The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  He studied her—the light dancing in her emerald eyes, the glow happiness had laid over her skin, the rumpled glory of her hair. Earlier, she’d changed out of her delicate bridal gown into a simple round gown—which was just as well; given the emotions rising within him, he doubted he would have been able to manage the lace without ripping it.

  She was studying him, too.

  Lucilla drank in the reality that was now acknowledged to be hers—her husband. His strength, as always, was blatantly on display in his shoulders and chest, the thews of his arms and thighs. Her gaze swept over him, noting the thick fall of his hair that would feel like silk as she raked her fingers through it, and the telltale tenting of his trousers.

  Passion shimmered in the air, now so potent and powerful between them.

  She raised her gaze to his face, took in the golden embers smoldering in the amber of his eyes.

  His lids were low; he was watching her with the calculation of a lion eyeing its next meal.

  A giggle bubbled up.

  Another joined it, and she laughed, whirled, picked up her skirts, and raced for the bed.

  He caught her before she reached it.

  Thomas swept her up in his arms and tumbled them both onto the bed.

  Onto her silk comforter, into the softness.

  They fell on each other with hands, lips, and tongues. Clothes flew, then they fell into each other, joined and whirled each other on, into and through the heady dance of their passions.

  Of their needs and desires, fueled by their yearnings and their hopes and dreams for now and the future.

  All swirled about them in the confines of her bed.

  And that night, they grabbed all—gave and took and seized everything.

  Every last nuance, every last gasp of ecstasy.

  “I love you.”

  “Never leave me.”

  “You’re mine and I’m yours.”

  “I’m yours until I die.”

  The words fell from their lips—from her, from him—breathed at the last with knowledge and acceptance. With a reverence, a devotion, nothing could hide.

  Between them, they no longer hid anything; no screen or veil was able to hide her heart from him, much less his from her.

  They were ruled by a togetherness that sank deep, abiding and binding.

  This they had; it would be theirs, come what may.

  Ecstasy raked them, shattered, then remade them.

  Separate no more.

  Sated and satisfied, certain at last and buoyed beyond belief, they slumped into each other’s arms, and let their future have them.

  * * *

  Lucilla woke before dawn and knew what she had to do. Turning over in her bed, she rose on one elbow and leaned over Thomas. He was still asleep, held deep, his heavy body more relaxed than she’d ever seen it.

  Framing his face, she kissed him, woke him.

  Drew him down the long slow road that was now theirs to travel. To enjoy these sweet minutes that were solely theirs, to glory in the pleasure of their love.

  She didn’t need to hear him claim the emotion; it lived in his heart, in his mind, his soul, and nothing, she felt certain, would ever mute it, much less cause it to fade.

  Later, eminently pleased with this way of waking up, she lay boneless over his chest and listened to his heart thud.

  When the beat had slowed sufficiently, she raised her head and looked into his eyes.

  At her movement, he’d raised his lids. From beneath his lashes, he searched her face. “What?”

  “I should go—I need to go—to the sacred grove.”

  “To pray?”

  When she nodded, he lightly shook his head as if clearing the cobwebs of sleep away. “What does it say that such a manic idea actually makes sense to me now?”

  She was starting to love the way he made her laugh—usually at the most unexpected times. Growing serious again, she looked into his eyes. Held his gaze. “It’s tradition for the Lady of the Vale—or in my case, the Lady-in-waiting—to introduce her consort to the Lady in the grove. It’s also tradition—one my father keeps to this day—for a consort to keep watch over his lady while she prays.” She hoped he would want to do the same, but she wasn’t sure. “Will you come?”

  “Of course.” He sat up, tumbling her from her position across his chest. “By keeping watch, you mean like Marcus was doing that day I came to plead with you to help the Bradshaws?”

  Climbing from the bed, she nodded. “Just like that. It’s not as if there is any danger—it’s more symbolic.”

  Thomas glanced at her lithe, naked figure as she walked to the washstand. Symbolic be damned. She was very real, and so was the protectiveness he felt—had always felt—for her. He tossed back the covers and rose. “I take it we’ll ride there.”

