The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Read online

  Bradshaw tensed to sit up, but she pressed him back. “No. Just rest. You’re too weak to help yet, and you need to get better if you’re to help your family—all of whom are recovering, too.” Shifting back off the bed, she looked around the room, confirming that here, too, there was no water. “Just wait and I’ll bring you something to drink. Your wife is still sleeping deeply, and there’s no need to disturb her. At this point, it’s best she sleeps.”

  She left the bedroom and walked back into the main room. A quick glance at the sofa showed that Joy hadn’t stirred. Lucilla checked the healer’s pulse; it was barely there, and slowing, fading. The glow of lamplight spilled out from the kitchen. Carrying her single candle, she headed that way.

  Thomas was working at the kitchen table, filling a second lamp. He looked up as she appeared.

  She answered the question in his eyes. “The Bradshaws are already recovering. Whatever it was, they vomited it up, and now that’s done, they’ll recover well enough.”

  “So it was something they ate?”

  “That’s what it looks like. Something that caused a violent stomach reaction. Something like a poison, but one that doesn’t stay down, and once it’s out, it no longer affects them. They’re still in some pain, but it’s from muscles strained through prolonged retching, not from any continuing ailment. I’ll make a tisane that will ease that, but first they need some water.” She’d been looking around for whatever the Bradshaws used to fetch water, but hadn’t spotted anything useful.

  Thomas pointed, and she turned to see a large metal ewer sitting in the shadows close by the back door. “It had rolled and spilled. I tipped what little was left into that glass on the sideboard. Joy must have had the ewer in her hand when she had her seizure.”

  Lucilla paused, then, without looking again at Thomas, walked over and picked up the ewer.

  “What?”

  The demand—more like a poorly worded command—had her glancing his way. She hesitated, but he was probably the right person to tell. “You asked about poison. I don’t know what it was the Bradshaws ate, although I suspect they ate it at breakfast yesterday. But Joy was poisoned, and by something quite different. Something she most likely ate either while here, or when she was close to here.” She paused, calculating, then shook her head. “I don’t think she could have eaten it before she left the manor. She wouldn’t have made it this far, let alone been in any state to reassure the Forresters enough for them to leave the Bradshaws in her care.”

  Thomas’s hands had stilled, the lamp half filled. He searched her face, then said, “Our healer was poisoned?”

  She grimaced. “I know it sounds unlikely, but I’m prepared to swear that Joy is dying of poison, one of the more potent ones. But how she came to take it in”—she raised her free hand, palm up—“that’s impossible to say. She could have eaten a mushroom she thought was safe, but that was actually another species. Although it sounds far-fetched, it happens often enough, even to people who think they know what they’re doing.”

  He held her gaze, then quietly said, “So the Bradshaws are severely ill because of one sort of poison, and our healer sent to aid them is dying of another sort of poison.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I know. What are the odds? But I can only report what I know, and I know Joy is dying of poison. No seizure, or heart failure, or any other cause of death looks quite the same.” She raised the ewer. “I’m going to fill this.”

  She turned and opened the door.

  “The well is to the right, toward the barn.”

  She went out, drawing the door closed behind her. The twilight was deepening and the air had grown chill, but she wasn’t planning on being outside for long. The rear yard was paved, and the well stood in pride of place in the center of the expanse; there was light enough to see her way.

  The stone well was open, but shaded by a small pitched roof. The bucket had been left down and was already full; she bent to the task of hauling it back up. Swinging the sloshing bucket to the side of the well, she unhooked the handle. Steadying the ewer between her feet, she was about to lift the bucket from the well wall and pour the water into the ewer when three cats and five kittens came running from the barn, mewing plaintively.

  The cats made straight for a gray enamel bowl on the ground beside the well. The bowl was empty.

  The cats twined about the bowl and Lucilla’s skirts.

  “You poor things.” She bent and picked up the bowl, tipped the bucket enough to splash water into it, then carefully set it down beside the well.

