The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Read online

  And because he didn’t need to journey to the lowlands, he could concentrate on taking the next vital step in forging the life he wanted.

  All he needed to do was find some young lady strong enough, vital and vibrant and enthralling enough, to oust Lucilla Cynster from his mind.

  * * *

  Two mornings later, Thomas walked into the Carrick Enterprises office to find Dobson standing before Mrs. Manning’s desk. Mrs. Manning was seated behind the desk as usual. Both she and Dobson were staring at a letter set prominently across the top of the blotter. There was a certain expectant tension in the air.

  Dobson and Mrs. Manning glanced at Thomas, then Dobson reached for the letter, but Mrs. Manning snatched it up and held it out. “Good morning, Mr. Carrick. This just arrived by courier.”

  “I see.” Strolling forward, Thomas took the packet. “Thank you.”

  Dobson snorted. “Surprised the boy didn’t bowl you over.”

  Thomas had seen a courier dart out of the building just before he’d reached it, but couriers were commonplace in that part of the city. He was wondering why this particular delivery had excited such concern when Mrs. Manning obligingly added, “It’s from Carsphairn, sir.”

  Shock lanced through Thomas. “Ah.” Manachan? Or something else? He studied the envelope, but it wasn’t franked by his uncle’s hand… Was that good news or bad? “I’ll be in my office.”

  Without haste, without again looking at the packet, he made his way down the corridor, into his office, and to his desk. Standing before it, he picked up the letter knife, slit the packet, and withdrew a single sheet of paper, folded twice. His face like stone, his emotions under tight control, he unfolded the sheet and read…

  That the Bradshaws, the entire family of seven—Mr., Mrs., two sons, and three daughters—had been taken violently ill the day before. The family of the same Bradshaw who had previously written to Thomas.

  The letter he held had been penned by a neighbor, Forrester. Forrester confirmed that, as Bradshaw had told Thomas, the seed stock for the farmers had not been delivered, and as far as anyone knew had not even been ordered, and no one knew want to do. Forrester explained that he and his family had called on the Bradshaws, who were kin, and discovered the entire family gravely ill and wracked with pain. Forrester stated that they’d sent for the clan healer, who lived at the manor. And that Bradshaw had begged Forrester to write to Thomas and let him know immediately—because they believed that someone hadn’t liked Bradshaw informing Thomas about the problem with the seed supply.

  Lowering the letter, Thomas stared unseeing at the view down Trongate. “Good God.” Logically, there was no reason to link the Bradshaws’ sudden illness with Bradshaw writing to him about the seed supply. However, in the circumstances, he couldn’t swear that there was no connection. He had told Nigel and Nolan, and while he couldn’t imagine his cousins doing anything so nefarious—something idiotic, perhaps, but cold-bloodedly poisoning an entire family was something else again—he had no way of knowing who else they had told.

  No way of knowing what was going on on the Carrick estate.

  No way of guessing if someone else might have an interest in their farmers not being supplied with seed.

  Families fell ill for all sorts of reasons. The healer had been sent for, thank heaven, and if the family were still alive… “Pray God she can pull them through.”

  Thomas knew the healer, one Joy Burns, a woman devoted to her calling. She would do her best; that wasn’t in question.

  Despite the unstated insinuation contained in the letter, at first glance, there seemed no reason to assume cause and effect. However, although Thomas hadn’t mentioned Bradshaw’s name, for anyone familiar with the people on the estate, it wouldn’t have been all that hard to guess that the outspoken and frequently belligerent Bradshaw had been the source of the complaint. And then the Bradshaw family had fallen ill—on the day after Nigel and Nolan had returned to Carrick Manor.

  It wasn’t, Thomas realized, simply a case of three potentially connected facts—Bradshaw writing to Thomas, Thomas mentioning the matter to his cousins, and the Bradshaws falling ill—but also the timing. More than all the rest, it was the timing that made his hackles rise.

  He’d been making his way in the business world for nearly a decade. If he’d stumbled across a situation like this in a business context, he wouldn’t be even entertaining the notion of coincidence.

