She didn’t look up but continued her careful visual examination, scanning down Thomas’s body—to his left calf.
A large shard of splintered rock had embedded itself in the thick muscle.
“Miss?”
She glanced up as Sean crouched beside her.
He looked into her eyes. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and drew in another breath.
Mitch and Fred, hunkering beside Thomas, reached to turn him onto his back.
“No! Don’t move him. Not yet.” The sharpness of her tone had the desired effect; they all froze and looked at her. She nodded again, this time more determinedly, and reached for her usual brisk manner. “There’s a fragment of rock in his calf. See?” She pointed it out; it had been screened from Mitch’s and Fred’s view. “We need to take it out first. Moving him with it still in there risks jiggling it and doing more damage.”
From the fragment’s position, it might well have cut a major blood vessel; she wasn’t going to take any chances.
She’d worn a black silk scarf to the funeral. It still hung about her throat and shoulders—the perfect material from which to fashion a tourniquet. Drawing it off and starting to twist the long length between her hands, she explained to Sean, Mitch, and Fred—and Ferguson and several maids and footmen who came to join them—what they were going to do and why.
Mitch, Fred, and two of the footmen set to work clearing the shattered stone and the remains of the gargoyle, giving her, Sean, and Ferguson a clearer area in which to work.
While Ferguson and Sean cut away Thomas’s trouser leg and applied and tensioned the tourniquet under her direction, she confiscated the maids’ aprons, folded the material into a thick pad, then pressed the pad around the wound—and nodded to Sean to pull out the offending shard. He did and blood gushed, but she immediately pressed down and, using her weight, leaned on the wound. Thomas grunted and stirred, but then fell unconscious once more.
“Just as well,” she muttered. She looked at Sean and Ferguson. “Now we can move him—to his room and his bed.”
Despite her words, she didn’t like the fact that Thomas was still unconscious. But she hadn’t succeeded in finally taking him as her lover only to lose him—that wasn’t going to happen.
* * *
Thomas swam back to consciousness while they were laying him on his bed. Which seemed more than passingly strange. They were all there—Sean, Mitch, Fred, and Ferguson, and other members of the staff…
He tried to remember what had happened, why they were placing him fully clothed on his bed, but his head felt as if it were being used by someone as a drum while also being stuffed full of wool… Ordered thought eluded him.
They laid him down, so very carefully, on his back. His head sank into the pillows, and blinding pain erupted above his left ear. He sucked in a breath even as he registered that one lower leg of his trousers had vanished and there was something tied over his exposed calf—then Lucilla was there, leaning over him, offering him a glass, urging him to drink.
He was parched.
Sean helped raise him, and he drank long and deep.
As they eased him back onto the pillows, his eyes drifted closed, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
When next he awoke, he’d regained full command of his wits. The pain in his head was still there, but had receded to a dull throbbing ache. Unfortunately, it had been joined by a more definite, more focused pain in his left calf. Eyes still closed, he sent his awareness searching; he decided that what he could feel in his leg was the pull of stitches. As for his head, he must have hit it on the terrace flags…
Memory flooded back.
He opened his eyes—and saw Manachan sitting in a chair beside the bed. Thomas scanned the room; no one else was there. He returned his gaze to his uncle’s face. “Lucilla?”
Manachan nodded, as if approving the question. “She escaped unharmed—oh, a few scratches and a bruise or two, maybe, not that she’s admitted to even that much.”
Thomas frowned. “Where is she?” She’d been there earlier, when they’d laid him on the bed; he remembered that much. And his leg had been stitched—her handiwork, no doubt. A glance at the windows beyond Manachan showed the fading light of late afternoon. It had been late morning when he and Lucilla had gone out on the terrace… He met Manachan’s eyes. “What happened?”