  The cats had backed off. She stepped away and watched as the three older cats crept forward. Noses extended, whiskers twitching, they approached the water.

  They got to within a few inches, then pulled up and, lips curling, backed away.

  Two of the kittens made a dash for the bowl. One of the larger cats hissed and batted them away.

  Casting what she could only describe as dark looks at the gray bowl of water—and, incidentally, at her—the cats grumbled and slunk away, back toward the barn.

  Lucilla looked at the bucket of water, and a chill slid down her spine.

  A second’s thought was enough to transform suspicion into certainty.

  Jaw setting, she gripped the bucket and tipped the water back into the well. She left the empty bucket by the side of the well, tipped the water out of the gray bowl, swiped up the empty ewer—and remembered the glass of water on the sideboard and someone who might well be thirsty.

  She burst into the kitchen just as Thomas lifted the glass from the sideboard. “No!” She flung out her free hand. “Don’t drink that.”

  Thomas looked from her to the glass, then looked back at her, at the ewer dangling, obviously empty, from her other hand. “The water?”

  His tone was both horrified and incredulous.

  She slumped back against the door and nodded. “It’s tainted. Even though they’re desperate, the barn cats won’t touch it.”

  Catching her breath, she pushed away from the door, walked to the table, and set the empty ewer down. She studied it for a moment, then quietly said, “Something—somehow—got into the well water two nights ago. The Bradshaws drew water in the morning and drank it with their breakfast.”

  “And fell ill.”

  She nodded. “But, of course, when people are ill like that, the first thing anyone does is give them water. More water.”

  “So the illness—the retching and pain—continued.”

  Raising her gaze, she met Thomas’s eyes. “Whoever did this—and I can’t think of any alternative but that someone put something in that well—it was a dastardly thing to do. The children—” She broke off; fighting to quell a shiver, she wrapped her arms around herself. “If it had continued, they would all eventually have died. There would have been no end to the pain.”

  Thomas swore beneath his breath. He looked at the glass in his hand, then stalked to the door, opened it, and flung the contents outside.

  Lucilla continued to stare at the ewer on the table. Eventually, she said, “What a twist of fate. The Bradshaws are recovering because they haven’t had any water for the last day. If Joy hadn’t fallen ill herself—”

  “She would have continued to give the Bradshaws water, not realizing she was poisoning them with it.” Thomas’s jaw felt like stone; inside, he was raging. But there was no one on whom he could vent his anger, no one on whom he could avenge his clansmen. Not yet.

  He forced himself to draw in a huge breath and refocus on what was important here and now. “The Bradshaws. They need water—water they can safely drink.”

  Lucilla shook herself, as if shaking free of similarly vengeful thoughts. “Yes. And they need it urgently. I can’t give them any tisanes to ease them, not without water to brew those tisanes.” She looked at him. “Which farm is closest?”

  “The Forresters’. I’ll ride there—they’ll help.”

  She nodded. “If I boil the water, I can use it to wash and clean. The youngest tw
o—I can make them more comfortable, at least.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll need to borrow the Forresters’ dray to bring back any decent amount of water. I’ll be an hour, possibly two. Will you be all right here on your own?”

  She looked at him as if he was speaking in tongues, then she waved him away. “Go. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

  He went.

  Lucilla finished reassembling the second lamp. She lit the wick, turned it low, then left the lamp on the table beside the sofa. After checking Joy Burns and finding little change, she took the other lamp and explored the various small rooms off the kitchen and the wash house. After deciding what she could use for each task, she set to work hauling in water from the well, filling the copper, then building the fire beneath it. Once the water had boiled for ten full minutes, she doused the fire, ladled water into a pail, then set the lid back on the copper and got to work.

  She scrubbed floors and replaced the used buckets. Despite the chill in the night air, she cracked open several windows, encouraging the cool drafts to clear the stench of sickness from the house.

