Page 62 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She’d come up on her elbows as the man had raced off. Now, suddenly struggling to breathe, she clapped a hand to her chest, over her racing heart, and fell back on the pillows.
Thomas hesitated, then stepped into the room and shut the door. Her scream had been enough to summon him, but the visitors’ wing was long and their rooms were near its end; he couldn’t hear anyone else stirring, much less racing to her rescue. “What happened? All I glimpsed was a shadowy figure disappearing into the gallery—they were too far away for me to see clearly.”
She’d closed her eyes; she raised her lids a fraction, studied him for several long seconds, then said, “Some man.”
Her voice was thready. Coming up on her elbows, she looked about; her gaze came to rest on the pitcher of water and glass on the bureau.
Thomas found himself standing before the bureau, pouring a glass of water, before he’d even thought.
Indeed, at that moment, he wasn’t thinking well at all; his entire brain seemed overloaded with impulses, furious anger, and rising need. He would have preferred to somehow levitate the glass over to her but… He walked to the bed and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” The underlying tremor in her voice raked across his senses.
Taking the glass, she sipped, then sipped again, then she closed her eyes and sighed. “Before you ask, no, I have no idea who he was.” Her voice quavered, and she waved to the other side of the bed. “I woke up, and he was there.” Opening her eyes, she clutched the glass in both hands, then said, “He had a cushion in his hands and was coming closer.”
The vision chilled him to the marrow. Rounding the bed, he saw the cushion, lifted from the armchair closer to the door and now flung against the legs of the dressing-table stool. He bent and picked up the cushion. It was nice and plump. Perfect for holding over a woman’s face…
He very nearly snarled and flung the cushion away. Reining in the impulse, he carefully placed the cushion on the stool, then turned to her.
And noticed the moonlight shafting through the window. He looked at her. “You didn’t see his face?”
She shook her head. “No. He had a cowl up over his head. He’d pulled it forward. It completely shaded his features. I didn’t even catch a glimpse of his chin.”
His face felt like granite; he couldn’t manage even a grimace. “So it could be anyone—anyone at the manor, anyone in the clan.”
She didn’t answer, just closed her eyes again. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed deeply. Reaching for calm.
“Are you all right?” The question fought its way out of his chest and emerged in a tone one step from a growl.
She didn’t open her eyes, but her head shifted as if she was considering… “I took no harm, but I’m not sure, at this moment, that that equates with being ‘all right.’”
He glanced at the closed door, then at the armchair. “I’ll remain for a while.” In case her attacker returned; he truly hoped the bastard would. He started for the armchair.
“Wait.”
The command brought him up short. He glanced back and watched her open her eyes and sit up, reaching, stretching, trying to place the glass on the small table beside the bed.
He stalked back to the bed, took the glass from her, and set it on the table.
Her fingers locked in the silk of his robe.
He wasn’t wearing a nightshirt; the brush of her thumb against his skin sent desire lancing through him.
He looked down at her hand, at the knuckles white beneath her fine skin. As declarations went, it was fairly clear. “Lucilla…”
He couldn’t look at her face, not while standing at the side of her bed, with her en déshabillé a mere foot away, with her skin warm and her hair sleep-tousled—the whole made even more compelling by the inevitable consequence of shock and fear he knew he would see in her wide green eyes.
He knew he shouldn’t look, not if he wished to save himself, and her, from what raged inside him.
From the primal, primitive urges that her scream and the need swimming in her eyes had sent rocketing through him.
Possession had never felt so desperatelyneedful.
Desire had never ripped at him so powerfully, with such sharp claws.
“Stay.”
The single word had him meeting her eyes. They captured his soul.
