Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Phyllida unfurled her parasol. “Of course. No mere female could operate an import company.”
Lucifer smiled. “Naturally not.”
He handed her into the curricle. Minutes later, they were bowling back toward Axminster. “Tell me—just so I don’t inadvertently cause a problem. Am I right in assuming no one other than those involved knows of your involvement in the Company?”
“Of course not. There’s no reason for others to know. In fact, not all of the men know—most think Filing runs it and I’m just his amanuensis. I’m not
sure
how much Papa understands . . .”
He could imagine. She was the linchpin, the person around whom all else revolved, yet she preferred anonymity. Her tone, subtly amused, said as much.
Her role, however, extended much further than the company. He’d been in Colyton only a few days, yet he’d lost count of the times he’d seen someone—man, woman, even child—approach Phyllida with some request.
He’d never seen her turn anyone down.
The impulse to watch over people, to be actively involved, doing, helping, was one he understood. In his case, it derived from
noblesse oblige
—part learned, part inherited, part instinctive. Phyllida’s impulse was, he suspected, wholly instinctive. Wholly giving. He was, however, getting the distinct impression that the village took her—and her help—for granted. “How long have you been ruling the roost at the Grange?”
The glance she slanted him was sharp. “Since my mother died.”
Twelve years? No wonder her influence was so pervasive. She waited, but he said nothing more, content to drive through the sunshine with her beside him. And to consider . . .
Her impulse to help him would lead her to tell him whatever she knew soon enough. She was too intelligent to hold back information that would allow a killer to run loose; he accepted that she did not know the murderer’s identity. She had a clue, nothing more; the best way forward was to continue his inquiries and keep her closely involved. Ironically, the less he learned, the more she’d feel compelled to resolve whatever matter was preventing her from being open with him, and to tell him all she knew.
That was how to proceed on that front. For the rest, now that he’d committed to residing in Colyton . . .
He had a house—one too large for just him. It was a family house—a family was what it needed. That was what Horatio would have envisioned.
He
certainly hadn’t envisioned a family, not before he’d come to Colyton. But now he was here, and Horatio was gone, but the Manor still stood along with its garden.
The outlying houses of Axminster appeared—a welcome distraction. They were thorough in their inquiries, but, as they’d assumed, no gentleman visitor had ridden through or driven through Axminster on Sunday morning.
“ ‘Cept for you.” The grizzled veteran slouching outside the small inn eyed him suspiciously.
Lucifer grinned. “Quite. I drove through that morning. But you’re sure no one else was before me?”
A quick shake of the head. “Don’t get that many carriages or horsemen going south of a Sunday. I’da noticed. And I was here from first light.”
Lucifer nodded and tossed him a coin. The man caught it deftly and bowed to them both.
Phyllida led the way back to the curricle. “Where now?” he asked as he lifted her up.
“South. To the coast.”
She directed him down a road; a mile or so south, a river came into view, winding along to their right.
“Is that the Axe?” When she nodded, he asked, “Are those my fields on the other side?”
“Not yet, but a little further and they will be.”
They rattled through the early afternoon, the lush green of the river valley about them. The sun was screened by light clouds; it was warm but not hot. The first intimation that the coast was near was a cool breeze. They rounded a curve—at a crossroads before them stood an old inn.
Phyllida pointed to the left. “That’s the road to Lyme Regis. If anyone came past from Lyme on Sunday morning, the children would have noticed.”
“Children?”
A tribe ranging in age from about twelve to two, mostly girls. He left the questioning to Phyllida, content to lean against a stone wall and watch.
The innkeeper’s wife had looked out at the sound of their wheels on the cobbles. She recognized Phyllida and came forward, beaming, wiping her hands on her apron. Without waiting for assistance, Phyllida jumped down. In seconds, she and the woman were discussing what sounded like the recipe for some poultice.
The innkeeper stuck his head out; Lucifer waved him away, tied the blacks to the rail, then settled to observe.
Laughing, Phyllida gestured to an opening in the worn stone wall. The woman nodded and smiled; together, she and Phyllida strolled through. Lucifer trailed after them. Stopping in the gap, he leaned against the wall.
