All About Love (32 page)

“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.