  * * *

  They did; through the freshness of a late spring dawn just breaking, they cantered across the fields—fields he found himself studying with a proprietary eye. He’d be working alongside Richard managing the estate, the Vale, from now on.

  Upon reaching the sacred grove, they dismounted, leaving their horses in the same area he’d found her black mare and Marcus’s mount long ago. It seemed long ago—so much had happened since—yet in reality only six weeks had passed since he’d last walked down the winding path that led to the heart of the grove.

  The experience, this time, was quite different.

  He’d thought he didn’t believe, but somewhere in some long-forgotten, unrecognized corner of his soul, he must, because now, through Lucilla, through the ceremonial words she used, he could feel the power.

  Old, ancient, it stirred—around him, through him.

  And he had to believe.

  Closing his eyes, he swayed slightly, sensing that power washing around and over him, then sinking through his soul to anchor him.

  Once the introduction was complete, Lucilla led him out to the stone at the entrance to the path. With a quiet word, she left him sitting there and retreated to complete her devotions.

  He sat and stared out at the land spread before him and let his thoughts flow unfettered. Let appreciation of land, of place, of people, of family and clan rise up and claim him.

  This was their future, his and hers, to protect and guide and nurture.

  This was his place, here, beside her.

  Finally, he’d found his true home, his true role. The life he needed to be all he could be—all he had it in him to be.

  He breathed deeply; closing his eyes, he held the pristine air in his lungs and gave thanks—to Fate, to God, to the Lady—for all he had found, for all life had offered him.

  For all he would hold to the end of his days.

  EPILOGUE

  After a noisy, boisterous breakfast, one blessed with a great deal of laughter, most of the remaining guests departed through the morning.

  Lucilla stood on the porch and, one arm linked with Thomas’s, waved them away. “I’m glad they all came, but I have to confess I’m happy enough to see them go.” Meeting Thomas’s eyes, she saw the questioning lift of his brows, and smiled. “I’m eager to get on establishing our version of married life.”

  He chuckled and bent to kiss her—lightly—then, twining his fingers with hers, he allowed her to tow him back into the house.

  The luncheon gong boomed as they entered, so they continued on into the Great Hall. Holding Lucilla’s chair, then subsiding into the one next to it—into his already accustomed place—Thomas looked out over the hall, at those filing in and gathering at the tables in response to the gong’s summons. Not everyone came in for luncheon; regardless, he felt pleased that he could already put a name and occupation to most of those present.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask”—Marcus dropped into the chair on Lucilla’s other side—“from whom did Niniver get Eir? She couldn’t be one of the dogs spirited away before Nigel could sell them—she’s too young. So who’s overseeing the breeding now—presumably without Nigel’s knowledge?”


  Thomas swallowed a mouthful of rich chicken soup. “I’m not really sure. They’re keeping the pack at old Egan’s place.”

  Marcus picked up his soup spoon but didn’t start eating. He frowned. “Could it be Niniver herself? She seemed very capable with the dogs, very competent in handling the pups.”

  “I doubt it’s just her, but undoubtedly with her help.” Thomas looked down at his bowl. “Possibly under her direction. I think they have not quite half, but the better half of the original breeders. But whatever you do, don’t mention that to anyone. I assume Nigel saw Eir at the church, but he might not know she was a gift from Niniver, and even if he does, I’m certain he doesn’t know where she got the pup from.”

  Marcus was staring out at the hall, but he nodded. “The secret’s safe with me.” He stirred his soup, then added, “Nigel was a fool to sell off the dogs—the litters had always brought in a nice sum to the estate. No one could understand why he did it.”

  “I certainly don’t.” Thomas felt his jaw clench, then Lucilla laid a hand on his arm.

  Leaning forward, she caught her mother’s eye and proceeded to explain their concerns about Manachan’s health and also, given the decline in his strength, that they feared the problems that had beset the estate might still be unresolved.

