The Tempting of Thomas Carrick by Stephanie Laurens Page B

gathered,” Thomas said in reply.
    Manachan was ill? That was the first Lucilla had heard of it, but, although the Vale and the Carrick estate were geographically connected, the people on the two properties shared few familial ties, and so the usual conduits of gossip—sister to sister-in-law, cousin to cousin—weren’t there.
    Frowning to herself, she left the pans and moved further into the kitchen. To keep her hands busy, she started repacking her saddlebag while rapidly reviewing all she knew.
    Something, quite obviously, was going on on the Carrick estate. The peculiarities of Manachan being ill and no seed being provided for planting were the least of it. The Bradshaws’ sudden illness and Joy Burns’s death added darker layers to the situation.
    Thomas had been summoned and had been left no option but to come down to the estate and involve himself in sorting things out; that, too, was plain enough.
    And, wisely, he’d asked for her help.
    So she was now involved, and as the people on the Carrick estate were under the Lady’s protection, too, to her mind that was entirely appropriate.
    By extension, she needed to remain involved until she and Thomas got to the bottom of whatever was going on, and sorted matters out in whatever way said matters needed sorting.
    She glanced up as Thomas and Forrester carried in the last barrel and settled it alongside the others.
    Yes, she had a vested personal interest in remaining by Thomas’s side, but solving problems for the Lady’s people was what she was supposed to do. It was part of her role, a part of the code by which she lived.
    The clop of hooves and the ponderous crunching of wheels on the gravel outside had all of them in the kitchen looking toward the front of the farmhouse.
    Thomas frowned and led the way to the front door. Forrester followed. Lucilla set down her herb packets and hurried in the men’s wake. Wiping her hands on her apron, Mrs. Forrester brought up the rear.
    Thomas opened the front door, looked outside—and inwardly swore. Leaving the door open, he walked out and down the step to the heavy, old-fashioned curricle that had come to a halt, rocking on its springs, before the farmhouse.
    The reins in his hands, Sean met Thomas’s eyes, a warning in his.
    Beside Sean, swathed in a blanket over a thick overcoat, sat Manachan. Large though he was, in contrast to Sean’s hale and hearty form, Manachan looked frail. His pallor was more pronounced in the clear morning light, and his crippling lack of energy showed in the effort he had to expend to simply raise a hand in greeting.
    Thomas rounded the horse and went to Manachan’s side. He gripped the hand Manachan had raised. “Sir—we didn’t expect you.”
    Manachan nodded weakly, yet nevertheless managed to infuse the action with his customary dismissive irascibility. “The Bradshaws,” he all but wheezed. “How are they?” Using Thomas’s grip for leverage, Manachan started the process of getting himself out of the carriage.
    For a moment, Thomas was fully absorbed with balancing his uncle’s weight; the last thing he wanted was for his laird to fall on his face.
    Lucilla had taken in Manachan’s state in one swift glance; she didn’t need to see more to know the old man was seriously ill. What the devil had happened to him? But he was still The Carrick, the laird, and despite the inadvisability of him having come out all this way, he was behaving appropriately—as a laird should.
    Glancing at Forrester, she saw that he was as shocked by Manachan’s state as she was, but he wasn’t hiding it as well. Moving past him, she stepped off the stoop and circled the horse to where Thomas was endeavoring to keep Manachan upright. “The Bradshaws are much improved,” she stated.
    Manachan had been looking down at his own feet; he hadn’t seen her approach. At her words, he glanced up at her from under beetling brows—but he recognized her instantly, which gave her hope for his