent, wheezed—but when Thomas and Lucilla reached for him, he fended them off. “No—off you go. You’ve your other guests to see to.” He managed to breathe again. Straightening, he continued, “Now I’ve seen you and paid my respects, I’m going to head off home.” He looked at Lucilla. “If you see your parents, please give them my regards and my apologies for not dallying to speak with them.”

  “Of course.” The look Lucilla threw Thomas was questioning.

  He understood what she was asking, but Manachan patently did not want any fuss made.

  Pride. He understood the emotion. And given that Manachan seemed even more infirm than he had been before, leaning heavily on Edgar as he pushed away from the wall and turned toward the gate, perhaps his pride was one thing they needed to acknowledge and support.

  Closing his hand about Lucilla’s, he held her beside him as Manachan moved away. “Until tomorrow.”

  Manachan gave a small tilt of his head and continued making his way very slowly toward the gate. Beyond it, Thomas could see his uncle’s carriage waiting in the lane. Two good-looking hacks were tied to the back.

  His gaze on Manachan’s retreating back, Nigel paused beside Thomas. “We’ll follow the carriage home.” Nigel turned away, and Thomas followed his gaze to Norris.

  Manachan’s youngest son had held back, hovering on the edge of the crowd. He dipped his head to Thomas and Lucilla and murmured his congratulations.

  “You’d better fetch Niniver.” Nigel’s tone was hard, as was the gaze he directed at Norris. “The pair of you should go in the carriage with Papa.”

  Norris’s expression remained impassive, but he gave a slight nod. “I’ll get her.” He inclined his head again to Thomas and Lucilla, then turned and made his way into the crowd.

  Lucilla glanced at Thomas, clearly wanting to follow—to question Niniver, the one person who might tell them more about Manachan’s condition.

  Thomas agreed; he gripped her hand and, with brief nods to Nigel and Nolan, parted from them.

  He and Lucilla started back through the crowd, following in Norris’s wake—but there were many who had not yet had a chance to speak with them and wish them well. They progressed by fits and starts. By the time they’d traveled far enough that Thomas could look over the heads, he searched along the wall where Niniver had been, then sighed. “She’s already gone.”

  Lucilla looked up at him. He let her see his welling concern for Manachan; she read his eyes—and he saw the same anxiety reflected in hers. But then she sighed. Leaning closer, she squeezed his arm. “I think this is one of those times we have to accept that whatever will come, will come.”

  He dipped his head and brushed his lips to her temple. “He did want us to enjoy our day.”

  “Indeed.” With a brisk nod, she straightened. “So that’s one thing we can do for him—we can honor his wish.” Settling her arm again in his, she turned him to the next group waiting to speak with them. “And tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’m going to ask Mama and Papa to come with us.”

  Thomas thought that an excellent idea.

  Leaving dealing with tomorrow for tomorrow, he joined with his new wife in honoring his uncle’s wish; thereafter, they devoted themselves to enjoying their day, on every level and in every way.

  * * *

  The wedding breakfast proved a riotous event. Speeches were declared the order of the day, and they were many and varied, from the sincere to the hilarious, delivered by a host of characters ranging from Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, to Christopher Cynster.

  Even Quentin, Winifred, and Humphrey joined in, along with several of Thomas’s old school friends.

  And from noon until late in the afternoon, the feasting rolled on.

  Later, after waving away all those returning to their homes, the contingent who were staying at least until the next day adjourned to the drawing room, the library, the Great Hall, the large schoolroom, or Carter’s attic studio, as their ages, genders, and inclinations disposed them.

  Thomas and Lucilla ended lolling on a sofa at one end of the long library, surrounded by their Cynster peers, along with Antonia Rawlings, who had claimed a small love seat facing the sofa. Sebastian lay sprawled in an armchair, Marcus in another, while Prudence had curled on the other end of the sofa. Michael and
Christopher had elected to lie on their backs on the floor, all but filling the space between sofa and armchairs.

  “So,” Sebastian murmured, his gaze traveling the group, “who’s going to be next?”

  Eyes closed, Michael replied, “Not you.”

  Everyone laughed, but none of them volunteered any further reply.

  Antonia asked whether Thomas and Lucilla had any plans for coming south that year, and the talk, desultory as it was, moved on.

  Thomas listened and learned; he’d never been a part of a family such as the Cynsters, yet in the same way he had so quickly felt at ease with Marcus, so, too, he felt surprisingly relaxed with and accepted by this group—those closest to Lucilla, her particular circle within the larger family.

  And while family was very like clan, in this particular family, while the similarities were there, it still wasn’t quite the same. He finally decided it was because clan was so hierarchical, with so much power vested in the head of the clan, while the Cynsters were a family of powerful individuals, linked by blood and heritage, yet each strong and capable in their own right—the combined strength of the Cynsters would outweigh that of any simple clan.

  And, if anything, they worked together and looked out for each other even more than clansmen did.

  In proof of that, a few hours later, Marcus, Prudence, and Antonia arranged a diversion that allowed Thomas and Lucilla to escape all further imminent teasing and retire.

  Laughing, her hand gripping his, Lucilla rushed up the turret stairs. She hauled him into their room and slammed and bolted the door.

  Laughing, too, he fell back with his shoulders against the door. He tipped his head at the bolt. “Is that really necessary?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lucilla’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling. “You don’t yet know my cousins. Sebastian, Michael, and Christopher are bad enough, although I expect self-preservation will exert at least some tempering influence on them, but the younger ones?” Smiling fondly, she shook her head. “Trust me—we’ll need to exercise great caution when we walk out of that door in the morning.”