  Thomas glanced at Richard. “As you know, Manachan hadn’t wanted us to call at Carrick Manor before the wedding, and when we spoke with him yesterday, he insisted that we did nothing but enjoy the day—”

  “But he agreed that we could call on him this afternoon.” Lucilla looked at her mother, then transferred her gaze to her father. “We thought it might be helpful if you could accompany us.” She looked back at Catriona. “Both of you.”

  Richard considered, then exchanged a glance with Catriona. Then he nodded. “That sounds an eminently sensible idea.” He paused, then added, “There have been a lot of strange decisions taken on the Carrick estate over the last year, and while none of us—the surrounding landowners—would dream of interfering—” He broke off with a short laugh. “Not that Manachan would ever allow us to, but still, we’ve noticed and wondered.”

  “Which is to say,” Catriona said, regally gracious, “that your plan is a sound one. We’ll leave immediately luncheon is done.”

  * * *

  Rather than taking a carriage, they rode, albeit via the road. Both Lucilla’s and Catriona’s mounts bore saddlebags stuffed with herbs and potions; Thomas had felt the bottles as he’d tied Lucilla’s bag to her saddle.

  Marcus had wanted to come, but they’d decided that that might make their party look too much like an invasion. Manachan had a long history of taking offense over such minor social nuances.

  So the four of them trotted two abreast, Thomas and Lucilla in the lead, Catriona and Richard close behind, up the long drive to Carrick Manor.

  They rounded the last curve and the front of the house, sitting beyond the gravel forecourt, came into view. A small figure huddled at the top of the steps. Riding closer, they recognized Niniver’s pale blond hair. Her shoulders were slumped; she looked dejected and forlorn. She was twisting a limp handkerchief in her hands.

  The face she raised to them as, alarmed, they reined in, dismounted, and rushed to her, was tear-ravaged, her blue eyes awash, puffy and red-rimmed.

  “Oh, my dear.” Catriona sank down beside Niniver and gathered her in. “What is it?”

  Leaning against Catriona, Niniver gulped and weakly waved. “He’s gone—Papa. He didn’t wake this morning. Eventually, Edgar—his man—tried to rouse him and realized…” She hiccupped. “He was so set on attending the wedding—we all argued, but he wouldn’t stay at home…and now he’s dead.” She caught her breath on a sob. “And Nigel’s disappeared, too.”

  Niniver ducked her head, dabbing at her face with the sodden handkerchief.

  Thomas’s face had set. He exchanged a look with Richard. Catriona waved them to go in; leaving Niniver with her, Thomas and Richard climbed the steps and headed for the open front door. Lucilla debated, then followed them.

  Halting in the foyer, Thomas looked around and saw no one—no footman, no Ferguson. But a rumble of voices came from the direction of the servants’ hall. Thomas called, “Ferguson!”

  A second passed, then heavy footsteps came hurrying along the corridor. Ferguson appeared. He looked at Thomas, Richard, and Lucilla and visibly sagged with relief. “Thank God you’re here, Mr. Thomas, sir—the master’s dead, Mr. Nigel’s disappeared, Mr. Nolan’s refusing to send for the doctor, Mr. Norris is no use to anyone, and Miss Niniver is distraught—and none of us knows what’s best to do.”

  Others had followed Ferguson; Sean, Mitch, Fred, Mrs. Kennedy, Gwen, and several maids and footmen crowded into the hall behind the butler. All looked shocked and also incipiently angry.

  Sean explained the latter. “Nigel should be here, but he’s gone off, and no one knows to where. What use is that?”

  Others murmured darkly in agreement.

  Thomas agreed, too, but in Nigel’s absence… “Where’s Nolan?”

  “Sitting with his da’s dead body in his room,” Sean said. “Edgar’s there, too.”

  Thomas nodded. “We’ll go up.” To Ferguson, he said, “Lady Cynster is on the front steps with Niniver—you might see if they wish to move to the drawing room, and I’m sure a pot of tea would be welcome.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.” Mrs. Kennedy bustled forward. “Come on.” She tugged Ferguson’s sleeve. “We can at least give Miss Niniver what comfort we can—only one of the lot of ’em who’s crying for her dad.”

