Authors: Stephanie Laurens
After lunching alone,
Lucifer strode into the wood and headed for the Grange. Phyllida had insisted on returning home immediately after leaving the church. He’d insisted on accompanying her. He’d seen her onto the Grange’s front porch, then returned to the Manor via the wood. Now he was retracing his steps—because he couldn’t bear the thought of her being simultaneously in danger and out of his sight.
Ten days since they’d first met, and look what he’d been reduced to.
He’d already visited Silas Coombe. Although almost incoherent, Silas had said enough to convince him he knew nothing about any specific volume in Horatio’s collection; he’d simply hoped to lay his hands on some treasures at bargain prices. Silas was not the murderer.
Lucifer swung along the leaf-strewn path; he moved quietly, an innate hunter. There was a point where the path curved sharply, thick bushes limiting the view ahead. He rounded it—and stopped, just in time to avoid mowing Phyllida down.
She ran into him instead.
He caught her, steadied her—he had to fight not to close his arms around her. Her breasts pressed to his chest were a remembered delight; lust, desire, and that simple need she and only she evoked poured through him.
She must have felt his instant reaction. Her breath caught in her throat, then she stiffened, dragged in a breath, and stepped back.
“My apologies.” She sounded breathless; she didn’t meet his eyes as she flicked her skirts straight. Lifting her head, she looked past him. “I was on my way to your house.”
He felt her gaze touch his face; his own gaze was fixed on the empty path behind her. She hadn’t brought any escort. His temper rose; hot words burned his tongue—an elemental need to lash her with them gripped him.
He swallowed the words, resisted the urge; the effort left him feeling like a beast caged. At least she’d been coming to see him. After this morning, he should probably be grateful.
Stepping aside, he gestured her on. He fell in behind her, on her heels, and waited to hear why she wanted to see him. To say she understood? To admit that she was wrong to wander about alone and that she appreciated his watchful care?
They reached the edge of the trees and she walked into the sunshine. “I came to ask,” she said, “if you would mind if I look through the outbuilding and storerooms.” She surveyed the former across the kitchen garden. “They’re stuffed with furniture—it’s possible I missed the writing desk when I searched that Sunday.”
Lucifer looked at her face, but she didn’t—wouldn’t—look at him. After a moment, he drew breath. “If that’s what you wish, then by all means . . .” With a bow that was cuttingly polite, he waved her on. “You will, however, have to excuse me—there are other matters requiring my attention.”
She inclined her head haughtily and headed for the outbuilding. He watched until she entered it, then turned to the house. He marched through the kitchen, curtly dispatched Dodswell to keep watch on the outbuilding, then retired to the library, leaving strict instructions he was not to be disturbed.
* * *
Phyllida stepped into the outbuilding and finally managed to draw a full breath. Her nerves were still twitching; she stood in the silence and willed them to settle.
What was going on? In the space of a few days, her life had changed from humdrum to unpredictable, from mundane to exciting, from sleepy to intense. And it had very little to do with Horatio’s murder. That might be part of the drama about her, but it was not the source of the whirlwind of change.
A hot wind named Lucifer.
Luckily, he’d left her alone. If he’d stayed, she—or he—would not have been able to resist reopening their unfinished discussion. The result would not have been a happy one. She was still smarting from learning that he’d discussed her safety with her father rather than with her. No one—not Cedric, not even Basil—had simply and so arrogantly
assumed
control of her.
The thought made her so angry, she thrust it aside, bundled the whole question of Lucifer away. She looked around. The long building was filled with boxes and furniture stacked along the walls and also down the center, leaving a path circling the room.
She’d searched here first on that fateful Sunday. She’d thought she’d been efficient, yet, as she studied the jumble, hope flickered to life. The traveling writing desk wasn’t big—about twelve inches wide, twelve deep, maybe nine inches tall at the back. The sloping lid had leather the color of rose lavender set into it. A handsome piece, she could recall seeing it on Mary Anne’s grandmother’s knees innumerable times.
She could have missed it. Determination renewed, she started checking each stacked piece, each box, moving counterclockwise around the room. Her eyes searched; her hands touched, reached, poked.
Her mind wandered.
She should never have allowed him to seduce her, of course, but even now she didn’t—couldn’t—regret that night. She had wanted the experience, had yearned for the knowledge. Thanks to him, she’d got her heart’s desire. That, however, should have been the end of it—a bargain of sorts, an exchange completed. One night filled with passion for the answers he’d wanted. The exchange had been made, yet something lingered.
Something else. And she wasn’t even sure it had been born of that night. His possessiveness was a tangible thing—she had to wonder, given his recent behavior, if it had been there before and their night of passion had been driven both by his wish for answers and by his wish to . . .
Lips thinning, she shook her head. If he’d thought that would help his cause, he would need to think again. She wasn’t a possession—not his, not any man’s, not even her father’s. She was herself—her own woman—and she would remain so, come what may.
As long as she stayed out of his arms so she wasn’t visited by that all-but-overwhelming compulsion to spread her hands over his chest, she’d be safe. Safe from him. As for the murderer, they’d have to work together to ensure he was caught. On that they did not differ. Regardless of what lay between them, finding the murderer remained a shared goal.
That thought was comforting—she didn’t want to ponder why. Shifting her mind back to the task at hand, she continued steadily searching.
She was almost at the far end of the building when Lucifer paused in the doorway. He saw her and stopped, hesitated.
