The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (42 page)

His lordship was; the deep growl of Richard’s voice carried a menacing quality.

Polby opened the library door wider and waved Thomas through.

He walked into the room feeling very much as if he was stepping into a cage with a potentially dangerous beast. The sound of the door quietly clicking shut only added to the atmosphere.

Richard was standing by a small table covered with fishing flies and the apparatus to create them; he’d clearly just risen from the chair at the table’s end.

He was middle-aged, now, with silver streaks at his temples, the strands very white against his black hair. Other than that, age had treated him kindly; his carriage remained military-upright, his long legs and arms well-muscled, and his shoulders still filled the width of his coat. He cut a fashionable figure in buckskin breeches and top boots, with a hacking jacket over a plain waistcoat and a simply tied cravat.

His face still resembled chiseled granite, and his expression couldn’t have been less forgiving. The dark blue gaze that rested on Thomas as he walked forward was razor sharp.

When Thomas halted, Richard growled, “Carrick.”

There was absolutely no welcome in the word.

Thomas inclined his head. “My lord.” He held Richard’s gaze. “I wish to ask for your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter Lucilla.”

Richard’s expression remained impassive. After a long moment, he arched his black brows. “Is that so?”

Maintaining his own blandly uninformative mien, Thomas merely responded, “It is.”

“I heard you were here. Staying here.”

In the room below Lucilla’s. Thomas had not a doubt Richard knew that—and understood rather more. But he wasn’t going to cross swords with Lucilla’s father, not if he could help it. Remaining silent seemed his wisest course.

“I should perhaps mention,” Richard went on, the aggression in his tone unmasked, “that although I don’t know the details of what passed between you and Lucilla, I have seen the effects.” Richard’s gaze, fixed on Thomas’s face, darkened. “I would really like to do some physical damage, and I’ve no doubt Marcus would, too. However, while such actions might allow us to vent some of our aggravated feelings, those actions would, sadly, be frowned upon by the ladies in our lives, so that won’t improve our situation.”

Thomas said nothing, just steadily returned Richard’s hard gaze.

After several long moments of studying him, Richard humphed. “At least you came back—I suppose that’s a start.” His stance eased fractionally, and he turned away, but then he glanced back to ask, “You do realize that, regardless of what I say, permission granted or not, it’s what she says that will count?”

“Of course.” Thomas hadn’t imagined anything else.

“Well, at least you’ve got that much clear.” With that muttered comment, Richard abandoned his prickly, disapproving father pose and headed toward the large desk. Waving Thomas to the chair before it, Richard rounded the desk and sat. Hands flat on the desk’s surface, he arched a brow at Thomas. “So—reassure me.” Leaning back in the chair, Richard gestured. “We both know her assets. If you succeed in gaining her consent, what will you bring to this marriage?”

Thomas had anticipated the question and had rehearsed his reply while riding down. Somewhat to his surprise, Richard had a keen grasp of business and asked several shrewd questions, but in the end, his putative father-in-law seemed satisfied, pleased—or, at the very least, appeased—by his answers.

In turn, he asked how Richard saw the Vale being run, and was relieved to detect no hint of reservation in Richard’s assertion that he, Richard, would teach him all he would need to know. He resisted asking about Marcus; Lucilla had mentioned that her twin’s place lay elsewhere.

When the questions and answers from both sides had been exhausted, Richard studied him again. Then he briskly nodded. “All right. Permission granted, for whatever good that will do you.”

They both rose. Coming back around the desk, Richard grasped the chair at the smaller table; he waved at the table’s contents as he sat. “Do you fly-fish?”

Thomas nodded. He picked up one of the intricately tied flies. “But I haven’t assembled a fly in years.”

Richard grunted. “It’s a family interest—at least among us males. You’ll have to get back into it.”

Thomas set down the fly. Richard appeared to have focused his concentration fully on the fly he’d been tying, yet Thomas sensed he hadn’t yet been dismissed.

Sure enough, an instant later, his gaze fixed on his fingertips and the feather he was binding into place, Richard said, “Before you go to seek your fortune, I feel compelled to offer you a word of advice.”

