The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

  Lucilla laughed. “I take it you harbor no fond dreams of going into the ton, or even joining society in Edinburgh or Glasgow.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Niniver shook her head. After a moment, she looked across and met Lucilla’s eyes.

  Somewhat to her surprise, behind the pretty blue of Niniver’s eyes, Lucilla saw a mind far more shrewd, quick, and calculating than she’d expected to see.

  “You probably understand better than most,” Niniver said, “being so centrally involved with your clan—even if you don’t call it a clan, the people of the Vale are that, aren’t they?” When Lucilla inclined her head, Niniver went on, “I was born here, in this house, on this land. I’ve lived here all my life, and although everyone assumes that, at some point, I’ll marry and move away, I…don’t think I want to. No—I already know I don’t want to.” Her blue gaze open and true, Niniver held Lucilla’s eyes. “This is my home—I care about the place and I care about the people. My roots are here, and that’s important to me.”

  Lucilla saw the strength in Niniver’s delicate jaw, read the steadiness in her gaze—sensed the backbone her small frame and fairy-like features disguised. She nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

  She recognized devotion when she saw it.

  Niniver’s features eased. After a moment, she arched a brow. “Should I ring for tea?”

  Lucilla waggled her head. “Not yet. Let’s give them a few minutes more.”

  Niniver glanced at the pianoforte sitting in one corner. “I don’t play—or at least, not well—so I can’t entertain you with music.”

  Lucilla grinned. “I do play, but I don’t feel so inclined.” She hesitated, but finding Niniver to be something of a kindred soul was too good an opportunity to pass up. “You could entertain me by telling me about a topic I would like to know more about.”

  Niniver’s blue gaze fixed on her. “Thomas?”

  With Niniver’s powers of observation confirmed, Lucilla nodded. “I’ve realized I know little about his background, and I’m curious.” Mainly about his connection with the Lady, but she didn’t want to reveal that much. “His relationship with Manachan and your brothers is…not quite as I expected, given Thomas and Nigel must be of similar age.”

  “Thomas is the elder by thirteen months.” Niniver leaned back, getting more comfortable. “And there’s another thirteen months between Nigel and Nolan.”

  “I’ve always assumed Thomas was born here.”

  Niniver nodded. “He was. However, he didn’t grow up here. His parents—Uncle Niall and Aunt Katherine—lived in Glasgow. I’ve been told that they used to come here for all the holidays, so Thomas knew the clan and they knew him. I gather Uncle Niall—I can only just remember him—was well liked by everyone. He and Papa got along very well—I can still remember them laughing together, and coming in from hunting together. They were close, up until Uncle Niall and Aunt Katherine died in a carriage accident. I was only little at the time, and Norris was a baby. Our mama had died shortly after Norris’s birth. And then Uncle Niall and Aunt Katherine died, too, and Thomas came to live here with us.”

  “How old was he then?”

  Niniver screwed up her face in thought. “Ten—he must have been ten years old. He stayed for a year or so, and then he went to Glasgow, to go to school and live with Aunt Katherine’s brother, Quentin Hemmings, and his wife, Winifred, and his son Humphrey, who is the same age as Thomas. From what I’ve gathered, Papa and Quentin, who were Thomas’s co-guardians, thought that with Thomas inheriting half of Carrick Enterprises, he needed to learn about business and Glasgow.” Niniver lifted a shoulder. “And with Nigel to take over after Papa, there wasn’t any reason for Thomas to learn all that much about the estate.”

  Lucilla managed not to look puzzled; there had to be more. “How much time did Thomas spend here after he went to live in Glasgow?”

  “Not that much. He came for the holidays, and sometimes stayed for a month or so in summer.” Niniver shifted. “In those days, he was closer to Nigel and Nolan, but the older they grew, the more…different they became.” She frowned. “Ever since they reached twenty or so, Thomas has seemed much older, much more mature and reliable than Nigel and Nolan.” Niniver glanced across and met Lucilla’s eyes. “Much more adult.”

  There was no arguing that, but what about Thomas’s connection to the land? How had that evolved, and when? Although he’d been born with a link to the Lady, time was generally needed for such a bond to grow, strengthen, and mature.

  Lucilla glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We should probably ring for the tea trolley.”

  While Niniver rose and went to tug the bellpull, Lucilla inwardly frowned over what she’d thus far learned of Thomas’s past.

  She’d assumed he’d been born in the Lady’s lands, under her mantle, and he had been.

  He was Lady-touched; that was beyond question. Lucilla knew it, and Marcus did, too.

  But given Thomas had spent so little time on the Lady’s lands, either in childhood or as an adult, did he know he was Lady-touched? Did he understand what it meant?

  Most important of all, did he know he was Lucilla’s Lady-ordained consort?

  He had to know, surely?

  But if he didn’t understand about the Lady…

  When Thomas walked into the drawing room ahead of the tea trolley, Lucilla’s gaze locked on him.

  He saw and arched a brow. “The others have retired.” He came forward and sat in the other armchair, shoulders square against the padded back, his long legs bent.

