Page 71 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
That notion might seem far-fetched, yet Thomas knew of several men in the clan who were…unsophisticated enough to have thought that way.
Halting, he sighed. Turning, he looked out unseeing over the stretch of coarse lawn. The incidents were accumulating. While they yet lacked the evidence necessary to prove it, all the previous incidents up to last night had clearly been acts of malicious intent. The odds favored last night being another.
Which, in turn, suggested his inner conviction that Lucilla herself was in danger, that she, specifically, might now be in the perpetrator’s—a murderer’s—sights, could very well be true.
He remained staring, unseeing, out over the lawn as the minutes ticked by, then, his face feeling more like stone than flesh, he turned, walked back to the front door, and re-entered the house.
CHAPTER 11
Lucilla returned from the Burns sisters’ funeral, which had been held at the small local church in the village of Carsphairn, in a carriage with Thomas, Niniver, and Norris.
She spent the short journey finalizing the composition of the restorative she planned to make for Manachan. He’d summoned her to his room a bare half hour before they’d been due to leave the house, but five minutes had more than sufficed to convince them all that his vigor had been almost magically improved, courtesy of her boosting tonic.
He was a long way from full strength yet, but he’d been able to come down the stairs merely leaning on Edgar’s arm. He’d been slow, but he hadn’t needed any real help in moving his large frame. His legs were still weak, and his balance wasn’t certain, but he’d been able to stand by the graveside alongside the vicar with nothing more than a cane to prop him up.
His color, too, had returned, his face more ruddy than pale, and his grip had firmed, too. But for her, his eyes had shown the greatest improvement—that, and the alertness and incisiveness of the mind behind them.
All in all, she was thrilled and deeply satisfied with what she’d achieved—a true reward for a healer.
And if the gratitude directed her way from virtually everyone at the funeral was any guide, the clan as a whole was delighted to see their laird on the road to recovery.
It had been important for them to see Manachan there. He’d sat in the front pew through what had been a short but moving service, and he himself had risen to go to the lectern to deliver the eulogy, a tribute that had brought tears to everyone’s eyes.
Subsequently, Lucilla had risen and gone to the lectern; she’d spoken words she’d said before, at other similar ceremonies, binding those who had lived, worked, and died on these lands with the spirit of the land itself—“dust to dust” meant something quite explicit in the Lady’s domains.
As one of the few non-clan present, she’d stood a little removed from the grave and had watched the members of the clan as they interacted with each other; sharing grief brought families—in this case, clan families—together. And so it had seemed, with one notable exception. Nigel did not appear to command the confidence, much less liking, of his clansmen. All had been polite and, to some degree, even respectful, but she had to wonder how much of that had been in deference to Manachan’s presence. The coolness directed Nigel’s way—the standoffishness of the men, let alone the women—had been, to her eyes, marked.
In contrast, Niniver had been embraced, and even Norris had been treated as “one of them.” Nolan had hovered, as ever, in Nigel’s shadow; Lucilla had got no clear indication of how the clan saw him.
The carriage slowed as it neared the house. She rapidly reviewed her planned composition and mentally nodded; her decisions and selections were sound.
She was, truth to tell, still somewhat puzzled over what, months ago, had brought Manachan low in the first place, but whatever it had been, she’d found the right counter to it. She would reinforce and build on that.
Thomas alighted first and turned to hand her down.
She placed her hand in his and felt the warmth of his clasp through the fine leather of her glove. The sensation was comforting, rather than discombobulating. Taking that as a sign that their relationship had, indeed, turned a corner, courtesy of their endeavors through the night—and feeling distinctly satisfied on that front, too—she walked beside him into the front hall.
Norris, followed by Niniver, made straight for the stairs.
Lucilla paused before the corridor leading to the steps down to the still room and swung to face Thomas. “I’m going to make up Manachan’s restorative.”
Hearing footsteps in the corridor, she turned to see Alice, who had come back from the church in one of the carts, hurrying up. Alice paused by the head of the steps.
Lucilla smiled and waved her on. “Open up—I’ll join you in a minute.”
Facing Thomas, she added, “I’ll teach Alice to make the composition, so she’ll be able to keep Manachan supplied after I’ve returned to the Vale.”
Thomas nodded; since before they’d left for the funeral, his expression had been severe, and it hadn’t yet lightened. He met her gaze. “Come and fetch me when you have it ready—I’ll go up with you.”
Assuming he wanted to ensure Manachan gave some undertaking to continue with the treatment, she nodded and turned for the steps. “I’ll ask Ferguson if I can’t find you.”
Making the restorative took less than twenty minutes, even repeating the process several times to ensure Alice had the order of additions—in this case, quite critical—correctly memorized.
With the tonic in a stoppered dark blue bottle in one hand, Lucilla climbed the steps to the ground floor, then walked into the front hall, intending to find Ferguson. Instead, she found Thomas sitting in a chair against one wall, long legs stretched before him and crossed at his ankles, his chin on his cravat as he stared broodingly at his booted toes; he looked up at the sound of her footsteps.
Seeing her, he uncrossed his legs and rose. His gaze locked on the bottle in her hand. “Ready?”
“Indeed.”
