The Tempting of Thomas Carrick Read Online Free PDF Page B

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