Beyond lay the remnants of a garden, stunted by the sea breeze whipping across the open fields. A vociferous crowd gathered around Phyllida, greeting her shrilly; she laughed, patted heads, tweaked braids. Then she sat on a stone bench in the sun and the children pressed around her.
He couldn’t hear what she asked, how they answered. He didn’t bother trying to hear. Instead, he drank in the sight of Phyllida with the children like fairies surrounding their queen, all eager for her blessing.
She gave it unstintingly with smiles, laughter, and an effortless understanding. With sincere interest and a deep caring. It glowed—in her eyes, like an aura all about her. The children, the woman, basked and drew it in; Phyllida simply gave.
He was sure she didn’t realize—she certainly didn’t realize how much he could see.
Finally, after much teasing, she stood and the children, made to mind by their mother, let her go. She strolled toward him, still smiling softly, her gaze on the path. As she neared, she looked up. He kept his expression impassive. “Did they see anyone?”
She shook her head. Looking back, she waved, then, side by side, they headed for the curricle.
“They were out on Sunday morning. It was glorious weather, if you recall. They play out there most of the time. The chances of anyone slipping by and being missed by all those sharp eyes . . .”
He handed her up to the seat. “So we’ve accomplished what we set out to do—we’ve confirmed no visitor, no one from outside, rode into Colyton on Sunday, at least not from the east.”
Phyllida was silent as he set the blacks in motion and turned them out onto the road. “Now where? I’m ravenous. We need a place to do justice to Mrs. Hemmings’s picnic.”
She pointed south. “Down to the coast. It’s wonderful on the cliffs.”
The road took them down through the village of Axmouth, then wound up onto the cliffs. She directed him along a rutted track that led to a stand of scrubby trees. “We can leave the horses here. It’s not much further.”
Carrying the basket, he followed her onto the windswept cliff. The view was magnificent. He stopped to drink in the majestic sweep of the cliffs westward. The Axe spilled into the sea virtually at their feet, distance miniaturizing the houses of Axmouth. The estuary itself was peaceful, but beyond the breakers the Channel swell ruled, surging powerfully.
The gray-green sea stretched to the horizon; the cliffs dominated on either side. Phyllida stood watching a little way ahead; when his gaze reached her, she smiled and beckoned with her head. She led the way around a hillock; a patch of grass lay protected by the hillock, large boulders, and trees. It was a pretty spot, partly sheltered yet still open, still blessed with panoramic views.
“Jonas and I found this place when we were children.” Phyllida drew the rug from the basket, then spread it on the grass. As she straightened, Lucifer’s hand appeared before her. She hesitated, then put her fingers in his and let him hand her down to the rug. He placed the basket beside her. She busied herself unpacking and arranging their feast.
He lounged on the other side of the basket and reached for the bottle wrapped in a white napkin. Sliding it free, he rummaged for the glasses. When she finished laying out their repast, he had a glass ready to hand to her.
“To summer.”
She smiled and clinked glasses, then sipped. The wine slid down her throat, cold and refreshing; a tingle slithered down her spine. A whisper of anticipation echoed in her mind while a pleasurable warmth spread through her.
They ate. He seemed to know her needs before she did, offering her rolls, the chicken, pastries. At first, she felt unnerved; then she hid a self-deprecatory smile. He wasn’t deliberately trying to rattle her—he wasn’t even aware he was. Such attentions were simply second nature to him.
Not so to her. No other man treated her like that—ready with a steadying hand, a protective shoulder, not out of any intent to impress her but simply because she was she.
It was unnerving, and rather nice.
“Does the Colyton Import Company bring its goods ashore near here?”
She waved to the west. “There’s a path to the beach a little way along. It’s easy to find; there’s a knoll beside it. If we need to light a beacon, we put it up there.”
“How dangerous is it along this stretch?”
“Not too bad if you know it. But there are reefs close.”
“So the Colyton men go out and bring the goods in?”
“They’ve been sailing these waters since they could stand. There’s very little risk for them.”
She repacked the basket. The wind was freshening, tugging at napkins, but it was still pleasant beneath the screened sun. She’d left her parasol in the curricle and was glad she had. She couldn’t have used it in this wind.