  Despite the question humming in her brain, Lucilla drank in the inherent masculine strength on display; for a large man, he possessed a certain fluid grace, one that brought to mind the flexibility of steel rather than the rigidity of iron.

  “Shall I pour?”

  Niniver’s question broke the spell. Lucilla glanced at her. Ferguson had positioned the tea trolley between the sofa and her armchair. Lucilla smiled. “Please.”

  Niniver did the honors, and Thomas passed Lucilla her cup, then accepted one himself. Lifting her own cup and saucer, Niniver sat back.

  Lucilla sipped. She wanted to ask Thomas about his understanding of the Lady, but she couldn’t think of any subtle way to introduce the topic.

  She felt Niniver’s gaze as she, too, sipped, then Niniver lowered her cup and looked at Thomas. “How are your uncle and aunt? And Humphrey?”

  In other circumstances, Lucilla would have listened, eager to learn more about Thomas’s life. Instead, she felt consumed by a welling urgency to confirm that he knew, that he understood—that he recognized what he was to her and, conversely, what she was to him.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, her thoughts in a whirl, but her cup was empty when Niniver delicately smothered a yawn, then, somewhat unexpectedly, rose. “I’m for bed. I’ll see you both at breakfast.” Setting her cup and saucer on the trolley, Niniver walked out of the room.

  Leaving Lucilla blinking after her. Then she glanced at Thomas and saw his understanding grin.

  “Just as well we’re not in London. Or even Glasgow.” He set his cup and saucer on the trolley, then reached for hers.

  Lucilla surrendered it. And mentally shook her wits into place. Niniver had handed her an opportunity—one she needed to use. “I…” She feigned a grimace. “I don’t always sleep well when away from the Vale. I would like to stroll in the fresh air for a short while before I try to sleep, but I don’t know where would be appropriate.” She met Thomas’s eyes and made sure her own gaze was limpid, devoid of intent. “Will you walk with me? I would prefer not to walk alone.”

  Thomas studied her green eyes. He could see no calculation therein, yet…he was fairly certain there was a subtle threat in her last sentence. She would walk alone if he didn’t go with her—and he didn’t want her walking alone, not with even the vaguest possibility that they might have a murderer lurking.

  That said…while he would trust her with his life, he wasn’t sure
he could trust her in this. Could afford to trust her in this. He could remember all too well—indeed, with senses-stealing clarity—just what had happened the last time they’d strolled. Yes, she’d tripped. Yes, he’d caught her. But that kiss…she’d initiated that all on her own.

  And she’d snared him. Hauled him out of his carefully controlled environment and shown him just what she represented.

  Something elemental. Something so viscerally powerful and potent that if he surrendered to it, it would swallow him—all he was—whole.

  He shouldn’t walk with her.

  Yet every instinct he possessed, every fiber of his being, wouldn’t allow him to let her take even the small risk of walking outside alone at night.

  He didn’t let any of his thoughts reach his surface. Instead, he inclined his head. “Yes. Of course.” Uncrossing his legs, he rose.

  CHAPTER 7

  The side terrace ran along the length of the disused wing. That side of the house was clear of shrubbery; the terrace lay bathed in faint moonlight, devoid of shadows and with no bushes crowding the balustrade anywhere along its length.

  It was the perfect place to stroll, knowing that no danger could approach unseen.

  Of course, for him, the biggest danger walked by his side.

  Lucilla was, indeed, plotting how to gain the insight she needed into his mind. Now that the question of what he understood about the Lady—about them—had risen, she couldn’t concentrate on anything else. She doubted conversational inquiry would get her anywhere, or at least not get her the answers she wanted; she needed to shift their interaction to a different, more personal plane.

  But how? He was ambling alongside her, slowing his pace to match hers, yet she sensed he was alert.

  Given their shared kiss that afternoon—a highly satisfactory mutual endeavor—she wasn’t sure what he might be anticipating. A repeat performance?

  The notion held significant appeal.

  While the far end of the terrace overlooked the drive as it swept into the stable yard, the nearer reaches were abutted by empty stretches of lawn, and the rooms alongside and above were uninhabited; their privacy appeared assured. But how best to use it?

  How best to use it to gain all she desired?

  Abruptly, she halted; they hadn’t been touching, so it took him an instant to realize she had.

  She waited until he halted, too, and turned to face her.

  Before his eyes could find her face, she stepped forward, hooked a palm about his nape, stretched up, and kissed him.

  Again.

  And, once again, she felt his instantaneous response.

  Reassured, she stepped into him, into his arms as they rose and locked about her.

  Into the kiss as it spun out, on, in a glorious upsurge of passion.

  Angling her face the better to meld her lips with his, on her toes, she pressed closer yet. Glorying in the warm, solid wall of his chest, of his body so heated against hers, she twined her arms about his neck, clung, and gave herself up to delight.

  And felt him grip her tight.

  She’d parted her lips and welcomed him in; as he surged deep, claimed, and took possession, she rejoiced.

  This was the reality she’d wanted to touch, the plane she’d wanted to reach.

  The one based on, built on, that necessary understanding.

  Plunged into a whirlpool of passion and desires, Thomas was lost, just as he had been that afternoon—just as, he realized, he always would be with her. Lucilla in his arms, her lips beneath his, her body pressed enticingly to his, was the definition of heaven to his senses.

