Page 78 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
She listened gravely. When he reached the end, she thought, then said, “Assuming that the results of the analyses confirm our suspicions, showing that the Bradshaws and Joy were deliberately poisoned, and although we can’t prove it, we’re also fairly sure someone pushed Faith down the stairs and killed her—and, of course, someone put the adder in the still room, crept into my room with fell intent last night, and then pushed that statue off the roof… Yet in spite of knowing all of that, we can’t point the finger at anyone, because virtually anyone on the estate could have done all those things.”
He nodded. In the hall beyond the door, the dinner gong rang, summoning them to the table.
Shifting forward, he leaned on his cane. Even more swiftly, she rose, came to his side, and offered her hand.
He hesitated, but then put aside his pride, gripped her hand, and allowed her to help him stand. On his feet, he released her, drew breath, then met her eyes. “Not only can’t we point a finger at anyone, we can’t even tell whether all those incidents are connected—whether whoever did for Joy and Faith was also the person who poisoned the Bradshaws’ well, or pushed the statue from the roof today, or…”
She grimaced and turned to the door. “So, in reality, we really do have to leave this to Manachan, because, when it comes to it, you and I can do no more.”
She walked slowly so he could keep up. He followed her from the room, her words repeating in his mind.
And indeed, she was right. In the matter of discovering what was behind the strange happenings on the Carrick estate, there was nothing more he and she could do.
CHAPTER 12
They left Carrick Manor in Manachan’s carriage shortly after dinner. Lucilla had insisted on re-examining Manachan before she left, and on overseeing his evening dose of the restorative.
Manachan had been surprisingly acquiescent, even jovial, throughout; Thomas suspected that, as his uncle was getting precisely what he wanted, he saw no reason not to be magnanimous in victory.
As they rattled slowly down the long drive that led to the main road, he spared a thought for Phantom, following the carriage on a lead rein. The gelding wouldn’t be happy. Then again, like his master, Phantom had a rare female to distract him, in the form of Lucilla’s black mare.
Thomas felt much the same way he imagined his horse must be feeling. Unhappy over the manner of his leaving, yet distracted by the company.
As the miles fell behind, he remembered all the little things he’d forgotten through having to deal with more serious events.
He shifted; Lucilla had been right in predicting that he wouldn’t be able to sit in a jostling carriage for long. “I never did learn what was behind Nigel’s changes to the seed supply. Or his other changes on the estate. Or, I suspect, the true story about those horses and carriages in the old barn.” Stretching out his injured leg, frowning, he massaged his thigh.
Seated beside him, Lucilla shrugged lightly. “You told Manachan about them. I can’t imagine he won’t inquire and set things right.”
The carriage slowed, then ponderously turned out onto the main road, heading south, toward the entrance to the Vale. As the wheels picked up speed, rolling more evenly along the better surface, Thomas looked out of the window to the right, into the darkness toward Carrick Manor. “I wish I hadn’t had to leave—to leave him to handle things on his own.”
“But you had to. There was no other way.” She paused, then, as if understanding the frustration he felt in having to accede to Manachan’s wishes, she added, “Sometimes one has to accept that someone else’s right to direct their destiny takes precedence over one’s own desires.”
The comment drew his attention back to her. The carriage running lamps were lit; every now and then the flickering light from outside illuminated the dimness within, enough for him to make out her expression, to catch glints from her fire-red hair.
After several seconds of considering his words, he remarked, “I find it curious that, given your temperament, you seem to so easily accept what you term your Lady’s decrees.”
She turned her head, met his eyes through the shadows, then raised one shoulder and faced forward again. “I’ve heard Her—received Her guidance—from my earliest years. Not all of us do. But experience, especially from a very young age, is an excellent teacher. Despite directives that at the time I thought exceedingly strange, She has never steered me wrongly.”
No doubt that accounted for her unwavering certainty, something he sensed so strongly in her. Leaning his aching head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes and found himself pondering that clear difference between them. They were both strong-willed, independent characters, yet even though she recognized what she was doing, she was able to bow to the directives of fate. He, conversely, instinctively opposed any decree that came from any source other than himself.
They passed the rest of the journey in silence, for which he was grateful. He knew of no other lady, young or otherwise, who would have left him in peace, yet not only did she apparently feel no need to converse but that sense of deep calm that was so peculiarly hers spread out and enfolded him—and soothed and calmed him, too.
Yet when the carriage drew up in the forecourt of Casphairn Manor, on the gravel before the steps leading up to the front door, he discovered he was still very far from recovered. His head ached, pain thudded in his temples, and his leg throbbed. He had to allow Lucilla to descend from the carriage first so that she could help him down.
Sean, who had driven the coach, came to help. Once Thomas was steady on his feet, Lucilla sent Sean to ring the doorbell. She remained by Thomas’s side, supporting him as, leaning heavily on the cane, he slowly made his way up the thankfully shallow steps.
He’d just reached the porch and had paused to raise his head and draw in a deeper breath when the door swung open.
It wasn’t the butler who looked out but Marcus Cynster.
Midnight-blue eyes pinned Thomas, but then rapidly skated down his length before, his expression impassive and growing ever more so, Cynster looked at his twin sister. Their gazes met, then Marcus arched a brow.
Imperious as ever, Lucilla waved him forward. “Come and help Thomas—he has a wound in his left calf, so be careful.”
Before Thomas could blink, Marcus was there, coming up on his good side. As tall as Thomas, Marcus gave him his arm; Thomas leaned on it. Marcus’s presence was like that of an oak, solid and unbreakable, beside him.
Somewhat to his surprise, he detected no animosity from the man he’d left unconscious outside Lucilla’s sacred grove. What he did sense was a very shrewd mind paying very close attention to everything, and even though they exchanged no words, Thomas got the clear impression that Marcus and Lucilla were swapping comments back and forth across him.
