All About Love

Chapter 13

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Phyllida woke. She lifted her lids; through the nearby window she could see the sky. A gray light washed over the darkness, presaging dawn, but dawn was not yet here.

Her lids fell; she snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of the covers. Every muscle in her body felt stretched, released. The heavy arm across her waist was comforting.

She half sat up with a jerk-or would have, but that hairy arm tensed and held her down.

Lying on her side, she sent her senses searching. Lucifer lay sprawled on his stomach alongside her, one arm flung over her. And he was awake. And naked. And so was she. Escaping this while maintaining her composure was not going to be a simple matter.

Unfortunately, rack her brains though she did, she could recall no teachings on the etiquette of leaving a gentleman's bed. If he'd been asleep, she'd have slipped away-and worried about meeting him face-to-face later. Fully clothed, she'd have managed with tolerable calm.

But naked? With him naked beside her?

If she lay there thinking about it anymore, she'd end in a witless panic. She turned; his arm slid over her waist. On her back, she glanced sideways at his face, half buried in the pillow. "I have to go."

Only one of his eyes was visible; it opened and regarded her-far too intently for her liking.

"You haven't yet told me what you were looking for, which is presumably why the murderer is after you."

"It's not, but it's nearly dawn. I have to get through the wood and into the Grange. If you call later this morning, I promise I'll tell you everything."

He didn't lift his head-he just shook it. He looked stunningly handsome with his black hair rumpled; had she done that? Her fingers itched.

"I was going to come and interrogate you this morning, but the present situation has a great deal to recommend it in terms of extracting information."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you won't be leaving this bed until you've told me all."

"Don't be silly-I have to leave before your household gets up. You won't want your servants to know I'm here."

Lucifer shrugged. "If you don't mind, why should I?" He was going to marry her; in the circumstances, everyone would turn a blind eye.

She stared at him, blank-faced, then her eyes flashed. "Well, I do mind!"

She tried to push his arm from her. He sighed and turned-and drew her into his arms. She quieted. He rolled her until she lay on her side, all but nose to nose with him, his arms locked around her, her legs tangled with his, his erection pressed to her soft belly. He looked into her eyes. "In that case, you'd better start talking."

Her expression was impossible to read; only her dark eyes, still wide, still lustrous with lingering satiation, showed her awareness of his state. Of his unstated threat. Her lips firmed, obstinate to the end.

He held her gaze and waited, while the sun rose.

Phyllida capitulated. "I've been searching for a packet of letters. Not mine-someone else's."

"Mary Anne's."

The leap of logic was hardly great. "Yes. She hid the letters in her grandmother's writing desk, and then her father sold the desk to Horatio and it was delivered here before Mary Anne realized."

"What's so threatening about these letters?"

"I don't know. All I know is that Mary Anne and Robert are desperate to get them back without anyone knowing anything about them, much less reading them."

He searched her eyes. "You promised not to tell anyone?"

"I swore I wouldn't reveal the existence of the letters to anyone at all."

After a moment, he nodded. "All right. So you were looking for the letters…" His gaze sharpened. "That's why you were in Horatio's drawing room on Sunday last."

Phyllida sighed. "Yes." It felt good to be able to tell him. And he'd understood about her promise; she'd thought he would. "I was searching for the writing desk and walked into the drawing room-and saw Horatio lying there, dead."

"Where was I?"

"You hadn't arrived yet. I'd just turned Horatio over and realized he really was dead when I heard you striding up the path."

"And?"

"I thought you might be the murderer coming back for the body. I hid."'

A frown formed in his eyes. "Where?"

She kept her eyes glued to his. "Behind the door."

His eyes hardened; so did the planes of his face. The arms about her tightened. She'd imagined telling him that she'd been the one who had hit him with the halberd a hundred times, but she'd never imagined doing it while naked in his arms.

"You hit me?"

"I didn't mean to! I realized you weren't the murderer and stepped forward to speak to you, and the halberd overbalanced."

He stared into her eyes for a long, long minute; then the muscles in his arms relaxed. "You tried to stop it. That's why it didn't kill me."

She let out the breath she'd been holding. "I tried, but I couldn't. I only managed to turn it a bit." The remembered panic washed through her; it must have shown in her eyes.

