The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (22 page)

But Manachan’s health was no game.

Thomas sipped and, pretending to have no particular interest in anything beyond the taste of the whisky, waited to gauge his cousins’ reactions.

Abruptly, Nigel drained his glass and reached for the decanter again. After sloshing another three fingers into his glass, he slumped back in his chair and looked at Nolan, who was sipping in rather more moderate fashion alongside him. “I don’t know that this is wise—allowing her to raise his hopes like this.”

His gaze on his glass, on the light refracting through the amber liquid as he turned the crystal between his hands, Nolan shrugged. “We all know it’s just age that’s made him so. She’ll try her tonic, it won’t work, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Thomas noticed that even Norris nodded in agreement. Thomas was puzzled. “How can you know? Has a doctor examined him?”

Nigel snorted. “I suggested it, but you know what he’s like. He wouldn’t have it—insisted he was just poorly and would come about, but that was last September.” Nigel glanced at the glass dangling from his fingers. “I’m just surprised he agreed to letting her, of all people, treat him.”

Nolan sipped and mumbled, “It’s all nonsense, this healer rubbish. But when it doesn’t work…” He shrugged. “Underneath it all, he knows that it’s because he’s old and his time is coming. I think he agreed because she’s a guest, after all, and he’s old-fashioned about such courtesies.”

Thomas kept his lips shut; it would be easier all around if Nigel as well as Nolan believed that. It would keep them out of Lucilla’s, his, and Manachan’s hair while Lucilla tested her tonics. And while he was a touch surprised that both Nigel and Nolan, and even Norris if his occasional nods were any guide, had such a poor regard for the healer’s arts, it was perfectly possible that, other than with long-ago childhood ailments, they, personally, had never seen the difference a good healer could make in people’s lives.

Quite aside from her reputation, he’d seen Lucilla act, not once but twice. There was a young girl, Lucy, who lived with her parents, Jeb and Lottie Fields, in one of the more distant shepherd’s cabins, who would not be alive if it hadn’t been for a much younger Lucilla. Likewise, the Bradshaws. He would never have thought of the well as the source of their illness. She had—it had been she who saved them.

“Mind you,” Nigel said. “I’m rather impressed by her fortitude in remaining after stumbling on that adder. I would have thought she would have run screaming from the house and all the way back to the Vale.”

Nolan glanced across the table and caught Thomas’s eye. “A bite from an adult adder at this time of year…” Nolan smirked, then hid the expression behind his glass. “I’m surprised, cuz, that you didn’t insist on taking her home yourself. After all, you were the one who brought her onto Carrick lands.”

Nigel snorted. “Just think what will happen if any harm befalls her while here.” Nigel shuddered melodramatically, then drained his glass again—and, again, reached for the decanter.

Cradling his own glass, Nolan nodded. “And—worse—think of what the situation will be if she treats Papa, but instead of getting better, he gets worse. How will the clan react to that news, I wonder?”

There was a malicious glint in Nolan’s eyes when they touched Thomas’s.

Thomas didn’t respond, didn’t outwardly react at all, but it took effort to keep his body relaxed, his fingers gently wrapped about his glass. Because regardless of Nigel and Nolan’s motives in sending those barbs his way, their comments held more than a passing acquaintance with the truth.

Yet regardless, Lucilla remaining at the manor and treating Manachan was the right path—the one he had to follow for the good of the clan. Moreover, Lucilla, in her capacity as the Lady’s local representative, had insisted, and despite the impulses riding him, he had no right to gainsay her.

Rationally, logically, he knew all that, yet his cousins’ comments still pricked and prodded that part of him that, when it came to her, was neither rational nor logical. The part that wanted her safe at any cost, and at present, he was fairly certain that meant back in the Vale and away from here.

The Bradshaws. Joy Burns. Faith Burns. And now the adder in the still room. Coincidence could only stretch so far, and his belief in it had died long ago.

Norris drained his glass, set it down, and rose. “I’m going up.” He directed a general nod around the table. “Good night.”

Thomas murmured a good night in response. Nigel and Nolan just watched Norris leave.

Thomas drained his own glass. He felt no inclination to sit with Nigel and Nolan; if he did, he might be tempted to raise issues that, at present, would be better left unbroached—at least until he saw if Manachan regained his strength as Lucilla hoped he would.