  He stood in his office, staring out of the window, while he struggled to make more from the scant facts he had.

  When all was said and done, something was going on on the Carrick estate—and he had no idea what.

  After several long moments evaluating his options, he swiveled on his heel, walked out into the corridor, and strode for Quentin’s office at the other end.

  When push came to shove, clan trumped damn near all else.

  It absolutely trumped personal considerations.

  He couldn’t not go down to the estate and find out what was going on. He owed the clan, the Bradshaws and the Forresters, and even more, Manachan, that much, at least.

  His interference might be unwanted, even unnecessary; he hoped the latter would prove to be the case, but regardless, he couldn’t ignore the renewed plea in Forrester’s letter.

  He had to go back and do whatever he could. That was all there was to it.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was midafternoon when Thomas rode into the stable yard behind Carrick Manor. The clang of his gray gelding’s hooves on the cobbles brought first one, then two, then three clansmen from the stable.

  Sean reached Thomas first. The burly stableman caught Phantom’s bridle; as the big gray quieted, Sean looked up at Thomas, relief in his face. “You surely are a sight for sore eyes, laddie.”

  Mitch and Fred came striding up, smiles on their faces, warmth in their eyes. “Welcome back, Mr. Thomas,” Fred called.

  “Aye.” Mitch tipped his head back to meet Thomas’s eyes. “Good thing, too.”

  Thomas returned their smiles. “It’s good to be back.” The response came by rote, yet, as he swung down from the saddle, he realized it was true. A sense of simple happiness, the expectation of meeting old friends and family he held dear, had slid through him in the instant he’d turned off the highway and started down the long drive.

  Handing the reins to Mitch, he said, as much to himself as to the three men, “I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.”

  Sobering, he glanced at Sean, the eldest of the three and officially the head stableman. “Forrester sent word about the Bradshaws.”

  Whatever was going on, it wouldn’t involve these three. Thomas knew where their loyalties lay—with Manachan and the clan—and no power on earth could have changed that. Aside from all else, the three were, like Thomas, clan orphans, orphans Manachan had taken in and watched over.

  “Aye.” The smile had fallen from Sean’s face, too. “Bad tidings.”

  “Bad doings, you ask me,” Mitch growled.

  Sean glanced at his subordinate—but, Thomas noted, Sean didn’t dismiss Mitch’s suggestion of foul play.

  Thomas shifted. “I’ll see what the laird has to say.”

  “Aye.” Fred nodded. “You do that. Be good that he knows.”

  About to turn for the house, Thomas paused, his gaze on Fred’s bland countenance. Then he looked at Mitch and finally at Sean; the three didn’t meet his eyes but were glancing at each other. “Manachan has been told about the Bradshaws, hasn’t he?”

  The three exchanged another glance, then Sean—still not meeting Thomas’s gaze, which Thomas found very odd—shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, can we? What we do know is that all in the house have been ordered not to tell hisself anything that might bother him.”

  “Ordered on pain of being sent away,” Mitch added in another low growl.

  Things were definitely not as they used to be—not as he’d assumed they were. Thomas gave a brief nod. “I’ll go and speak with him.”

>   As he turned away, Sean asked, “You staying?”

  Striding for the house, Thomas glanced back. “I’ll probably ride out to the Bradshaws’.” He nodded at Phantom. “Walk him for now.”

  Sean tipped a finger in salute.

  Facing forward, his hands in his greatcoat pockets, Thomas continued to the house, climbed the front steps, and crossed the porch to the front door. Unsurprised to find it unlocked—this was the country, and one of the more isolated pockets, at that—he opened the door and walked into the front hall.

  Into a scene of domestic confusion.

  Four figures stood in the middle of the hall, talking in quiet but urgent tones, and all showing signs of consternation. Ferguson, the butler, was frowning and looked worried, while the housekeeper, Mrs. Kennedy, was as distracted as Thomas had ever seen her. The two footmen, waiting nearby, were openly anxious.

