Page 80 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He was there, in the Vale, under the manor’s roof, and only one floor down from where he ultimately should be—in her room, in her bed.
With the Lady’s help and by Her grace, she’d accomplished that much. As for the rest…she had to have faith that the following days would play out as they should, and the rest—Thomas’s realization that he was hers and she was his—would come in time.
One step at a time.
His breathing had evened out, slow and steady; his features had eased, showing no signs of tension, of continuing pain.
Satisfied with the outcome of the day, she picked up the lamp, went out, and shut the door. She paused on the landing, debating, then accepted the inevitable and started down the stairs. Marcus, she knew, was waiting.
* * *
Lucilla walked into the drawing room and closed the door behind her. Although it could be used for formal gatherings, it was the room the family used on a daily basis to gather in before and after dinner. Her mother had accordingly decorated the room with comfortable rather than fashionable furniture, the sort of well-stuffed chintz-covered sofas and armchairs that invited ladies to relax and sink into, and gentlemen to sprawl at their ease in.
Occupying one of the armchairs near the hearth, Marcus was engaged in the latter. A glass of whisky cradled in his long fingers, he sipped and watched her as she crossed to the armchair opposite his.
When she sat, he lowered the glass and met her gaze directly. “First question—do you know what you’re doing?”
She held his gaze and let him see her certainty, her commitment. “Yes.” That was all she needed to say.
He read her eyes, then inclined his head in acceptance. “All right.” He took another brief sip, then asked, “So what’s been going on at Carrick Manor?”
She told him from beginning to end, leaving out nothing bar her interactions with Thomas—those, her twin definitely didn’t need to hear described, although she suspected he would still guess that such interludes had occurred.
Regardless, he took her report in his stride and focused, as she’d hoped, on the conundrums.
When she reached the end—Manachan’s request for them both to leave, and them acquiescing and doing so—Marcus grimaced. He rose and crossed to the tantalus, and tipped a little more whisky into his glass.
He arched a brow at her, but she shook her head.
He returned to the armchair and all but fell into it. Frowning, he sipped, then broodingly said, “Manachan made the right decision. If the culprit lies within the clan, as it seems certain he does, then, as Manachan’s now able to manage again, he—and only he—is the right person to deal with the situation. No one from outside can, and although Thomas is clan, with Nigel resenting him and all the others preferring him, Thomas being there will only make things worse.” Marcus drank, then added, “Especially as worse might stretch to murder.”
“Indeed.” She paused, then said, “I couldn’t see any way around it—around leaving Manachan to deal with it on his own. Aside from all else, over all these years he’s earned everyone’s respect—he’s always been uncannily shrewd over anything to do with his clan.”
“Exactly.” Marcus nodded. “Although I don’t in the least approve of having a murderer or murderers—including one who had and may yet have you in his sights—wandering around still free, now that Manachan’s back to reasonable strength, we all, Thomas included, need to give him the time and the space to sort it out—within clan, if at all possible.”
She could only nod in agreement. That, in a nutshell, was what had brought her home.
Marcus’s dark gaze rested on her; she couldn’t read his expression, but she could sense his approval. “Presumably”—he paused to drain his glass—“rescuing the Bradshaws and then restoring Manachan to viable strength were the reasons Thomas was summoned back from Glasgow.”
She knew her twin wasn’t referring to Bradshaw, and then Forrester, writing to Thomas, but to the hand of fate—the fate both she and Marcus accepted ruled them and the lands they watched over.
“And”—Marcus tipped the empty tumbler, watching the light spark in the cut crystal—“why he had to fetch you, and by extension, why I was left nursing a very sore head.”
She humphed and rose. “I checked you over before I left you—it wasn’t that bad. And”—she arched her brows at him—“as we all know, you have a very hard head.”
Marcus’s smile was slow and rather intent. “You and I know that, but I have no intention of letting Carrick off the hook.”
She snorted and, unsuccessfully battling a smile, turned and walked to the door. Opening it, she left her twin plotting, secure in the knowledge that Marcus understood who Thomas was to her, and that tease him though Marcus undoubtedly would, he would nevertheless protect Thomas in the same way he did her—with his life if need be.
* * *
Lucilla climbed the stairs to the first floor, then headed for the southeast turret in which her room was located; one level up, her chamber was a circular chamber with views over the green of the summer pastures to the distant horizon where dawn first arrived.
She was grateful that Marcus had refrained from asking more questions about her and Thomas, because, as yet, she didn’t know the answers herself.
Reaching the guest chamber at the base of her turret, the room in which Thomas was sleeping, she quietly opened the door, went in, and equally quietly eased the latch closed.
Not that she needed to have worried—he remained deeply asleep.