“You and Lucilla were walking on the terrace when someone pushed one of the gargoyles off the roof with the clear intention of killing you. You, her, or both of you—clearly they didn’t care which.” Manachan made the statement with no inflection, simply stating facts. “Ferguson and Edgar went up and checked—there’s no other explanation. A statute that heavy doesn’t shift a foot or more to fall on its own.”
When he simply lay there, staring unseeing past his uncle while taking all that in, and said nothing, Manachan added, “I heard about the adder, too.”
Thomas refocused on Manachan’s face, then sighed. “A man turned up in Lucilla’s room last night. She woke and saw him creeping toward the bed, a cushion in his hands. She screamed, and he fled. I saw his back at the end of the corridor, but I couldn’t tell who he was. He was wearing a cowled cloak, so she didn’t see his face, either.”
Manachan grunted and scowled. “That’s even worse.”
“I was trying to persuade her to leave—and not getting anywhere—when that damned statue fell.” Thomas gritted his teeth and pulled himself up to sit with the pillows at his back. Grimly, he stated, “After this, I’ll make sure she goes.” After a moment, still frowning, he glanced at Manachan. “In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t already sent her packing.”
Manachan studied him for a long moment—then, to Thomas’s disquiet, his uncle grinned. “You’ve come along nicely. I always knew you would. You’ve learned to think with your head, which is all well and good, and especially necessary for running a business or any other enterprise. But, my boy, you haven’t finished evolving yet.” Manachan wagged a stubby finger in gentle admonishment. “You need to learn to think with your heart as well as your head. That’s what connects us to others, to those we need to be closest to as well as to our communities, such as clan. Such as family. If you don’t learn to think with your heart, you might amass all the wealth in the world, but you won’t have anyone to share it with. You won’t have anyone to share your life with, and then what use will it be?”
Thomas was momentarily at sea, unsure how his uncle’s sudden lurch into philosophy connected with any of the topics they needed to discuss.
Yet with no more than a pause for breath, Manachan rolled on, “I want you to take Lucilla back to the Vale, and then I want you to turn north and head on back to Glasgow.”
Thomas blinked.
Before he could argue, Manachan continued, “You need to recuperate, and you can’t do that here.” Manachan’s blue eyes met Thomas’s, and there was no give in Manachan’s steely gaze. “You can’t remain on the estate because, for whatever reason—and clearly there is some very pertinent reason—someone here, someone in the clan, doesn’t want you—or Lucilla—around, and their antipathy toward the pair of you extends to the point of murder.”
Manachan paused. “I can’t have that.” His jaw firmed. “As Laird of the Carricks, I can’t allow that.”
And suddenly Thomas was very aware that he was, indeed, facing The Carrick. His uncle’s strength had returned in no small measure. Even while he rejoiced in that improvement and delighted in his own satisfaction that Lucilla had been able to restore Manachan to such a degree, he also recognized that dealing with a restored Manachan would be very much more difficult than dealing with a run-down Manachan had been.
As if reading his mind, Manachan continued, “As leader of the clan, I’m ultimately responsible for yours and Lucilla’s health while you’re on clan lands. More, you’re my dead brother’s son, and as dear to me as he was.” Manachan stirred in the chair. “And as you can see, I’m not
dead yet, and thanks to Lucilla’s tonics, I’m now well enough and able enough to do what needs to be done.”
He caught and held Thomas’s gaze. “Yes, something is going on here—something that can’t be tolerated. Not by the clan, not by me. You haven’t yet told me the whole of it, but you will—before you leave. Because I won’t be able to get to the bottom of it, whatever it is, while you’re here. That’s a simple fact—one of the heart—that I understand, and that you must accept.”
Manachan paused, his gaze shifting, turning inward as if he were consulting some map, some plan. “The lairdship was never to be yours, and to your credit, and to your father’s before that, neither of you ever challenged that truth. More, you’ve both honored it, which is something all the clan knows, approves of, and appreciates. Not necessarily in their heads, but definitely in their hearts. You are a laird by birth, by nature, by stature, but you were never to be theirs—that’s one of those unsaid things that everyone knows and, again, one that I know you’ve always accepted. You will never be The Carrick, and it’s precisely because of that that you must leave.”