  That done, she fetched more of the boiled water, still warm, and used damp cloths to wash her patients’ hands and faces, all the while being especially careful not to allow any of the water, boiled or not, to touch anyone’s lips.

  The youngest girl and younger boy awoke and remained awake, but all the others were still drifting in and out of sleep. Remembering the small canteen attached to her saddle, Lucilla wrapped a knitted shawl she found in the Bradshaws’ room about her head and shoulders, and went out to the barn to find it.

  She was pleased to discover the canteen was full of pure, fresh water from Casphairn Manor’s well. She took a small sip, then returned to the house and poured small amounts of water into two glasses she took from the very back of a shelf. Those she gave to the girl and boy, then she found another glass, one she deemed safe enough, and took some water to Bradshaw.

  He roused enough to drink it down, but immediately fell back, exhausted just by doing that much. Lucilla watched sleep reclaim him. She checked on his wife, then left them both sleeping.

  Returning to the main room, she pulled a chair up to the sofa, sat, and, taking Joy Burns’s hand in hers, kept vigil.

  She’d done this before, with Algaria, with others, and knew she would do so many more times in her life—holding the hand of the dying as they approached the veil.

  The moments ticked past, then she bent her head and prayed.

  The small clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve times before she heard the distant rumble of an approaching dray.

  She walked out to discover that Thomas had brought two full barrels of water.

  He drew the rear of the dray as close as he could to the kitchen door. Stepping down, he nodded at the barrels. “The Forresters will be here as early as they can. Until then, we’ll have to work with the barrels where they are—I can’t lift them by myself.”

  “No matter,” she said. “It’s untainted water, and that’s what counts.”

  The next hours were busy. Thomas unhitched the Forresters’ horse and led it to the stable, while she set two different tisanes brewing. While they steeped, then cooled, she rinsed and dried glasses and bowls, using the precious untainted water sparingly. She didn’t know what had been put into the Bradshaws’ well, but boiling alone might not negate its effect; she wasn’t taking any chances.

  Thomas had come back inside, looked in on the Bradshaws, and was sitting silently beside Joy when Lucilla carried a tray laden with doses of her tisane into the main room.

  He rose and went to take the tray. Together, they went into each room and woke each Bradshaw. He helped them to sit while Lucilla helped them drink. Thomas was relieved by the improvement in the youngest children; color had started to return to their cheeks and they moved, albeit carefully, on their own.

  “They should all be like that by morning,” Lucilla told him.

  All the Bradshaws roused enough to recognize both him and her, which was also reassuring. When Mrs. Bradshaw, the weakest and still most affected, struggled to thank them, he hushed her. “Just rest and get better—that’s the best reward you can give us.”

  Lucilla’s lips gently curved. She gave him an approving nod, then she lifted the tray with the empty glasses and led the way out of the room.

  He picked up the lamp and followed. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back, took in the clean floor, the clean, unused buckets left in case of need, and the other signs of order restored and neatness reimposed.

  After closing the door, he followed Lucilla along the corridor. He hadn’t expected her—the granddaughter of a duchess—to scrub soiled floors in a farmhouse, yet the floors had been washed and scrubbed, and she had been the only able body there. Then again, he’d seen how she had worked when they’d been stranded in a crofter’s cottage ten years before, and she’d helped deliver the crofter’s babe. Granddaughter of a duchess she might be, but she’d never shied from doing whatever was required to aid those who needed and asked for her help.

  Ducking under the low lintel of the archway, he stepped into the dimness of the main room. In the glow cast by the lamp set beside the sofa, he saw her, still carrying the tray, peering at the face of the small clock on the mantelpiece.

  “We’ll need to dose them again at about four o’clock.”

  He hesitated, then asked, “What is it you’re giving them?”

