Page 79 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
As they passed through the arched front door, Lucilla announced, “Mr. Carrick will be staying for at least a few days, until his wound is healed well enough to ride.”
With his gaze on the floor before his feet, Thomas thought she was speaking to Marcus, but then the three of them paused and he raised his head—and a veritable sea of friendly faces, all beaming, bringing with them a tangible tide of warmth and concern, engulfed him.
The housekeeper, a Mrs. Broome, patted his arm and told him she’d get a room ready for him immediately. Maids grinned and bobbed curtsies, then whisked off in the bustling housekeeper’s wake. The butler, Polby, was there, consulting with Lucilla while footmen had already gone out to help Sean with his bag, and several grooms had followed, presumably to tend to the horses.
If Thomas had thought about what his welcome at the manor would be like, it wouldn’t have been this; he found it a touch disorienting. For several moments, he stood in the center of that welcoming wave—then scrabbling sounds heralded the arrival of dogs.
Hounds—deerhounds, a small pack of them—came pouring out of one archway. The foyer was large and irregular, with stairs and lots of corridors and archways leading from it; the hounds came out of the largest and most impressive archway. The dogs were young or in their prime; sniffing and snuffling, ears flapping, jaws open, and tongues lolling, they surrounded Thomas, Marcus, Lucilla, and Polby—all of whom absentmindedly greeted them, patting huge heads and scratching ears and shaggy chins.
And at the rear of the pack came two animals Thomas hadn’t seen in ten years; although they’d been much smaller then, something in him recognized them instantly. His cane balanced against his leg and with both his hands absorbed with stroking and petting, Thomas glanced at Marcus. “You bred from them?” With his head, he indicated the pair ambling toward them.
Marcus, likewise absorbed with the dogs, nodded. “We got others from other breeders.” Briefly, he met Thomas’s eyes. “You’re responsible, in a way—you gave us Artemis and Apollo, and everything started from there.”
The two older dogs had finally reached them. The younger beasts instinctively gave way, falling back. Both Artemis and Apollo halted in front of Thomas, looked up and, with their amber eyes, searched his face, then both sat and raised their paws.
Thomas was disarmed. He laughed and took each paw, squeezed lightly, then he released the dogs and rubbed their shaggy heads. “They’re in excellent condition.” He might not have bred them any longer, but he still knew everything there was to know about deerhounds.
Marcus shrugged. “They were good stock to begin with.”
The front door had been shut, and the press of people had thinned; Thomas had distantly registered the sound of Manachan’s carriage being driven away, and he’d glimpsed a footman disappearing up the main stairs with his bag.
Lucilla turned to him. “Would you like to join Marcus and me in the drawing room for a nightcap, or would you rather retire? Mrs. Broome has your room ready.”
She’d insisted that he would share her bed but, given they’d only just arrived, perhaps he would get a reprieve for tonight—which, considering how woozy he felt, was probably just as well. “I’m…not thinking as clearly as I would like.” The simple truth. “I suspect I had better retire.” While he still had some hope of negotiating the stairs upright.
A burly footman stepped forward. “If you’d like to lean on me, sir, we’ll get you up to your room.”
Marcus stepped back. He caught Thomas’s eyes and gave a curt nod. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
There was a promise in the words Thomas would have had to have been dead to miss, yet there was no aggression in Marcus’s expression or stance.
Which, as he allowed Lucilla to take his arm, and between her and the footman, he made for the stairs, Thomas had to wonder at.
The effort of ascending the stairs wiped all thoughts beyond lasting long enough to fall into the wonderfully plumped bed from his mind. Luckily, the room they’d prepared for him was on the first floor, at the base of one of the turrets.
He dismissed the footman, but he lacked the strength to dismiss Lucilla. He tried, but she just sent him a “don’t be ridiculous” look and set about helping him undress.
Finally semi-decently clad in his sleeping trousers, he had to stop and catch his breath. Sitting on a chair, arms braced on his thighs, his head hanging forward, he murmured, “Even though I dislike the notion of taking any of your potions, if you have something that will ease the pain, I’ll gladly swallow it.”
She regarded him for an instant—he could feel her gaze—then she touched the top of his head. “Wait there.”
He had no idea how long she was away, but it seemed no more than a moment before she was back and pressing a small beaker into his hand. It contained a reddish-pink potion, not the usual green her potions seemed to be. He glanced at it, then downed the dose in one gulp.
She took the empty beaker, set it aside, then urged him up and into the bed.
He literally fell into it. She’d pulled down the covers, and as he rolled to his side, she drew them over him.
A soothing sense of peace enveloped him.
Warmth ran beneath it, the lingering threads of the welcome in the foyer.
How very different from the welcome he’d received from his cousins.
Acceptance, and the gentle contentment that came from that, closed around him and dragged his senses down.
Lucilla watched him slide into slumber.
While his pain and his present lack of strength didn’t please her, she hadn’t been surprised by either, and she was immeasurably reassured that he’d asked for and accepted her aid.
