Page 88 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
He and Marcus sipped and a companionable silence fell. Marcus nodded at the pile of news sheets and asked if anything truly important had occurred; Thomas’s reply—that while according to the pundits, the skies were close to falling, as they always were in the pundits’ eyes, nothing had changed that might even remotely impact the lives of those in their small corner of the world—made Marcus grin.
In the ease that ensued, Thomas stared into the last of the really quite remarkable whisky in his glass. Slowly swirling it, he said, “At the breakfast table this morning, you and Lucilla…” He frowned, searching for the right words, for his true meaning. “Both of you are strong people, the sort who reach out and wrest from life what they want. The type of characters who demand and establish their own place, their own life, as they wish it to be. That’s in your characters and in your ancestry. Yet”—he gestured, encompassing the room and more—“here you both are, fulfilling roles prescribed for you—expected of you. Designed by others for you.” Thomas raised his gaze and met Marcus’s steady blue eyes. “That seems a very contrary thing for characters such as you, that both of you seem to have so easily accepted that your futures lie here, in the Vale.”
He paused, but could read nothing in Marcus’s eyes or his expression. “I’m curious—and a trifle confounded, truth be told.” And he wanted to know how such an apparent contradiction could be.
Marcus didn’t immediately respond, but after several pensive moments had ticked by, he sipped again, then, lowering his glass, replied, “I think a large part of”—his lips curved lightly, a touch self-deprecatingly—“our apparently easy acceptance of our roles here stems from having known of them for all of our lives.” His gaze resting on his glass, he went on, “There never was a time when either of us didn’t know—simply know with absolute certainty—that our true path, our way to our most satisfying and fulfilling future, lies here. That the roles we’re destined to fill—our true destinies—lie here.” He seemed to catch himself, then tipped his head and qualified, “Or, at least, that living here, doing as we’re doing, is the right path to our true and final roles.”
Thomas said nothing but, his gaze on Marcus’s face, tried to follow the nuances running beneath his words.
Marcus sipped, then his lips twisted, again with that hint of self-deprecation. “All that said, I can assure you that knowing, even with absolute certainty, that a particular path is the right one to take doesn’t necessarily make it any easier to bow to a power that, to all intents and purposes, is greater than your own will.” Raising his glass, he saluted Thomas. “You had that right—it isn’t in our characters.”
“Yet you’ve both done it—bowed to that greater power.”
Marcus nodded. “Yes, but not, I contend,easily. However, as I said, we—Lucilla and I—have had the experience of being…for want of a better term, chosen for our destinies since childhood. We learned from an early age that fighting against your own destiny is, to put it mildly, a complete waste of time.” Marcus paused, his dark gaze resting on Thomas. “If you’re chosen, you can’t escape. You can try, but you’ll end by ruining your life and living in misery—and you still won’t escape.” After a moment, he added more quietly, “That’s a lesson Lucilla and I learned long ago. And neither of us are the sort to fight battles simply for the sake of fighting.”
After a moment, Thomas dipped his head. “Thank you.”
They let silence fall again. Marcus picked up the news sheet on the top of the pile, one from London, and started to read.
Leaving Thomas sorting through his thoughts, through Marcus’s words, and the understanding he’d gained. Marcus’s talk of personal destinies—of being unable to escape regardless of what one might do—rippled through his awareness, reminding him of the unsettling sensation he’d had of being herded—steered, prodded, and ultimatelyguideddown a particular path. One that had led him from Glasgow to where he now was—sitting in the library at Casphairn Manor.
In his case,peoplehad been behind the herding—Bradshaw, Forrester, Lucilla, Manachan, and Lucilla again.
A whisper—that perhaps those people were merely the pawns of some greater power—slid through the depths of his mind and sent a sensation suspiciously like a shiver down his spine.
Deliberately, he focused on Marcus and asked the other question he had. “You”—he paused until Marcus looked up and met his eyes—“and everyone else here have accepted my arrival in Lucilla’s train without so much as a blink.” He had no intention of alluding to, much less underscoring, the nature of his relationship with Lucilla, so he simply asked, “Why?”
Any doubt he’d harbored that Marcus didn’t comprehend the true nature of his relationship with Lucilla was slain by the hardness that infused Marcus’s eyes…but, after several seconds, Marcus dropped his almost-challenging gaze and shrugged. “No one has any reason to take exception to your presence here. You arrived quite clearly under Lucilla’s aegis, and whomever she brings to this house will always be welcomed with open arms.”
Marcus raised his gaze and met Thomas’s eyes—and this time Thomas got the impression that Marcus was studying him, trying to see past his mask and into his mind. But then, his lips easing into what might have been a gently commiserating smile, Marcus said, “There really is nothing more to it than that. As we’ve already discussed, she is who she is, and all of us here accept that.”
There was a finality in Marcus’s tone that Thomas, in turn, had to accept. He tilted his head in wordless acknowledgment and let the subject drop.
* * *
Thomas had wondered if Lucilla would rethink her insistence that he share her bed, but no.
That evening, after another meal in the Great Hall shared with the entire manor household, during which the company had been entertained by a group of children practicing madrigals, he, Lucilla, and Marcus had retreated to the drawing room, where he’d learned that Lucilla played the harp like an angel. They’d chatted about music; he hadn’t felt the passing of time, but then the tea trolley had arrived, and after duly partaking, he’d claimed tiredness—and hadn’t been entirely surprised when she declared that she would retire, too.
They left Marcus engrossed in a book in the drawing room; as they climbed the main stairs, she linked her arm with his. They reached the first floor and walked to the door of his room, but instead of releasing him, she tightened her hold and drew him on—to the narrow stairs that spiraled upward a few yards further on.
She had to release his arm, but caught his hand and, raising her skirts, led the way. Curious, he allowed her to tow him, haltingly, up the curving flight and into the turret room above the chamber he’d been assigned.
That the turret room was her private domain was, to his eyes and all his senses, instantly apparent. The room wasn’t a girl’s, but a woman’s, powerfully yet elegantly decorated in myriad shades of green—from the softest spring-green of the sheets, to the vibrant leaf-green of the silk comforter, to the lush velvet draperies that cloaked the windows and the corners of the four-poster bed in the deep dark green of the forests.
She drew him further in, then released his hand and turned back. Behind him, he heard the door shut with a quiet, solidthunkof fated finality.
Soft lamplight glowed from sconces on either side of her mahogany dressing table; another lamp sat on the small table beside the bed, shedding light over the wide expanse, laying a shimmering golden sheen over the green silk.
He was vaguely aware of two dressers and two armoires set against the walls and, beyond the bed, a comfortable setting of two armchairs with footstools angled before a fireplace. A fire burned in the hearth, and the tang of pine underlay the perfume infusing the very air. Tempted, he breathed deep, filling his lungs—and recognized the pervasive scent. That curious blend of herbs, flowers, and spring sunshine he associated with her.
He would recognize that scent were he blind; that hook had already sunk deep.
He started to turn toward her, but she came up beside him, took his hand again, briefly met his eyes, then faced forward and drew him on.
The bed was her ultimate goal.
He understood that and was willing enough to follow.