He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. "It's all right." His hands smoothed over her back. "A bit was enough."

The comfort in his tone, in his touch, wiped away all resistance. She relaxed in his arms. Her gaze dropped to his lips. "Well, now you know."

His lips quirked. "I now know a great deal that I didn't go to bed knowing, but…"

She blushed and looked back at his eyes-away from those devilish lips.

"I don't know why the murderer is after you."

"I think it's because of the hat." She told him, describing it briefly. "But I don't know whose it was, and I haven't seen it since."

A board creaked directly above them. They both looked up. Phyllida paled. "Oh, Lord!"

Lucifer pulled her to him and kissed her soundly, long and deep, his hands playing over her back, her bottom. Then he released her. "Go."

Dazed and blinking though she was, she didn't wait to be told twice. She scrambled from the bed. Her breeches were at her feet; she swiped them up and sat to struggle into them. Crossing his arms behind his head, he lay back and watched her.

She stuffed her feet into her boots, then raced across the room and grabbed her shirt. Neither shirt nor breeches had buttons anymore. Horrified, she turned to him, arms wide, demonstrating. He raised a brow.

She glared, picked up her jacket, and shrugged into it. She stooped to pick up her bands, stuffed them in a pocket, then made for the door, one hand clutching the jacket closed, the other beneath it, holding up her breeches.

"I'll call on you later in the morning. Don't go anywhere before then."

His tone gave her pause; from the door, she looked back, then nodded, hauled it open, and fled.

Lucifer listened, but she was quiet as a mouse. None of his household were yet up-he always heard them going down the stairs. She'd be safe getting out of the Manor and safe enough through the wood; no one could know she'd spent the night in his bed. Both attacks on her had been planned; their murderer was not the sort to hang around on the off chance where someone might see him and grow suspicious. She'd be safe getting home; he trusted her to reach her room undetected, not that it was of any truly great moment, but she would worry if she were seen.

The thought gave him pause. He lifted the sheet and looked down. Blood spotted both sheets.

He lowered them, then looked across the room to his exceedingly sharp cavalry saber, standing propped in the chest. Obviously, he'd been unable to sleep, thought he'd heard a noise, and gone to investigate, carrying the saber. He'd nicked his leg, but hadn't noticed in the dark. Then he'd decided to try out Horatio's bed, to see if sleep came easier there. It had. Simple enough.

Leaning back, he closed his eyes and let his mind revisit the night. His lips curved in a wicked smile.

"I want to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage." The words were amazingly easy to say. Lucifer turned from the window overlooking the Grange lawns and faced Sir Jasper. Seated behind his desk, Sir Jasper beamed. "Excellent!"

Then his smile faded. He cleared his throat. "Of course, Phyllida herself will have the final say. Headstrong female. Runs her own life, y'know."

"Indeed." Lucifer claimed a chair facing his father-in-law to-be. "Apropos of that, it appears her suitors to date have left her with a distinctly jaundiced view of marriage."

"Indeed, indeed-she's been adamant she'll have none of it." Sir Jasper eyed Lucifer consideringly. "Not sure if it's some odd kick in her gallop or not having a mother for so long, or what, but there it is-she declares she has no interest in marrying."

"With due respect, she's been given little incentive to be interested. Everyone expects her to marry, assumes she will, and her suitors have sought to turn that to their own advantage." Lucifer paused, then added, "Few women appreciate being taken for granted."

Especially not intelligent ladies of managing disposition. "Because of that," he continued, "while I wished to make my intentions known to you, I have not yet spoken to Phyllida. We first met only nine days ago, and although I'm sure of my own mind on the matter, I'm equally sure that the way to gain Phyllida's agreement to the match lies in giving her time to convince herself of its rightness."

"So you propose waiting before putting the question to her, heh?"

"I propose wooing her before, metaphorically, going down on bended knee. A few weeks-I'm in no urgent hurry." An all-too-physical memory of Phyllida beneath him seared across his brain; he blocked it off, ignored his reaction, and continued. "I believe the most inimical step I could take at present would be to press my suit."

If he did, she'd immediately want to know why-why he wanted to marry her. He'd be forced to trot out all the conventional reasons, which would paint him in precisely the same unappealing colors as all her other suitors. The reasons were sound, but he knew they were not what she would want to hear. She would not be swayed by them.