  Thomas exchanged a glance with Lucilla as, side by side, they made for the stairs. Richard followed close behind.

  They reached Manachan’s room and found the door ajar. Quietly pushing it open, Thomas led the way in. He walked into Manachan’s bedroom and halted just past the threshold. His uncle lay on his back, his hands clasped over his chest. The shadows cast by the curtains screening the head of the bed largely hid his face; he might have simply been sleeping.

  But Nolan sat by the side of the bed, one arm stretched out, his hand on his father’s sleeve; his head was bowed, resting on his outstretched arm. Edgar stood on the other side of the bed, almost in the corner of the room. His expression was devastated, his complexion ashen. He’d been with Manachan for a very long time.

  Thomas inclined his head to Edgar and moved further into the room.

  At the rustle of Lucilla’s gown, Nolan raised his head. He looked at them almost blearily, as if he’d been asleep, then he blinked and dragged in a huge breath. His face, always pale, looked strained, his features edging toward haggard. Slowly straightening, he waved vaguely at his father’s body. “As you can see, he’s gone.”

  Thomas felt that truth—the realization that his uncle had, indeed, passed on—close about his heart, tightening his chest almost unbearably…but then Lucilla slipped her hand into his and lightly gripped, and the pressure eased. The weight of grief remained, but not the strangling sensation. He gripped lightly back, then drew in a breath. “The doctor needs to be sent for.”

  Nolan snorted. “What for?” He slumped back in the chair and stared at the body. “He’s dead, and nothing any quack can do is going to bring him back.”

  “Be that as it may,” Richard said, “the law dictates that in the matter of the death of a landowner, a doctor must attend the body and issue a certificate.”

  Nolan’s expression darkened; mulishly, he shook his head. “He wouldn’t have wanted any quack poking at him.” He looked at Thomas and Lucilla. “You know how he felt.”

  “What he might have wanted is beside the point,” Richard calmly replied. “Not even for The Carrick will the law bend.”

  Nolan slouched in the chair. He crossed his arms and stared broodingly at Manachan’s body. Raising a hand, he bit the nail of one thumb; he didn’t look at Thomas, Richard, or Lucilla again.

  Thomas looked at Edgar.

  He stirred and gl
anced briefly at Nolan. “I’ll get Sean to send one of the grooms for the doctor.”

  Thomas nodded. “Thank you.”

  When Edgar had left, closing the door behind him, Thomas refocused on Nolan. “Where’s Nigel?”

  Without looking at Thomas, Nolan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Thomas felt Lucilla slip her fingers free of his; quietly, she walked around the bed, her goal clearly the small table beside its head and the bottle of tonic that stood there.

  “When last did you see Nigel?” Richard asked.

  Looking at the nail he’d been biting, Nolan replied, his voice all but toneless, “Yesterday. We rode away from the wedding following Papa’s carriage, but we didn’t stick to the road—we cut across the fields.” Nolan shifted on the chair, sitting straighter. “Nigel pulled up about halfway home. He said he wanted to ride for a while. I pointed out that Papa was ill, but he brushed me off and said that if I cared, I should ride on to the manor. Then he took off. He…was in one of his wild moods. I decided I should let him go and come back here, so I did.”

  “He hasn’t returned since then?” Richard asked.

  Nolan sullenly replied, “I don’t know—I haven’t seen him, but someone else might have. But he wasn’t at breakfast, and he isn’t around now. And Sean said his horse isn’t in the stable.”

  Thomas shifted. “How was Manachan when he reached home?”

  Nolan lifted a shoulder. “As well as he’s been these last few days.” He paused, then grudgingly added, “He’s been getting steadily weaker for about the last week.” Nolan jerked his chin at the door. “Edgar and the others can tell you.”

  Half screened from Nolan by the fall of the bed curtain, Lucilla had been studying the bottle of restorative; it was a replacement for the one she’d left with Manachan weeks ago. She’d tested a drop of the tonic on her tongue, and it had tasted as it should; Manachan hadn’t grown weak through any fault of Alice’s. She set down the bottle and, frowning, turned—and looked directly at Manachan’s face.