Thomas said nothing. Simply waited.

“You left.” After a moment, Richard shrugged. “I left, too. Like you, I came back.”

Thomas hadn’t known that; he listened even more intently as Richard continued, his gaze still on the fly, “I had to make amends, and you will have to do the same. But I had a fire to deal with and a life-threatening rescue to effect, which illustrated my revised direction and made further declaration unnecessary. In your case, however, given that Marcus and I are both here, you won’t have any dragons of that nature to slay to demonstrate your change of heart, so you’re going to have to find some other way.”

Thomas had already foreseen the necessity of making amends and, while learning that Richard had undergone a similar battle and, like Thomas, had surrendered, was comforting, it offered little material help. He was about to ask if Richard had any suggestions regarding “some other way” when Lucilla’s father grunted and said, “Sacrifice usually works.”

He frowned. “Sacrifice?”

Richard glanced up at him, his dark gaze faintly irritated. “What’s the one thing you have that you haven’t yet laid at her feet?”

Thomas blinked and tried to think.

Richard snorted and looked back at his work. “It’s simple, man—and if you have to, crawl.”

* * *

Leaving Richard once more immersed in his hobby—or at least pretending to be—Thomas walked back out to the foyer, hoping to find Polby and ask where Lucilla was.

Instead, he came face to face with Marcus.

Lucilla’s twin had clearly just come in from the stables; he was carrying his crop and his top boots were dusty.

Marcus’s expression was contained. He nodded to Thomas. “I saw your horse.”

Thomas met Marcus’s eyes, very similar to his father’s dark and rather impenetrable midnight blue. Somewhat curiously, Thomas could detect very little emotion emanating from Marcus—neither aggression nor sympathy, not anger or support. Carefully, he said, “I’m here to see Lucilla. Do you know where she is?”

Marcus tipped his head back along the corridor he’d stepped out of, the one that led to the side door. “She’s in the garden harvesting herbs. Beware of her shears—they’re sharp.”

Thomas blinked.

Marcus snorted. “You did notice she has red hair?”

“Ah.” So she was angry with him—angry enough to attack him?

Marcus hesitated, then said, “Just so you know, it was Mama who insisted that you would come back. Lucilla said nothing.”

Thomas considered the implication of that, especially given who it was who was telling him.

“Mama also said that you would be worth it in the end.” Marcus met Thomas’s eyes, and if it wasn’t quite a threat, at the very least it was a challenge that Thomas saw in the hard blue of Marcus’s gaze.

“If I were you,” Marcus said, “for all our sakes, I’d make sure you prove Mama correct.”

With that, Marcus turned and walked on and up the stairs.

Thomas watched him go, turning over the warnings in his mind.

Apparently, someone had faith in the outcome here, had faith in him, although whether that someone was the Lady or simply Catriona—and whether her words were merely a hope or something more certain—he had no way of knowing.

He turned and walked down the corridor toward the side door. The critical moment was nearly upon him; he needed to marshal his thoughts and stick to the script he’d rehearsed.

He was mentally scrolling through his speech when the side door opened and Catriona walked in.

Immediately, her gaze lifted to his face; he got the distinct impression she’d known he was there, in the corridor—that she’d come in expecting to meet him.

Catriona smiled, and her smile conveyed a wealth of understanding and acceptance. “Thomas.” She shut the door and came forward, her gliding walk a ladylike attribute she shared with her eldest daughter.

Halting, he half bowed. “Lady Cynster.”

She laughed softly. “Just Catriona, please.” She halted before him and looked into his face. “I’m glad to see you, Thomas. I knew you would come.”

“So Marcus mentioned.” He remained where he was—felt held where he was—while Catriona openly searched his eyes. He had no idea what she read there, but, apparently, whatever it was, she found it satisfactory.

With a gentle, encouraging smile, she tipped her head toward the door. “Lucilla’s in the garden, but you might not see her at first—she’s further down by the burn.” She stepped out of his path and continued past him. “I don’t know if she knows you’re here, but she might.”

With that, Catriona walked on.