He did have one obvious reason no other had ever had-he'd bedded her and therefore should, by all honorable tenets, make all right by marrying her. Although in some respects-the ones pertaining to honor-that struck a chord with him, it wasn't, to his mind, a wise or valid reason to advance in support of his cause.

No woman wanted to hear that she was being married because of honor's dictates. To let Phyllida believe that-to even suggest it-would be both cruel and cowardly. It was nowhere near the truth. He'd bedded her because he intended to marry her, not the other way around.

"I believe," he said, "that a course of gentle persuasion is in order."

Sir Jasper nodded. "You may be right. Can't hurt to try that tack." He looked at Lucifer; his expression hardened. "I won't hide it from you-right now I'd appreciate all the help I can get with Phyllida. This business of her being attacked-very possibly twice-has me more than worried. Can't see rhyme or reason to it myself."

"I think we must assume that the attacker is Horatio's murderer. There's no reason to believe Colyton is harboring two men with malicious intent. But the reason he attacked Phyllida is certainly a mystery."

"She says she has no idea why he wants to kill her."

"Hmm. I will, of course, be continuing my investigations into Horatio's murder. With your permission, I'll extend that to include the attacks on Phyllida. It must be the same man."

"Hard to get one's mind around any of it, but yes, I agree. It's most worrying."

Lucifer rose. "Again with your permission, I'll keep an eye on Phyllida. I'll be better placed than others to do so."

Sir Jasper rose, too, shrewd consideration in his eyes. He regarded Lucifer, then nodded and held out his hand. "Whatever permission you need, consider it given. No one I'd rather welcome as a son."

Lucifer grasped Sir Jasper's hand.

"Well, then," Sir Jasper said. "Now you can get to it with a clear conscience, what?"

Suppressing a smile, Lucifer inclined his head. "Indeed."

He left Sir Jasper's study, fully intending to get to the matter forthwith. His conscience, however, wasn't entirely clear. He was concealing his real reason for marrying Phyllida; he intended to do so indefinitely. He knew what it was, yet he could barely let the concept take shape in his brain-stating it out aloud, to her or even to himself, would remain, he was convinced, forever beyond him.

It was simply too much to ask. Not now. Not ever.

He found the object of his thoughts-the object of his lust, his desire, and a great deal more-in the rose garden. She was lopping blooms and laying them in a basket. He stood under the arched entrance and watched her. Watched the sunlight play on her dark hair, striking red lights in the silky strands. Watched the pale gold gown she wore swing and sway around the slender body that had writhed beneath him last night.

Pushing away from the archway, he stepped down to the flagged path.

Phyllida rounded a bush and saw him. She waited, watching him approach with the graceful strength of some large hunting cat. As always, he was the picture of male elegance, this time in a dark coat over pale breeches that molded to his thighs before reaching into polished Hessians. Her heart thudded as he neared; she seized the moment to calm it and strengthen her hold on her emotions. She knew exactly where she stood, where he stood; she would not allow herself to imagine anything more. She inclined her head. "Good morning."

He halted a foot away and studied her eyes. "Good morning."

There was a light in his eyes, a sliding purr in his voice that warmed her more than the sun. She looked at the bush and concentrated on snipping a nicely opened rose. "Have you found the letters by any chance?"

"I looked, but I couldn't find any writing desk, not on the first floor and not in the attics, either. Are you sure it's not downstairs?"

She frowned. "I don't think I missed it."

"Perhaps you should visit the Manor this afternoon and check the downstairs rooms."

She glanced up, then nodded. "It would be a relief to solve at least one mystery."

"As for the question of who murdered Horatio-tell me what happened from the time you walked into the front hall to the time you left the Manor."

"I already told you."

"Humor me. There could be something, some little thing, that you'll remember this time."

Laying the clippers in the basket, she turned. She recounted her movements as they strolled to the arbor at the end of the garden.

"So reaching for the hat was the very last thing you did?" He handed her to the stone seat in the arbor.

"Yes. I thought it was yours."

"Mine?" He sat beside her. "My coats are either black or dark blue. What would I be doing with a brown hat?"