Meeting Thomas’s gaze again, Manachan stated, “Nigel will never be as strong as you—and he resents it. That’s understandable, but not helpful. Regardless of his shortcomings, he’s able enough, and he can and will, in time, carry the mantle of the laird well enough, but I cannot make him concentrate and focus as he must while most of his attention is fixed on you.”
Plain speaking, and there was nothing in that that Thomas could argue.
Then Manachan’s lips lifted in a puckish grin. “And there’s also the little problem that Lucilla won’t leave while you remain. So I need you to leave and take her from here, away from any danger. Her remaining is simply untenable.”
Thomas grimaced. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score, but…” He frowned. “I can’t understand why you haven’t pulled rank and sent her home already. It’s not like you to allow another’s will to override yours, especially when clan standing and security are involved.”
Manachan snorted. “You’re still not thinking straight. Would that I could send her packing, but not only am I her host, for goodness’ sake, but she’s also the daughter of a powerful neighbor, one I have no wish to alienate. And on top of that, her rank is akin to high-priestess-in-waiting of the local deity—and quite aside from how I feel about the Lady, which is complicated, I admit, I’m not about to disendear myself to those of the clan who do believe by insulting the Lady’s representative.” He huffed. “I can’t send her packing, and she knows it, damn it.”
Thomas studied his uncle, Manachan’s words rolling through his mind. “I didn’t think you gave any credence to the old ways.”
“Aye, well.” Manachan shrugged. “My mother, your grandmother, was a cousin of that old witch, Algaria. She, my mother, believed, and a lot of the clan still do, and I’m too old and wise to discount something just because I don’t understand it.” He sighed and met Thomas’s eyes. “The long and the short of it is that I can’t ask Lucilla to leave, yet if anything happens to her while she’s here, Cynster will flay me alive—and I’d have to let him.”
Thomas heaved a sigh, too. Lying back on his pillows, he stared at the ceiling, juggling Manachan’s demands—the commands of his laird—with his own and Lucilla’s wishes.
He’d come to Carrick Manor to learn what was going on and to ensure that things were put right. Instead, he’d uncovered a far more widespread and malignant malaise. He hadn’t succeed in learning who was behind it, or even how far it had spread—but he had, along the way, brought Lucilla to the manor, to Manachan, and that had resulted in him and the clan getting their laird back. Even without looking at his uncle, he could sense Manachan’s greater strength, and there’d been a clarity and incisiveness behind his words and thoughts that simply hadn’t been there days before.
Did he believe Manachan was now in a position, health-wise and understanding-wise, to get to the bottom of what was going on and resolve the issues troubling the clan?
And if the answer to that question lay on the positive side of the ledger, as it did, did he then have reason, or the right, to refuse a direct request from his laird? Especially a request he understood—even if, in some respects, that request ran counter to his own inclinations and rubbed against his pride?
Two minutes passed, then he pressed his lips together and lowered his gaze to Manachan’s face. “All right.” Even he heard the resignation in his tone as he said, “I’ll leave—and I’ll take Lucilla with me.”
Manachan formally inclined his head. “Thank you. And now, if you please, you can tell me all the rest that you haven’t yet mentioned, but that I need to know.”
Thomas settled back and obliged, relating all he and Lucilla had discovered, linking the facts and laying out their suspicions, detailing the samples they’d sent for analysis—the evidence for which they were still waiting. They still had no clue as to who was responsible, but if anyone could learn the truth, it was Manachan. A Manachan returned to vigorous strength and the full use of his faculties—and thanks to Lucilla, that was what they now had.
* * *
Apparently, Lucilla had been kept from Thomas’s room and his side only by a strongly worded decree from Manachan. After Manachan had left him, Thomas had Edgar carry a message to her that he needed to speak with her and would meet her in the drawing room before dinner.