  She glanced at him as if surprised by his interest, but answered, “What we’ve just given them is a blend of herbs that will ease the pain and settle their stomachs. At four o’clock, we’ll give them a half dose of the same thing, along with a half dose of a strengthening tonic. Later, when they’re ready to get on their feet, they should have more of the latter.” She started toward the kitchen. “They can sip that throughout the day as needed. I’ll make up a bigger batch to leave with them. By evening, I’ll be surprised if they aren’t all feeling a great deal better, although full recovery will take another day or so.” Pausing in the kitchen doorway, she glanced back. “The most important thing is to ensure they have no more of that tainted water.”

  He nodded; when she continued into the kitchen, he ambled after her and set the lamp on the table. “The Forresters are near enough to supply them. Forrester’s already offered. I’ll arrange for the well to be tested, but that will take months.”

  “The effect might pass. They can use the cats to check if the water’s still bad.” She paused, then said, “That reminds me.”

  Leaving the tray on the table, she picked up the lamp, walked to the kitchen door, opened it, and went out. Curious, Thomas followed as far as the door. He propped one shoulder against the frame and watched as she went to the well, bent and picked up a bowl, then returned to the water barrels and filled the bowl from one.

  She glanced at him. “As the barn cats were so instrumental in sounding the alarm, so to speak, the least we can do is see to them, too.”

  He didn’t argue, just watched as she returned to the well, set down the bowl, then straightened and called, “Kit, kit, kit.”

  One after another, the cats came out to investigate. Soon, the bowl was surrounded by furry heads, all lapping furiously.

  When the cats were replete and sat back to groom their whiskers, Lucilla brought the bowl back to refill it. Still lounging, he asked, “Artemis and Apollo—are they still about?” By which he meant still alive; the pair would be just over ten years old, which was a very good age for a deerhound.

  She nodded. “For years, they went everywhere with us, Marcus and me—at least, wherever we allowed. They used to come to the grove with us without fail, but now their legs aren’t up to the journey.” Her lips gently curved. “They usually laze about the manor in the best spot of sunshine they can find. Or if not that, they stretch before the fireplace that has the best fire—they move from hearthrug to hearthrug, depending on the state of the blazes.”

  He humphed. He watched her take the ref
illed bowl back to the well. He remained where he was as she returned. When she halted before the door and arched an imperious brow at him, he met her gaze and simply said, “Thank you for coming and helping the Bradshaws.”

  She shrugged lightly and waved him back.

  Slowly straightening, he stepped back, and she stepped past—almost touching yet not, a teasing of his senses, one he hadn’t anticipated and therefore hadn’t guarded against. He clamped down on his instinctive reaction.

  Apparently oblivious, she continued into the kitchen. “It’s my duty to help.” She glanced back at him. “As I did with the crofters—the Fields—all those years ago.”

  Closing the door, he frowned. “I thought your duties, as such, were limited to the Vale.”

  “The Lady considers these lands—the Carrick estate, all of it, it seems—to be part of her domain, too. Hence all the people on the estate are in her care, so if they need the sort of help I can give”—she spread her hands—“I’m here.”

  Halting at the end of the kitchen table, he watched her sort through the various herbs she’d pulled from her saddlebag. After several moments, he shifted. “I’ll go and check on the Bradshaws.”

  She nodded without looking up.

  After confirming that all was quiet in the bedrooms, he sank into the chair beside the sofa. Resting his elbows on his thighs, linking his hands and propping his chin upon them, he watched Joy Burns. He wished she could rouse enough to tell him what had happened, whether her taking poison had been a terrible accident, or…

  His mind balked at supplying the rest of that thought. Who would knowingly harm a healer, and why?

  Yet coincidence, coincidence. One too many coincidences had brought him there, and now here was another.

  Time passed, and Lucilla joined him. She’d turned the lamp in the kitchen low; the light was muted, shades of shadows and night, when she bent over Joy, felt for her pulse, then quietly murmured, “She’s sinking. It won’t be long now.”