  A forbidden heaven filled with temptations too alluring to resist.

  He couldn’t prevent his arms from holding, from tightening about her as if to seize and keep her against him, his forever.

  He couldn’t stop his senses from rioting, from drinking in the treasure she offered; the sweetness of her mouth and tongue were an intoxicating nectar.

  The pressure of her breasts against his chest, the long, slender lengths of her thighs trapped between his, the soft pressure of her belly against his erection—all sang a siren song to his whirling mind.

  Addicting. She was that and more; her luscious lips, her supple body, and the vibrant, undeniable fire that burned within her made her the ultimate lure for him.

  The sensation of falling—of simply going and not caring, of relinquishing control without further thought—jerked him back from the invisible brink. And let sanity return enough to recognize that the danger he’d intended to guard against had materialized and blindsided him.

  Caught him. Trapped him.

  He hauled back on his senses, pulled back from the kiss.

  He couldn’t afford to let her influence him, much less allow her to rewrite his path.

  Determination coalesced, hardened.

  But when he raised his head and looked into her eyes, the emerald so dark in the night, and saw the soft flush of pleasure tinting her alabaster cheeks and passion sparking in the depths of those mesmerizing eyes…the truth hit him like a blow.

  She wanted him. Until that moment, he hadn’t thought of her in this, but only of himself. He hadn’t thought of what her actions in kissing him, in initiating such an engagement—not once, but twice—said of her, of her desires.

  But he couldn’t—simply couldn’t—be the man he saw reflected in those eyes. The man she wanted him to be.

  He cleared his throat. Eyes locked with hers, he softly said, “This…isn’t wise.”

  Lucilla blinked, then studied him—searched his eyes, his face. He might have broken the kiss, but he hadn’t—yet—set her from him. That he would at any second was obvious, but for that moment, she was close enough to read him in more ways than the obvious; she detected no hint of true rejection, of denial of what lay between them, in him.

  She didn’t understand why he’d uttered those words, but she had more important issues to address. “What do you know of the Lady?” More than anything else, she needed to know that.

  Carefully, he set her from him—slowly, as if it took concentration to make his arms do as he wished.

  She took heart from that. When she didn’t step back, he did.

  His frown showed more in his eyes than on his face. “The Lady?”

  Thomas had no idea why she wanted to know that—what had so compelled her to ask that of all things, given the circumstances. He took an instant to consider, but the subject seemed safe enough—much safer than what had gone before. So he shrugged and answered honestly. “She’s the local deity in these parts—in your Vale and for some here on the estate, too.”

  That his answer was, for some reason, important to her showed in her intentness, in the way she searched his face.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  She blinked again. Several seconds passed before she replied, “Niniver happened to mention that you haven’t, through your life, spent all that much time here. I…thought you had spent more.” She shrugged. “So I asked.”

  To his surprise, she turned and started walking again, albeit more slowly. Her fingers lacing over her waist, her expression suggested she was both disturbed and thinking furiously.

  He fell into step beside her.

  She glanced at him. “But you were born here.”

  Her tone made the words something akin to an accusation, but he replied as if she’d posed a question. “Yes, but only by accident.”

  “Accident?”

  Her tone now held a note of…latent panic? That couldn’t be right. With a touch on her arm, he steered her through a side door and into the house—back into the safety of uncertain privacy. “My parents intended me to be born in Glasgow, but they came for a short stay, and I arrived weeks early.”

  “Ah.”

  Why those details should soothe her, he had no clue, but that single syllable had been infused with relief.

  The shadows in the corridor made it impossible to read her eyes. He had no idea what was
going on in her mind, but he knew without question that keeping distance between them was now imperative. She had to understand and accept that he was not for her, no matter what happened when they kissed.

  They reached the stairway hall. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Do you know the way to your room?”

  Lucilla nodded before she thought. Damn! She watched him step back.

  “I need to speak with Ferguson. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze on her, then he inclined his head. “Good night.”

  She seized one last moment to scrutinize his features, to try to fathom what he was thinking, but failed. Left with little option, she inclined her head in return. “Good night.”

  The last glimpse she had of his face as she turned and, raising her skirts, started up the stairs suggested concealed relief.

  Why?

  What on earth was going on between them? Instead of being the simple, straightforward, obvious path defined by the alignment of similar goals and desires that she’d always envisioned their way forward would be, their path to the altar was increasingly resembling a tangled maze—at least with respect to his intentions. His goals and desires.

  Very rarely did she feel uncertain, but now she felt bemused, unsure—and on this, of all issues, the single issue most critical to determining her future. More, both their futures—his as well as hers.

  She’d walked blindly up the stairs, through the gallery, and along the corridor. Sufficient light fell from the skylight over the stairwell for her to see her way, not that she’d been looking. Reaching the door of the room she’d been given, she opened it, walked through, and shut the door—all still in a daze.

  While she undressed and donned her nightgown, she let her mind range as it would—over all the previous moments she’d shared with Thomas. Revisiting those moments, each separate interaction, critically reanalyzing every word, every look.