"I didn't know your sartorial preferences at the time." She paused, holding tight to her calm, looking at the roses nodding in the heat rather than at him. "Anyway, I went back in the afternoon to arrange about your horses. I thought I would fetch the hat for you. I asked Bristleford. He was certain there'd been no hat in the drawing room when they found Horatio's body."

"And mine."

She inclined her head. "And yours."

She waited for him to say something about how he'd come to be a "body." Instead, he sat silently for some minutes, then said, "It has to be the hat. The murderer must be convinced you'll recognize it."

"But I haven't. That ought to be obvious by now."

"True, so he must think you will recognize it-that you'll suddenly remember. Which means-" He stopped.

She looked at him. "Means what?"

He met her gaze. "That it's someone you've seen often, in that hat."

"So"-she drew a tight breath-"definitely no stranger."

"It's someone you know."

The words hung in the air between them, chill despite the heat. Phyllida held herself rigidly upright and fought the sudden urge to take refuge in his arms. The seat was short; he'd stretched one arm along its back, behind her shoulders. His chest was temptingly near. The impulse to lean into him, to press her shoulder to his chest, to feel his arms close about her, waxed strong.

She knew what it felt like to be held in his arms. It felt safe. But… she wasn't the clingy sort.

She was about to look away, to switch her gaze to the safe subject of the garden, when he shifted. His arm left the seat back and curled about her shoulders; his other hand tipped up her face. His lips were on hers before she knew it, and then she was kissing him back.

When he raised his head, she frowned at him. "What was that for?" She wriggled upright.

Lucifer released her. He searched for a light answer; only the truth filled his mind. "Reassurance. You looked frightened."

She gazed into his eyes, then lightly shivered and looked away. "I am frightened-a little."

"A little frightened is wise, but the murderer is not going to have you, too."

She slanted him a glance. "You sound very sure."

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because I won't allow it."

Before she could utter the "Why?" he could see in her dark eyes, he drew her to him and kissed her again. After an instant's hesitation, she relaxed and let herself flow into the kiss. The rose garden was private; too tempting. Her bodice was open, his fingers fondling one breast when she pulled back on a gasp and looked down.

"What are you doing?"

He circled her nipple with one fingertip. "I'm sure you can guess."

The gaze she lifted to his face was shocked. "But… I've told you all I know."

She drew back; he let his hand fall. Puzzled, he tried to see her eyes as she fussed, rebuttoning her gown. Her expression was still calm, if just a little determined. Determined about what, he couldn't guess. "What-?"

"There's nothing I've left out." Gown neat again, she picked up the basket and stood. "You know it all."

Rising, too, Lucifer was certain that last wasn't true. An unwelcome suspicion formed in his brain.

Lifting her head, she stepped out. "I assure you there's nothing more to be gained from continuing to seduce me."

She'd taken only two paces when his fingers locked around her elbow and he swung her back.

"What did you say?" Eyes narrowed, he looked down at her.

She returned his gaze; irritation swam in her eyes. "You heard perfectly well." She twisted her arm; he let her go.

"Why do you think I seduced you?"

She drew herself up-suddenly, he could no longer read her eyes. "You seduced me in order to learn what you wanted to know. Now I've told you all, there's no need…" She gestured and swung away.

"That isn't why I seduced you."

His tone stopped her. She took a deep breath, then turned to face him.

"Why, then?"

Her challenge rang clearly. Yet she'd asked the very question he didn't want to face, the one he couldn't bring himself to answer truthfully. He looked into her dark eyes, and he didn't want to lie.

A gong bonged, the sound carried on the breeze from the house. They both looked, then Phyllida turned. "That's the gong for lunch." After an instant's hesitation, she walked on.

A moment later, he caught up and fell in beside her.

She didn't speak again until they were climbing the steps from the sunken garden. "If you meant what you said about allowing me to search the Manor, I'll come by this afternoon."

"I meant what I said, but we can walk back together." Lucifer halted on the top step. "Your aunt invited me to lunch."

Phyllida turned toward the house. "How convenient."

His hand on her arm halted her. She glanced back.

He held out a small pouch. "Before we go in, you'd better take these."

Puzzled, she took the pouch. And felt the buttons inside. Heat rose to her cheeks. "Thank you." Without meeting his eyes, she tucked the pouch under the roses in her basket, then continued along the walk.

