Page 12 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Joy—the healer—was.
The situation was bizarre.
Also beyond serious. Eight lives—seven Bradshaws plus Joy—hung in the balance, and of them all, Joy seemed to have the most tenuous hold on life.
Thomas had no ability to help any of them—not directly.
Cursing softly, he levered his hands under Joy, praying that, unconscious as she was, he wasn’t causing her more pain. Straightening, he lifted her. She was a tallish, well-built woman, now a dead weight, but he managed to angle her through the kitchen archway and around the dining table.
Gently, he laid her on the worn sofa before the cold hearth.
Stepping back, he glanced at the grate, debated whether spending the time to get a fire going would be well spent—decided against it.
His clansmen desperately needed help, and given their healer was among those struck down, he knew of only one place he could get that vital help from.
* * *
He rode hell for leather for the Vale, striking east to join the road near the village of Carsphairn, then thundering south before veering down the long drive that led to Casphairn Manor.
It had been over ten years since he’d last ridden that way. Then, he’d trotted slowly, balancing two squirming deerhound puppies across his saddle. He’d given the pups—Artemis and Apollo—to Lucilla and her twin brother, Marcus. As the manor rose before him, he wondered if the dogs still lived.
Pulling up immediately before the front steps, he swung out of the saddle. He released Phantom’s reins, knowing the horse wouldn’t stray, then climbed the steps and grasped the iron chain that connected with a bell somewhere inside; he tugged the chain and heard a distantclang.
In less than a minute, footsteps approached, a measured tread, then the door opened, revealing the butler—the same one Thomas remembered from his last visit.
The butler looked at Thomas and, somewhat to his surprise, smiled in recognition. “Mr. Carrick, isn’t it?”
Unable to keep the grimness from his features, Thomas nodded. “I—my clan—need help. I’ve just come from the Bradshaws’ farmhouse to the north. The entire family—Bradshaw, his wife, and their five children—are all gravely ill and in pain.” Thomas had to pause to haul in a breath against the constriction banding his chest. “And our healer is there, too, but I think she’s dying. She’s unconscious, and I couldn’t revive her.”
“Good gracious!” The butler was as shocked and as concerned as Thomas could have wished. “You’ll need Miss Lucilla, then.”
Thomas managed not to frown. “I was hoping Algaria might come—or, if not her, then Lady Cynster.”
The butler’s expression grew commiserating. “I’m afraid, sir, that Algaria passed on several years ago, and Lady Cynster is holidaying with Lord Richard on the Continent. It’s Miss Lucilla who is—so to speak—holding the fort, healer-wise. But I’m sure she’ll aid you—of course, she will.”
Thomas knew she would, but… Jaw setting, he forced himself to nod. Clan trumped personal considerations. “Very well. If I could speak with her?”
“Ah.” The butler grimaced. “She’s at the grove at the moment, but she should return very soon.”
Having swallowed the necessity of having to appeal to Lucilla herself—of having to meet with her, look into her eyes, and hear her voice again—Thomas wasn’t inclined to further delay. “The grove?”
“The sacred grove.” The butler waved to the north. “Where she prays to the Lady. Mr. Marcus is with her.”
Looking in the direction the butler had indicated—on the way back to Carrick lands as the crows flew—Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Where exactly is this grove?”
CHAPTER 3
Lucilla had finished her devotions.
The ancient trees of the grove—a dense mix of beech, spruce, fir, and birch—ringed the small clearing, enclosing her in a living shell of shifting green. Branches extended overhead, tips entwining to create an arched ceiling, cocooning all within from the wind—in effect, from the world.
Opening her eyes, she softly exhaled. Part prayer, part meditation, part simply communing with the land around her—and with the deity that claimed it as Her own—the quiet moments, as always, left her feeling anchored, more assured. More connected with the flow of life and with her own destiny, her own thread among the myriad strands.
Moving slowly, ceremonially, she rocked back from the rectangular stone of the rustic altar before which she’d been kneeling; originally rough-hewn, but now worn smooth by the centuries, the unadorned rock was more symbol and practical support than anything else.
She rose, feeling the skirts of her riding habit shift about her legs, and paused. Fingertips lightly brushing the smooth stone, for just one moment more she resisted the tug of the world beyond the grove; she knew what frustration awaited her there, yet it wasn’t something she could avoid.
Avoiding life wasn’t in her lexicon, much less in her stars.