With everything returned to the basket, she stood. The wind frolicked about her face, flirting with her hair, teasing the ribbons of her bonnet. Lifting her face, she drew in a deep breath, then wrapped her arms about her. She’d worn a lilac cambric carriage dress, normally perfectly adequate in this weather, but here the wind rushed at her, sliding chill fingers through the fabric and along her body.
Beside her, Lucifer uncoiled his long length and stood.
She shivered.
An instant later, warmth fell around her; his coat settled over her shoulders. “Oh—“ She half turned. He’d side- stepped the basket and now stood just behind her. She met his gaze briefly and prayed her reaction didn’t show. She managed a small smile. “Thank you.”
His body heat was trapped in the fabric; it slid like a warm hand down her spine. She turned further toward him. “I’m really not that cold. You’ll freeze without your coat.”
Before she could slide out of it, he caught the lapels and drew the coat more firmly around her. “I’m not cold.”
Taking a firm hold of her wits, she looked up, into his eyes. “Are you sure?”
Even as the words left her lips, she sensed the answer. She couldn’t have missed it—his hard body was near enough to feel his heat, the all-too-tempting warmth. The wind pushed her, urging her into it. Into his arms.
His eyes, intensely blue, searched hers; his lips kicked up at the ends. “Why,” he murmured, his hands sliding from between them, his head bending nearer, “do you think they call me Lucifer?”
If she’d been wise, she’d have stepped smartly back and told him she had no idea. Instead, she stood still, face tilted up, and let his lips settle on hers.
The kiss was pure heat—a source of wonderful warmth. It spread through her; she could almost believe she was thawing—nerves stretching, unfurling, luxuriating. The kiss teased, tantalized. She moved closer, drawn to him, needing to feel his chest solid against her breasts. They tingled, then ached, yet it wasn’t with pain. His shirt was under her hands; she spread her fingers, feeling the fine fabric shift like a veil over hard muscle, over the roughness of hair; the flat disk of his nipple burned under her palm.
She felt that tempting power surge through him. She parted her lips and opened her mouth to him, and shuddered when he entered. So hot. She drank it in; she wanted more. She pressed her palms to his chest, pushed them up to his shoulders. Everywhere she touched was like a furnace, the steady pulsing heat of hot coals.
Her breasts were pressed to that heat; his hands had slipped beneath his coat and fastened about her waist. He held her tight against him, his thighs like granite columns on either side of hers. He was hard, ridged, rampant against her belly.
A wanton urge to shift her hips and caress that rampant hardness gripped her; in something near panic, she tamped it down, like putting out a fire. The flaring urge died; she sighed into his mouth and sank a little more against him.
He shifted, one hand rising to her throat. She felt a tug—he was pulling at her bonnet ribbons. She drew back from the kiss—the bow under her chin unraveled—
“Oh!” She grabbed at her hat as the wind whipped it from her head. She whirled and caught it.
Her feet twisted in the rug; she tipped backward, stumbled, and crashed into Lucifer. He caught her, tried to steady her, took a step back—
They tumbled over the picnic basket, large and solid in the middle of the rug. Lucifer ended sitting behind it with her in his lap. Shaking with laughter. Swinging his legs free of the basket, he lifted her—and turned her and sat her back in his lap.
He grinned at her. “We seem to be making a habit of landing on the ground with you on top of me.”
She blushed. She should definitely have made every effort to struggle free, to escape from his arms and stand up. Safe. Instead, she sat there, warm to the core, her gaze fastened on his lips, a mere inch in front of her nose.
“Here—let me have that.” He tugged her bonnet from her nerveless fingers; bemused, she watched as, reaching around her, he tied the ribbons around the basket’s handle. “Now you won’t worry about losing it.”
He was a man who definitely understood women.
He straightened, his gaze fastening on her lips. He bent his head, fingertips sliding across the sensitive skin beneath her chin. She swallowed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Why not?” His lips brushed hers lightly—too lightly to satisfy the hunger welling inside her.
“I don’t know.” She couldn’t drag her gaze from his lips.
They murmured, “Do you trust me?”