Three hours later, Phyllida sat in a chair before the desk in the Manor's library, carefully scanning entries in the ledger open on her lap. Seated in the chair behind the desk, Lucifer watched her from beneath his lashes.

They'd left the Grange after lunch and walked to the Manor through the wood. All the way, Phyllida had maintained her usual calm composure, answering when spoken to but otherwise treating him-reacting to him-as if he were any other reasonably intelligent gentleman. She hadn't, admittedly, attempted to treat him with the dismissive air she employed with her other suitors, but by the same token, she definitely wasn't treating him like the man she'd shared a bed with last night.

He'd spent enough nights with more than enough women to know how they should greet him the next day.

Not Phyllida.

Irritation simmered, fed by frustration. He'd turned away from seducing her into telling him all, yet because of her rash actions, and his reactions, he now appeared to have done just that. If truth were told, she had seduced him into seducing her. It hadn't been his doing that she'd turned up at the Manor in breeches after midnight, searching Horatio's room. Once he'd found her-well, what was he supposed to have done? Bowed and shown her the door?

Suppressing a snort, he tried to focus on the ledger before him. The undeniable fact that he'd used his wish to learn her secret as camouflage, a superficial, flippant covering for the deeper, darker truth, continued to niggle and irk. The situation and Phyllida had conspired to trip him up; the reality of his need, the driving urge to make her his, had completed his downfall.

Why had he seduced her? Because he'd wanted to-needed to. If he told her that, she'd sniff and look away, and continue believing the worst.

His gaze flicked to her; he was careful not to stare too intently.

At least she was here, safe and, for the moment, occupied. She'd gone around the downstairs rooms, but the writing desk had not materialized; she'd returned dejected, making sounds about going back to the Grange. He'd suggested she look through Horatio's ledgers to see if he'd sold the desk.

He was also going through the ledgers, searching for any entry that might qualify as Horatio's mystery item. He hadn't found anything yet.

His gaze fastened once more on Phyllida's calm face. He definitely did not like being classed with her other suitors, those who wanted her for material or social reasons, reasons that had little to do with her fair self. They were the ones who had made her lose faith in marriage. The fact that she believed he was like them irked-indeed, irked worse because, from her point of view, he'd been exploiting her, the woman-her emotions, her femaleness-all those qualities the others failed to even see.

Even if she hadn't accused him of that, he didn't like the idea that, in her mind, she might.

How to correct her misconception? There really was only one answer. Having successfully seduced her once, he was going to have to do it again. And the bar on the jump had just been raised. Indeed, now he thought of it, she'd just become an even greater challenge.

The thought made him feel immeasurably better. He thrived on challenges.

Focusing on the page before him, he realized it was the one he'd been on when Phyllida had walked into the room. Stifling a sigh, he fixed his gaze on it, and scanned.

Minutes later, the latch clicked; Bristleford walked in. "Mr. Coombe wishes to speak with you, sir. Shall I inform him you are engaged?"

"Coombe?" Lucifer glanced at Phyllida. "Show him in, Bristleford."

Bristleford withdrew, closing the door. In response to Phyllida's pointed look, Lucifer murmured, "Coombe called a few days ago wanting first refusal on Horatio's books."

"You're going to sell them?" She looked shocked.

Frowning fleetingly, Lucifer shook his head; his gaze swung to the door as it opened. Silas Coombe minced in; Bristleford shut the door.

"Coombe. You know Miss Tallent, of course." Rising, Lucifer held out his hand.

Silas bowed extravagantly to Phyllida, who nodded. Then he grasped Lucifer's hand.

"What can I do for you?" Lucifer waved Silas to a chair.

"I won't keep you long." Silas glanced at Phyllida as he sat, then faced Lucifer. "As I mentioned, I'm interested in acquiring selected works from Horatio's collection. As you're a busy man and will doubtless have many other calls upon your time, I wondered if I might propose an accommodation that would suit us both."

"What accommodation?"

"I would be prepared to act as your agent in selling the collection." Silas rushed on. "It will be a very large job, of course, quite a commitment in time, but in the circumstances, I feel the arrangement will serve us both."