After dressing for the evening with Edgar’s help, Thomas slowly made his way down the stairs, gripping the bannister and leaning heavily on a cane Ferguson had found for him. His head was still hurting, but the pain was dull, a throbbing ache he could ignore if he had to. The sharp slicing pain from the wound in his leg was another matter. Every time he put his weight on that foot, he was forcibly reminded that he shouldn’t be walking.
He gimped through the open drawing room doors and found Lucilla already there. Her emerald gaze fixed on his leg, as if she could see the injury and feel his pain.
From the way her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched, he suspected she was holding back a string of acid observations he really didn’t need to hear.
He reached the armchair opposite hers, and she opened her lips. “Don’t.” He caught her gaze when it flicked up to his face; holding it, he slowly sat. “I wouldn’t be here if there was any other way.”
She frowned. “You should have stayed abed. I could have come to your room.”
No, she couldn’t have; he was perfectly sure he wasn’t that strong. Leaving her comment unanswered, he went on, “I had a long talk with Manachan this afternoon, as an upshot of which there are several matters we need to discuss.”
He’d spent the time since his uncle had left him rehearsing his points; he laid them out in concise and logical order.
She heard him out in silence. When he reached the end and Manachan’s request that he leave and take her back to the Vale before continuing on to Glasgow, a definite frown formed in her eyes, but she didn’t, even then, respond.
Not knowing from which direction she was intending to attack his and Manachan’s decision was, he decided, worse than arguing with her. When silence stretched, and she continued to stare, frowningly, apparently unseeing, at him, as if her thoughts were far away, he sighed—a touch exasperatedly. When she refocused on his face, he arched a brow. “Well? Will you agree to leave with me and go back to the Vale?”
She studied him for a second, then turned her head and looked at the open door.
She rose, walked across the room, and quietly shut the door, then she turned and, rather more forcefully, stalked back. She didn’t resume her seat but started pacing before the hearth, back and forth between the two armchairs. He hadn’t seen her pace before, but he didn’t think it was a good sign.
Lucilla laced her fingers before her waist, paced, and tried to see some way—tried to weigh the best way—to secure what she wanted and needed from the shifting situation.
She’d got Thomas into her bed—now she
needed to keep him there. At least long enough that he would agree to remain there, by her side, of his own volition. Clearly he hadn’t yet reached that state; she hadn’t expected him to, not after just one night.
She needed more of his nights, and his days, too.
Flinging a glance his way, she asked, “Are you satisfied that Manachan can carry on on his own, without your support? That he can find who’s behind all these odd happenings and bring them to justice?”
He didn’t immediately agree, but he considered…then nodded. He met her eyes. “He’s a great deal better—far better than I imagined he might be after so short a time of your treatments.”
So because her treatments had been so perfectly gauged, she was to have her time with Thomas cut short? No—that wasn’t going to happen.
She could understand why Manachan wanted Thomas to leave Carrick lands, and she agreed with both Manachan’s assessment and his directive. Indeed, she, too, had already concluded that she ought to leave, if only to ensure there were no further attacks on her person; such attacks would only escalate tensions within the household and the clan, which were already high enough. So she understood and agreed, but she didn’t have to tell Thomas that.
Folding her arms, she halted and faced him. “I believe I should remain here and make sure Manachan continues to improve. That he continues to be able to deal with whatever the problem affecting the clan is. As my duty encompasses doing what’s best for the people here, then clearly that’s what I ought to do.”
Thomas looked up at her, then he sighed and pointed to the chair she’d vacated. “Would you please sit down so that we can discuss this more easily?”
Seeing the tension around his lips, she humphed and sank onto the cushions. “And that’s another thing—you can’t yet travel back to Glasgow. I stitched the gash in your leg, but it was deep, and serious, and not something to leave to mend without appropriate care. You won’t be able to ride at present, not given the position of the wound, and traveling in a carriage for even an hour will be more than you’ll want to do.”