Turning, Thomas watched her go. After she reached the front foyer and disappeared from his sight, he thought through her words, then shook his head and continued to the door.

Reaching it, he paused to draw in a last, too-restricted-for-comfort breath.

Then he grasped the latch, opened the door, and went out to face his fate.

* * *

Lucilla lifted her gaze to Thomas the instant he stepped into view on the lip of the upper terrace of the gardens.

Emotions—the immediate leap and roil of so many powerful feelings—stole her breath.

For several heartbeats, she felt giddy, but then the emotional storm coalesced, the tumultuous emotions aligning to form a single, cohesive force.

He had left—and now, as her mother had assured her he would, he’d returned.

Apparently, leaving and returning was something strong men had a habit of doing when grappling with the reality of being a consort in the Vale; until her mother had mentioned it, she hadn’t known her father had done the same thing, but that snippet had gone some small way toward allowing her to view Thomas’s flight in a more equable light.

Still…he’d left. And she was very far from forgiving him for the nature of his leaving.

Some men prefer not to live under a cat’s paw.

Of all the words they’d exchanged, those were the ones she remembered most clearly. True, she hadn’t been open about her motives, but, given his stubborn blindness, what else could she have done?

Straightening from the verbena bush she’d been trimming, she glanced at the two apprentices working alongside her harvesting the wormwood and rue. “Agnes, Matilda—if you would, please take what we’ve cut up to the still room. There’s enough to start with—you know how to hang the bunches to best catch the drafts.”

“Yes, my lady,” the pair chorused. They gathered the various trugs, including one Lucilla had filled with verbena, then started the long trudge up the garden.

The pair hadn’t seen Thomas, but he’d seen them. Rather than pass them, he came down the terraces by a different route.

She was standing in the lowest of the walks. The bed hosting the verbena she continued to snip was raised, the wide coping of the stone wall level with her thighs. At her back, the other side of the walk was bordered by another wide bed at ground level—the last of the terraced beds above the path that wended along the edge of the burn.

Today, the burn was running freely, burbling and tinkling as it tumbled over rocks and rippled over stones. The air close to the banks was always a touch cooler, a touch damper than elsewhere. Refreshing.

Her mind was registering those mundane observations when she heard the soft thud as Thomas’s boot met the sod of the walk.

Her senses locked on him.

He prowled closer, his stride one she recognized like someone plucking a fiber of her soul. Her senses expanded, stirring, restless and distracted. Reaching…

He halted by her shoulder.

She didn’t turn to meet his eyes.

She could feel his gaze on her, felt the intensity increase as he tipped his head and studied her face.

“Lucilla.”

One word, but it was greeting, question, supplication, and much more.

She forced air into her suddenly tight lungs, then glanced briefly at him—too briefly to get caught in his amber gaze. “Why are you here?”

Refixing her gaze on the verbena and carefully clipping another long shoot, she waited—for the answer to the only question that mattered.

He sighed softly, so softly she wasn’t sure she was supposed to hear. Then he shifted to face the burn; after a moment, he sat on the stone wall alongside her, his hands gripping the coping on either side of him.

Not so close that he was in her way, but within easy arm’s reach.

She glanced at the leg closest to her. “How’s your wound?”

That was the healer in her speaking; she hadn’t meant to show any interest, at least not yet, but that other part of her had raised her head and claimed her tongue.

“A lot better. I had a doctor in Glasgow take out the stitches.” He paused, then added, “He was amazed by your work—both the stitches and the effect of your salve.”

She humphed.

And waited.

More than a minute ticked by before he said, his voice low, but without any real inflection, “You asked why I’m here—why I’ve come back. The answer is because…I was a coward.”

That hadn’t been any part of Thomas’s rehearsed speech, but sitting there in the quiet of the garden, with the one woman who meant so much to him, he’d finally understood what Richard had meant when he’d said:
What’s the one thing you have that you haven’t yet laid at her feet?

He hadn’t given her the truth—the simple unadorned truth—because he hadn’t wanted to lay aside his pride.

He looked down at the toes of his boots. From the corner of his eye, he could see her face—see her arrested expression, see her hands paused, hovering, no longer smoothly working.