For a long moment, Lucifer said nothing; then he asked, "Let me see if I understand your proposal correctly. You're suggesting I should consign Horatio's entire collection to you, and you would arrange the sales for a commission. Is that right?"

"Precisely." Coombe beamed. "It'll make life much easier for you, especially with settling in-new county, new house." His gaze drifted to Phyllida, then he looked back at Lucifer. "Why, I'll even arrange to have the books removed to my house in the interim."

"Thank you, but no." Lucifer stood. "Contrary to your expectations, I have no plans to dispose of any part of Horatio's collection. Indeed, if anything, I shall be adding to it. Now, if there's nothing else?"

Forced to rise, Coombe stared at him. "You don't mean to sell?"

"No." Lucifer rounded the desk. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Tallent and I have various accounts to check." He steered Coombe to the door.

"Well! I mean-well, fancy that! It never occurred… I do hope I haven't given the wrong impression…"

Coombe's protestations died away. Lucifer handed him to Bristleford, waiting in the hall, then shut the library door. He strolled back to the desk. Phyllida was sunk in thought. "What?" he asked.

She glanced up, then waved at the door. "I was just thinking. I don't think Silas has ever worn brown."

Lucifer resumed his seat behind the desk.

Phyllida continued to frown. "What was he after the first time he called?"

"A book-at least one. Other than that, he was exceedingly careful to give no indication."

"Hmm."

Lucifer waited, but she said nothing more. After another minute of puzzled frowning, she returned to the ledger in her lap.

An hour later, Phyllida snapped the last of the recent ledgers closed. "Horatio did not sell that writing desk."

Lucifer looked up. "In that case, it must still be here somewhere."

"Humph!" Placing the ledger on the desk, she glanced at the window. "I'll search upstairs tomorrow, but I should return home now."

Lucifer rose as she did. "I'll walk back with you."

She looked at him. "I'm perfectly capable of walking through the wood on my own."

His jaw set. "I daresay." Rounding the desk, he waved her to the door. "Nevertheless, I'll accompany you."

She held her ground and held his gaze.

He stood there, rocklike, and looked calmly back.

When it became clear he was prepared to stand there all night, she lifted her chin, turned, and swept to the door.

She left the house with him prowling at her heels.

Lucifer didn't let her get out of arm's reach. If anything happened to her…

It was just as well she couldn't see his face. If he looked half as grim as he felt, she'd probably stop and demand to know his problem. Not something he could easily explain without telling her she was his. She hadn't realized it yet, but she would. By the time he finished seducing her again, she would be perfectly ready to marry him without any further explanations.

He certainly didn't need any further discussion, not with himself or with her. His role felt just right-it fitted him like a glove. Protecting women had always been his role. Even those he tempted to his bed-there was more than one form of protection. But this, following on a woman's heels ready to screen her from any danger-this was him. The essential him. A part of him that needed-demanded-almost constant exercise. He'd never gone for long without a woman to protect.

The twins, his fair and beauteous cousins, had most recently been his release, but they'd turned into harpies and insisted he leave them to their own devices. Under considerable duress and the none-too-subtle threat behind the smothering attention of society's mesdames, he'd retreated to Colyton-only to discover here the perfect answer to his need.

What, after all, was he supposed to do with his life if not to have a wife-and a family, too-to protect? What else was he, under the elegant glamour, if not a knight-protector? Until the twins had refused him and his cousins' marriages had left him too exposed to brave the ton, he hadn't fully appreciated his own nature.

To Have and to Hold, the Cynster family motto-he understood it now, appreciated all that it meant.

For him, it meant Phyllida.

He followed her through the shadows of the wood, and considered how best to break the news to her.

Phyllida plunged a gladiolus spike into the heart of the vase and stepped back. She eyed the arrangement through narrowed eyes, studiously avoiding the lounging presence darkening the vestry door. Collecting a handful of cornflowers, she started setting them in the vase.

She'd arrived at the Manor midmorning and searched the first-floor rooms, all except Horatio's and Lucifer's. Horatio's she'd already searched; Lucifer's… she didn't need to check there. While not large, the traveling writing desk wasn't so small it was difficult to see.

"How thorough was your search of the attics?"

He seemed to be following her train of thought. "Very thorough. So now you've looked, and I've looked-the desk isn't there."