Setting down his empty glass, he pushed back from the table.

Nigel and Nolan did the same.

Thomas strolled to the open doorway, went through, then paused and glanced back at his cousins. “I’m going to the drawing room. Will you be joining the company?”

Nolan exchanged a glance with Nigel, then Nigel met Thomas’s gaze. “My apologies to Miss Cynster, but Nolan and I have important business to attend to.”

Thomas kept his brows from rising in cynical disbelief; instead, he inclined his head and continued on his way.

But at the far end of the corridor, before he turned into the front hall, he paused and glanced back—and in the dimness at the end of the long corridor, saw Nolan follow Nigel through the billiard room door.

Lips twisting cynically, Thomas walked on.

* * *

Nolan leaned over the billiard table and lined up his shot.

Nigel stood at the end of the table, chalking the tip of his cue.

Nolan potted a ball into the side pocket and circled the table to line up another shot.

Nigel stared at the tip of his cue. “Do you think Lucilla’s tonic will improve Papa’s health?”

Nolan waited until he’d taken his shot, then straightened. His gaze remaining on the table, he shrugged. “Who can say?”

“But she is supposed to be an excellent healer—I’ve heard people say she’s even better than her mother.”

“She might be able to make him feel a touch better for a little while, but you know as well as I do that he’s simply old. Not even Lucilla has access to the Fountain of Youth. He’ll be better for a day or so, and then exhaust himself and slide back again—you know he will. Just like he’s done again and again over the last few months.” Nolan bent over the table again.

Nigel glanced at him, waited until he took his shot, then softly said, “But what if he
does
get better?” When, straightening, Nolan met his eyes, Nigel went on, “What if he actually recovers enough to see and learn, and understand what I’ve done? He won’t approve—not of any of it. And you know as well as I do that he’ll take back the reins, and then we’ll be back where we used to be—with no hope of living the sort of life we’ve only just started to enjoy.”

His eyes flaring, Nigel stepped closer to Nolan. “What if he doesn’t just overturn the changes, but does something to make sure we can’t change things even after he’s gone?” Panic had his tone rising. “What if he disinherits us and makes Thomas the laird instead?”

Nolan appeared to consider the prospect, then shook his head. “No—he won’t do that. Regardless of all else, he’ll never admit you’re anything other than the best candidate for the lairdship once he’s gone.” Nolan drew a slow breath. “And as for the rest, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Lucilla’s no miracle worker. Papa might improve, but only temporarily. She’ll leave, and in a day or two he’ll slide back again.” Nolan turned to the table and bent over it once more. “See if I’m not right.”

“But even temporarily might be long enough for him to get wind of what I’ve done.”

Nolan shook his head. “It’ll take more than a day or two of improvement before he’s back in the library and leafing through the ledgers. And even then, things won’t seem to be that different.”

Nigel brightened. “I forgot you keep two sets of accounts.”

Nolan dropped another ball and straightened. “I told you we might need them, and if we do, everything’s there, already in place. Papa can look to his heart’s content, and all he’ll see is that you running the estate is no great change at all—that all you’ve been doing is keeping things ticking over, much as he would have done.”

Nigel chuckled.

Nolan circled the table to line up the last ball. “But I doubt we’ll need our fake ledgers—he’s not going to get that far. Trust me—once Lucilla goes home, Papa will lapse again.”

Nigel watched the last ball roll into a corner pocket. “The way he’s been going, he can’t be all that much longer for this world.”

Nolan straightened and met Nigel’s gaze. “Very likely not.”

* * *

Thomas was waiting with Lucilla in the drawing room when Ferguson came to tell her that Manachan was ready to receive her.

Niniver had, again, excused herself and retired as soon as they had finished their tea. Once she had, Lucilla had asked for a more detailed account of what Thomas had discovered when he’d ridden out that afternoon; he’d obliged, and once again, her insightful questions had demonstrated her comprehension of how the local people thought. She understood what others from outside the area would not.

Carrying a lamp to light their way, he walked by her side up the stairs and around the gallery to the door to Manachan’s room. He paused and met her eyes. “Ready?”

She blinked. “Of course.” Before he could, she reached out and rapped on the panel.

