Page 49 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
A moment passed, then she met Thomas’s eyes. “You’re mine and everyone else’s only hope of putting all the issues you’ve seen today before Papa. He’ll understand. Nigel…doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t want to understand.”
Thomas paused, then said, “I hadn’t realized, not until this morning, just how completely Manachan has handed over control.”
Her expression unreadable, Niniver swung her gelding around. “Papa has been too ill to do anything, not for nearly a year. But once he understands what’s going on, he’ll know what needs to be done.”
She tapped her heel to the bay’s side and set off for the manor. Thomas swung Phantom around and followed her off the ledge and back onto the bridle path.
As they rode in single file between the fields, he weighed and considered, but all avenues led to the same unwelcome conclusion.
It appeared that neither Niniver nor the rest of the clan fully comprehended the change that had occurred. Thomas hadn’t either, not until he’d arrived and realized just how ill Manachan was—and, apparently, had been for nearly a year. If Manachan hadn’t been well enough to act for the clan for nearly a year, then Nigel truly was in charge of the estate. He wasn’t acting as Manachan’s agent, as his father’s right hand, but entirely on his own authority.
Because of his illness, Manachan had been forced to cede complete control.
Theoretically, as laird, Manachan could take back what he’d given, but, realistically, could he?
Given Manachan remained so very weak, the answer to that was no.
Yes, Thomas would convey to Manachan all that he’d learned—all Niniver had ensured he saw and heard. Regardless of any inclination on his part not to unnecessarily trouble his uncle, Manachan would insist, and as laird, he had a right to know. But in the current situation, what could Manachan do? He could hint or suggest actions to Nigel, but Manachan couldn’t—wasn’t in any position to—ensure those actions were carried out.
Could he, Thomas, speak with Nigel? Given Nigel’s antipathy toward him, the answer to that was an even more resounding no. Indeed, he had a shrewd suspicion that anything he suggested, Nigel would take painsnotto do.
But even more disturbing, from all Thomas had seen and heard, it seemed that, in succeeding to the duties of laird, Nigel had decided to treat the rest of the clan as if they were his employees—as if they worked for him, rather than for the clan. Rather than in the way the Carrick clan had always operated, as a collective functioning under the overall leadership of the laird—subject to his rule, perhaps, but also entitled to his protection and active support.
That corruption of the system that had served the Carricks down the generations deeply troubled Thomas. As they neared the manor, he saw the conundrum before him clearly. His clan needed help, needed the relationship between laird and clan to change back to what it used to be. But with Manachan so ill and Nigel firmly in charge, what could he, a clan outsider, moreover one whom Nigel so resented, do to improve matters, to effect the changes that needed to be made?
The stable yard lay ahead when a point that had been nagging in the back of his brain leapt to the forefront. He called to Niniver, “Where are the hounds?” The Carricks had bred deerhounds for generations; there’d always been beasts in and around the manor, but since he’d ridden in, he hadn’t seen one.
Niniver glanced at him, clearly assessing whether she should trust him or not. Eventually facing forward, she called back, her tone flat, “Nigel sold them.”
“What?” Thomas was aghast. “All of them?”
“All that were in the breeding barn. He said they were an unnecessary drain on the estate.”
Thomas studied Niniver’s profile; as they slowed the horses to a walk, he prompted, “But…”
Manachan had loved his hounds. If Thomas remembered aright, so had Niniver.
“Sean, Mitch, Fred, and I moved some to old man Egan’s farm. He had a barn he wasn’t using.”
So she and the others still had a hunting pack.
They turned the horses onto the drive. Thomas frowned. “I thought Nigel used to like to hunt with the dogs.”
Niniver nodded. “He used to. But these days, he and Nolan go into the Highlands to hunt. Nigel said he didn’t need the hounds anymore.” She paused, then added, “Papa’s last bitch passed last summer, about the time he fell ill. He hasn’t asked after another and…I haven’t told him about the others being gone.” Reining in, she met Thomas’s eyes. “I didn’t want to disturb him then, and now he has more urgent matters on his plate.”
Thomas wasn’t about to argue. He met her gaze and nodded. “Indeed.”
* * *
Thomas and Niniver walked into the front hall just as Ferguson, in the stairway hall, raised the padded mallet and struck the gong for luncheon.
The deep sound reverberated through the house.
Screams drowned the echoes.
The shrill sounds of terror sliced through the house, emanating from more than one throat.
They came from below, from beneath the main wing.