She didn't look at him-she'd sworn she'd give him no encouragement. If he insisted on clinging to her skirts against her clearly expressed, not to say forcefully stated, wishes, she wasn't going to put herself out to entertain him.

Descending from the attics, disappointed yet again, she'd run into Mrs. Hemmings in the front hall. The housekeeper had been flustered. She had a pot of jam at the crucial stage and didn't dare leave it, but she hadn't yet done the church flowers. Hemmings had picked the best blooms that morning; they were in a pail in the laundry.

She'd gladly agreed to do the vases. The notion that the murderer might be haunting the church she'd dismissed as irrational; a brisk walk up the common followed by the soothing ambience of the church had sounded just perfect. Unfortunately, the door to the library had been open. Lucifer had materialized in the doorway-he'd insisted on coming, too.

A short argument had ensued. Once again, she'd lost. It was becoming a habit-one she indulged in with no one else. Losing arguments was not her forte.

By not one word would she encourage him further.

Sticking a finger in the vase, she checked the water. "Too low." Grasping a jar, she walked to the door, looked out, then stepped into the sunshine. She crossed the few feet to the pump-and listened to hear if he followed. No sound-he must still be brooding darkly in the doorway.

Indeed, he seemed to find her as irritating-that was not the right word, but it was something very similar-as she found him. Irritating, puzzling, unaccountable. Utterly impossible to comprehend.

She filled the jar, then lowered the pump handle. As she turned away, her gaze swept the graveyard-a vase on a grave had blown over. She tsked and went over to the grave. Righting the vase, she filled it from her jar and resettled it against the gravestone. Straightening, she approved of the alignment, then turned to retrace her steps.

In the lane beyond the lych-gate, Silas Coombe clicked sedately along in his high-heeled shoes.

Phyllida hesitated, then waved. He didn't see; she put the jar down on a nearby slab and waved both arms.

Silas noticed-Phyllida beckoned.

She thought furiously while he made his way under the lych-gate and up the path. Halting before her, he bowed extravagantly, flourishing a silk handkerchief.

When he straightened, she was smiling. "Mr. Coombe." She curtsied-Silas liked the formalities. "I was wondering… I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Cynster last afternoon." She summoned her most sympathetic expression. "He seems quite set on not selling any of Horatio's treasures."

"Indeed." Silas frowned. "A great pity."

"I hadn't realized you were interested in Horatio's volumes." Sinking onto the marble slab, she gestured, inviting Silas to join her. "I had thought your own collection was quite extensive in its own right."

"Oh, it is-indeed, it is!" Silas flicked his coattails and sat beside her. "Just because I wish to purchase one or two of Horatio's more interesting tomes is not to say my own collection needs them for validity."

"I had wondered…"

"No, no! I do assure you. My collection is quite worthy as it stands!"

"So what is it that attracts you to buying certain of Horatio's books?"

"Well-" Silas blinked. "I…" He focused on her face, then leaned closer, raising a finger to tap the side of his nose. "There's more reason for buying a book than just to read it, m'dear."

"Oh?"

"Can't say more." Silas sat back, clearly pleased with Phyllida's intrigued expression. "But I'm not one to be interested for no reason, m'dear."

"A mystery," Phyllida murmured. "I do so love secrets. Surely you could tell me-I would tell no one else."

Striving to appear foolishly fascinated, she leaned closer, then wished she hadn't. Silas blinked; the look in his eyes changed. His gaze lowered to her lips, then drifted lower still.

Phyllida fought a blush-fought the urge to jerk upright. Leaning forward as she was, the scooped neckline of her gown was revealing more to Silas than she'd intended. But… Silas knew something. "Isn't there anything you'd like to tell me, Silas?"

She uttered the question gently, encouragingly. Silas wrenched his gaze up to her face. Then he grabbed her.

Phyllida gasped and tried to straighten, but Silas had his arms around her.

"My dear, if I'd known you preferred more elegant men-more sophisticated gentlemen-I'd have gone down on my knees years ago."

"Mr. Coombe!" Crushed against his chest, Phyllida dragged in a breath. His cologne nearly suffocated her.

"My dear, I've waited and watched-you'll need to forgive the strength of my passions. I know you're unversed in the art of-"

"Silas! Let me go!"