Several seconds later, Edgar opened the door, then stepped back and held it wide. The normally dour man almost smiled. “Thank you for coming, miss.” The words were barely a whisper. Edgar waved her into the sitting room to one side. “The laird is waiting for you through there.”

“Thank you, Edgar.” Lucilla led the way into the room, but just over the threshold, she halted and looked back at Edgar. “I would appreciate it if you were present, too. Your past observations will be helpful.”

Edgar inclined his head.

Lucilla turned and swept into the room. She had no idea if Manachan was already regretting agreeing to let her treat him; he could turn crotchety and difficult, but she was determined to keep control of the examination and extract from him—and Edgar, too, if necessary—all she needed to know.

She was somewhat reassured to see that Manachan had changed into his nightshirt; swathed in a multihued velvet dressing robe, he sat waiting in a large, ornately carved straight-backed chair.

Fixing her most professionally reassuring smile on her lips, she inclined her head to him. “Excellent. This will do nicely.”

He glowered at her. “I warn you—I haven’t let a doctor near me for decades, so if you think to poke and prod me, you’ll have to wait until I’m a great deal iller.”

She managed not to smile too broadly. “I’ve no need to poke and prod. I just need to check your eyes, your hands and your feet, and then I’ll need you to answer my questions truthfully.”

He snorted, but he allowed her to examine his eyes. She noted the paleness of his skin, but it was simply pale, not sickly; the areas around his eyes looked as healthy as they should, with no bruising or indication of current illness. She had Edgar hold a lamp just over her shoulder and studied the faded blue of Manachan’s irises at some length.

“What can you see?” he mumbled.

“Your age, for one,” she tartly replied. After a moment, she admitted, “I can also see that you had some serious illness, something to do with your digestion and blood, some months ago.” The striations were quite clear and sharp; whatever it had been, the attack had been intense.

“Aye,” Edgar murmured. “That’d be right.”

“Hush, you.” Manachan directed a sharp glance at Edgar as Lucilla stepped back. “Let’s see what she comes up with on her own.”

She arched a brow at him, but after checking his pulse at both throat and wrist, she moved on to examining his hands and, lastly, his feet and ankles. There was no unnatural swelling, and the color of his nails and cuticles was, for a man of his age, quite good. But his pulse was weaker than she would have liked, and his skin tone, and the resilience of the flesh beneath, could definitely be improved.

How much of his symptoms were due to the length of time he’d been weak and run down, rather than to any irreversible damage, she wasn’t yet sure.

Rising, she sat in the second of the pair of straight-backed chairs. Thomas stood at her shoulder, while Edgar took up a similar position behind Manachan’s chair. She fixed her gaze on Manachan’s face. “Right, then—now I need some answers. First, it appears that you suffered a major gastric attack of some sorts, I would say not quite a year ago. Is that correct?”

Manachan grimaced. “Aye.” He nodded. “You’re right. That’s when this”—he waved at himself, indicating his weakened state—“all started.”

“Near to midsummer, it was,” Edgar offered.

She nodded. “Very well. Let’s start from then.” She proceeded to interrogate Manachan as to his symptoms at the time of the attack. Some of her questions made him squirm, but under the combined weight of Thomas’s and Edgar’s gazes, he grumbled and mumbled his way through the answers. As she had hoped, if Manachan attempted to slide past anything, or not mention something, Edgar was close enough, and assured enough of his position and his place in Manachan’s life, to fill in the gap.

By the time her interrogation had advanced to the present day, she had a fairly firm notion of what was ailing the old tyrant.

When he finally rapped out a “Well, what is it? What have I got?” she smiled and rose.

“I’m pleased to say you haven’t anything at the moment. You did catch something fairly serious last year, but after this time I can’t even begin to guess what it was. You appear to have had a relapse or two in the following months, but you’re not ill now, and although you might feel weak and lacking in strength, the only reason for that is that you were, indeed, so dragged down by that recurrent illness that your body simply hasn’t bounced back.” She held his gaze. “You need a tonic to push your body back onto the road to health again, and then keep it moving forward. Rebuilding your strength won’t happen overnight, and I can’t promise that you will ever regain the strength you once had, but in time, if you continue to take the medicine I prescribe, you will be much stronger and more able than you are now.”