Page 8 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
“And her sister—our healer, Joy—left last night to go out to the Bradshaws,” Ferguson explained, “so we can’t ask her if she knows where Faith’s got to.”
Mrs. Kennedy folded her arms and clasped her elbows. “It not like Faith to just up and go.”
“What about other family?” Thomas asked.
Ferguson shook his head. “They’re the last of the Burnses, and neither of them married.”
Thomas thought, then grimaced. “I can’t see anything else you can do except keep searching. Get Sean and the others to ask around in case Faith had to leave for some reason last night.”
Ferguson nodded. “I’ll get Sean onto that.”
Mrs. Kennedy pulled a face. “I just can’t see Faith leaving without a word to us, but the Wattses are second cousins. Sean might try them.”
Thomas suddenly realized what—or, rather, who—was missing. “Where’s Nigel?”
Ferguson didn’t actually sniff, but the impression was there. “Off to Ayr with Master Nolan. Left yesterday morning, bright and early.”
They’d ridden back from Glasgow only to leave the next day? Thomas struggled to keep his reaction from his face; what were the pair playing at? If Manachan was too ill to lead the clan, it was Nigel’s place to step up.
Thomas looked from Mrs. Kennedy to Ferguson. “Is Edgar with the laird?” Edgar was Manachan’s manservant, a silent and staunchly loyal man.
Ferguson nodded. “Edgar stays with the laird as much as he can. If he’s not fetching something, then he’s within call.”
Thomas fought to keep the frown from his face. They were speaking of Manachan as if he was an invalid… He shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to Ferguson. “I’ll go up. I’ll be with the laird if you need me.”
Stepping past the group, Thomas strode down the hall and beneath the archway into the adjoining hall that lay at the bottom of the main stairs. He took them two at a time.
The gallery was exactly as he remembered it; overall, very little seemed to have changed.
Except that Manachan was keeping to his room.
Thomas knew which room that was, but he had only rarely been inside. His uncle wasn’t young, but throughout Thomas’s life, Manachan had been hale and hearty, brazenly and boldly so.
Fronting the dark-stained oak door of the master suite, Thomas paused to steel himself against what he might find within. He’d known Manachan was “ailing,” but to his mind, an ailing Manachan had not equated to a man keeping to his room. “Ailing” certainly hadn’t suggested, at least to him, that Manachan would retreat from his people and essentially abdicate his role as laird.
That wasn’t the Manachan he knew.
He raised a fist and rapped lightly on the door, then waited.
He half expected to hear his uncle’s voice bellowing an irascible “Come.” Instead, soft footsteps approached the door, and it cracked open.
Edgar looked out; behind him the narrow foyer that linked Manachan’s bedchamber on one side and his sitting room on the other lay in semi-darkness. Tall and lean, his face all long planes and pallid skin, his dark hair falling across a wide brow, Edgar blinked at Thomas—then the relief that was making Thomas increasingly concerned flooded Edgar’s features.
“Mr. Thomas, sir! How very good it is to see you.”
There was not a shred of doubt in Thomas’s mind that Edgar’s heartfelt tone was an accurate reflection of the man’s feelings. Damn! What was going on?
Before he could ask to see Manachan, Edgar turned. Leaving the door open, an unspoken invitation, Edgar moved to Thomas’s left, into the bedroom. “Sir—look who’s come!”
Thomas stepped into the foyer. He paused for a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness, then he closed the door and walked into the bedroom.
Manachan lay upon the bed, atop the covers and propped in a semi-reclining position on a mound of pillows. A shawl covered his legs, but he was dressed in shirt, cravat, and trousers, with a long velvet smoking jacket over all.
Although his skin was pasty, and he’d lost significant weight since Thomas had last seen him, Manachan was still a very large man. Although he no longer appeared robust in the sense of being vigorous, there remained a great deal of muscle and bone in his solid frame.
Yet just the act of turning his head toward the door spoke of weakness. Lassitude. The enormous, weighty lethargy of the chronically ill. The eyes that rose to Thomas’s face were the same soft blue he remembered, yet the sharpness and shrewdness that had been a hallmark of his uncle’s attention were…not missing, but faded and fuzzy.
Almost as if Manachan now viewed the world from a distance, through a screening veil.