"Coombe."

The single word fell like the sound of doom. A vengeful, threatening doom.

Silas started. He uttered a sound like a shriek, released her, and leaped to his feet-almost landing against Lucifer. Silas whirled, clutching his chest, ruining his floppy bow. "Oh, my! My word. You-you startled me."

Lucifer said nothing at all.

Silas looked into his face and started to back down the path. "Just having a friendly word with Miss Tallent. No harm in it-none at all… you'll have to excuse me." With that, he whirled around and clattered down the path as fast as his high heels would allow.

Still seated on the slab, Phyllida watched him go. "Good Lord."

She knew when Lucifer's gaze left Silas's retreating figure and fixed on her. "Are you all right?"

The words sounded like they'd been said through clenched teeth. She regarded him calmly and stood. "Of course I'm all right."

"I assume the impression Coombe was laboring under was mistaken?"

She shot him a frosty look, straightened her skirts, lifted her head, pointedly stepped past him, and headed up the path. "Silas knows something-something about one of Horatio's books."

He fell in beside her, a large, hard, darkly masculine presence pacing by her shoulder. "Perhaps I should pay him a visit. I'm sure I could persuade him to reveal his precious secret."

There was a wealth of menace in his tone; Phyllida was grateful Silas wasn't there to hear it-he'd have fainted on the spot. "Whatever it is may have nothing to do with Horatio's murder. We know Silas is unlikely to be the murderer, and he certainly isn't the man who attacked me-he's too short." She paused before the vestry door and glanced at Lucifer. "You can't go around intimidating everyone into doing as you wish."

His midnight-blue eyes met hers. The message in them was simple: You think not?

Raising her chin, she stepped into the vestry-and stopped dead. He walked into her-she would have fallen but for the arm that wrapped around her, effortlessly lifted her, then put her down two feet farther into the room.

She caught her breath and swung around. "I left the water jar outside."

He raised one hand-it held the water jar.

"Thank you." She took it-her fingers brushed his. She blocked the sensation, wiped her reaction from her mind. Turning to the vase, she filled it.

The sense of menace behind her didn't abate.

"Don't do that again."

"Don't do what?"

"Slip away where I can't see you."

Amazed, she turned. "Where you can't… Who appointed you my keeper?"

His face hardened. "Your father and I-"

"You discussed this with Papa?"

"Of course. He's worried. I'm worried. You can no longer"-he gestured sweepingly-"waltz around the village as if you don't have someone trying to kill you."

"You have absolutely no right to-to dictate to me!" She whirled, snatched up the vase, and headed into the nave. "I'm my own person and have been for years. I'm astonished Papa-" She broke off; she couldn't think of words to express the jumble of her feelings. Not precisely betrayal, but certainly a sense of having been handed over…

She plonked the vase down on the shelf beside the pulpit, breathed in, then rearranged the disturbed blooms.

She didn't need to think to know where Lucifer was-she could feel him right behind her. After a moment, he stepped around to her side. She felt his gaze on her face, sensed him trying to glimpse her eyes. She refused to look at him.

Finishing the flowers, she brushed her hands, then tensed to step away-

Hard fingers slid beneath her chin; he turned her face to his.

He held her gaze, studied her eyes. "Your father is seriously worried about you. So am I. He cares for you…" He paused, then his face hardened. "And just so you can get your astonishment over all at once, your father has agreed to let me watch over you. In his words: 'Whatever permission you need, consider it given.'"

She stared at him-into that harsh face, all hard angles and planes, into his eyes, filled with ruthless candor. A weight-some power-amorphous but unrelenting, invincible, inescapable, settled around her and held her. She didn't need to wonder if he was telling the truth-his eyes told her he was.

"And what of my permission?" Her voice was calm, steady-much more so than she felt. Her heart was thudding in her ears, in her throat.

His gaze held hers, then it lowered. To her lips.

"As far as I'm concerned, I have your permission already."

The words were dark and low. The weight around her closed in.

Phyllida stiffened. Lifting her chin from his fingers, she looked him in the eye. "In that, you're quite definitely mistaken."

She stepped past him, out of the circle of that dark embrace, and walked-calmly-out of the church.