  All four glanced at Thomas as he paused just inside the open door. For one second, all looked blank; Thomas realized that with the light behind him, they couldn’t immediately see who he was. He reached back and pushed the door shut, then stepped forward; they recognized him, and relief washed over their features.

  Thomas’s chest tightened. “I heard about the Bradshaws. I’ve come to see the laird.”

  Beneath his breath, Ferguson muttered, “Thank God for that.” More loudly, he said, “Welcome back, Mr. Thomas.”

  Mrs. Kennedy bobbed a curtsy and echoed the sentiment. The footmen, both of whom Thomas recognized from years past, nodded in greeting.

  All were transparently glad to see him, which was nice in a way…and worrying in another.

  Ferguson glanced at one of the footmen. “Grant can show you—”

  Frowning, Thomas cut in, “Where is the laird?”

  Ferguson and Mrs. Kennedy exchanged a glance, then Mrs. Kennedy carefully said, “In his room, sir. He rarely comes down, these days.”

  Thomas managed not to swear. The last time he’d been there, Manachan had been striding around the place, hale and hearty. “I know the way—I’ll see myself up. But what’s your current problem?”

  Another glance was exchanged, but this time it was—again—one of relief; all were glad he’d asked.

  “It’s Faith Burns, sir.” Mrs. Kennedy gripped her hands tightly before her. “She’s the senior maid.”

  Thomas nodded. “I remember her.”

  “Yes, well.” Ferguson ran a hand through his hair, something Thomas had never seen the normally unflappable man do. “Faith’s gone missing. She was here last night. All was normal and as it should be. But she didn’t come down this morning—or, leastways, none of us have seen her.”

  “Her bed’s made,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “But we can’t tell whether she slept in it or not.”

  “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.

  Manachan’s gaze traveled over Thomas’s features, then his face softened and his lips curved in a smile. Weakly, he raised a hand. “Thomas, m’boy. Good of you to visit.”

  He went forward and took Manachan’s hand in one of his; with his other hand, he lifted a straight-backed chair, positioned it beside the bed, and sat. Still gripping Manachan’s hand, he studied his uncle’s face and tried to mask his shock.

  Manachan might have grown weak, yet his faculties seemed intact. His expression turned wry. “No, I’m not dying. Just brought low
. But I’m not getting any worse, although I’m not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

  Edgar made a distressed shush-ing sound.

  Thomas caught Manachan’s gaze. “How long? How long have you been like this—confined to your room?”

  Manachan arched his brows as if trying to remember, then glanced at Edgar.

  “He was first struck down last August,” Edgar quietly supplied. “He’s been up and down since then, but never back to his old self.”

  Manachan snorted. “Sadly, not even close to my old self. It seems that old self of mine has slid away, and this is the best that’s left.” Manachan’s gaze grew sharper. “Not much use to anyone anymore, but luckily Nigel is here to take over.”

  “You’re still the laird.” Edgar said it before Thomas could, and there was a wealth of defensive stubbornness in the words.

  Manachan snorted dismissively. “Not much of a laird, given I can’t get out and about to see what’s what.”

  When Manachan glanced his way, Thomas met his gaze. “Speaking of what’s what, why didn’t you write and tell me?”

  Manachan lifted his heavy shoulders in a slight shrug. “What’s to tell? I’m old, boy. My past misdemeanors are catching up with me, and I just have to bear it. Old age comes to us all.”

  Thomas cast a reproachful glance at Edgar.

  The thin man responded, “We were instructed that you were not to be bothered with…the master’s failing.”

  Thomas looked back at Manachan.

  Manachan squeezed his hand. “Allow me my dignity, boy. No one but those who have to need to see how low I’ve sunk.”

  It wasn’t easy, but Thomas forced himself to swallow that—along with the acid guilt that he hadn’t come back to the estate before now, that he’d stayed away for the past two years purely in pursuit of his own agenda and a cowardly wish to avoid Lucilla Cynster.

  He drew a deep breath, and let it out with “Very well—I’ll allow, but that doesn’t mean I agree.”

  There was so much he didn’t agree with about Manachan’s current situation that he wasn’t sure where to start, but today, there were more urgent matters on his plate.