He wished he knew what he was doing—what he was going to do. He was operating totally on instinct, an instinct that told him she didn’t understand. She thought he’d seduced her for information. Regardless of the truth of that, did she seriously imagine that after that night he’d simply shrug and walk away? That he’d stop wanting her?
While he did not wish to examine, much less explain, his deeper motives, he was more than willing to correct that particular misconception.
Stepping over the threshold, he closed the door. Light slanted through narrow windows set high in the walls; Phyllida did not notice the dimming of the light behind her. He strolled toward her, watching her shift a box and peer under a table. She bent over; lilac muslin pulled tight over her hips. He considered the sight as he neared.
She straightened; he heard her sigh. Then she replaced the box and stepped back. Into him.
She tripped backward over his boots. His arm about her, his hand splayed across her midriff, he steadied her against him. She caught her breath; dark hair sliding like silk over his shoulder, she looked up, into his face.
Their eyes met, held for an instant, then her gaze lowered to his lips. His gaze slid to hers, then to the expanse of ivory breasts revealed by her neckline. The sweet mounds rose and fell. He bent his head, turning her to him.
She stopped him, her fingers light on his cheek.
He held her in one arm, her breasts against his chest, her thighs between his. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide; her gaze was fixed, not on his eyes, but on his lips.
“Why?” The whispered question overflowed with genuine puzzlement. She lifted her eyes to his.
He looked into them and searched for a true answer. “Desire.” He lowered his head. “Hasn’t anyone told you of that?”
He kissed her; she kissed him back, not hungrily so much as wonderingly. Her lips were soft and full, warm, tempting. They parted tentatively—a hesitant invitation; when he immediately accepted, she softened in his arms, surrendering her mouth, inviting further conquest.
Conquest of whom, by whom, was moot; he pushed the question aside and sank into her, into the delight of her, letting the feel of her awaken him fully, letting his desire for her unfurl. It was a deliciously wicked moment, and even more delicious in its promise. He closed his arms about her, bringing her fully against him. The kiss deepened; their senses swirled, whirled, waltzed.
When they came up for air, she didn’t pull away. Her dark eyes searched his face, then settled once more on his lips. “Is this desire?”
“Yes.” He brushed her lips with his. “But there’s more. You’ve heard the music, but that’s just the introduction. There’s more steps, many more movements to the dance.”
She hesitated; desire shimmered about them, a silvery anticipation hovering, waiting . . . She drew a short breath. “Show me.”
He drew her closer; she let him. Let him hold her hard against him so her breasts caressed his chest and her thighs met his. His hands firmed about her waist; hers slid up to his shoulders. Their gazes were locked on each other’s face; slowly, he bent and covered her lips with his.
Phyllida gave her mouth, her body, readily, too intrigued, too enthralled to draw away. Walk away. Did he truly desire her? No one else ever had. Was it possible? Was it desire that lingered after their night of passion?
Those weren’t questions she could leave unanswered, yet it wasn’t them alone that drove her. Drove her to spread her hands and flex her fingers, sinking them into the broad muscles of his shoulders as she stretched upward against him. Their kiss deepened, heated, and she wanted to get closer, to feel his desire as more than heat—as flesh and blood, muscle and skin, hunger and yearning.
Desire flowered between them, not just his, but hers, too—a new, very delicate bud. He skillfully coaxed it and she knew he did, knew he was waiting for it to bloom. When it did, in a rush of warmth and longing that flowed over her skin, he drew back from the kiss, lips sliding to trace her jaw, then her throat, as if he could taste it.
Their breaths mingled, warm, rushed, eager yet controlled. His lips touched hers again. “Open your bodice for me.”
A warm shiver skittered over her skin. She glanced down; three buttons fastened the front of her gown. His arms eased. Her pulse sounded heavy in her ears as she lowered her hands and set her fingers to the buttons.
She knew what she was doing; she knew why she was doing it. There was something here, between them, that explained all—excused all. Something that prompted her to feed his desire, and hers.
The third button slipped free and the gown gaped, revealing her chemise, fastened with a row of tiny buttons. She unfastened them, too. After an instant’s hesitation, she drew the layers aside; she could feel his gaze on her breasts as she bared them. A heated touch, it swept them and they swelled.
She would have looked up, but he bent his head, his temple against hers as his hand rose to caress her. The arm about her tightened, holding her hips against him; his fingers touched, traced, then fondled.
He’d touched her breasts before, but only in the night when shadows had shrouded them, hiding so much from her view. His face, close by hers, showed his leashed desire in the hard angles and planes, in the dark glow of his eyes beneath their heavy lids, in the sensual line of his lips.
He touched her gently, the pads of his fingers warm and vital, circling her aureoles, teasing her nipples into bud with just a brush. He watched as her skin heated, then glowed, brought to life by his ministrations; she watched, too, watched the reverence with which he invested each caress, not seizing but worshipping—a different face of desire.
She lifted one hand to his cheek, then turned his face so she could see his eyes. They burned darkly, turbulent yet banked. Controlled. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm. She stretched up and kissed him, soft, deep, as temptingly as she could, then she drew back, leaned back, pressing her breast into his hand.
She didn’t need to spell out her invitation; his head bent and his lips fastened on her heated flesh, hot, wet, burning. He kissed, licked, and she shuddered, fingers tangling in his hair. She closed her eyes, waiting . . . she tensed, nerves jumping when he rasped one nipple with his tongue. Then he took her into his mouth and her body melted, then tightened as he suckled, only to ease again.
The level of heat between them rose steadily; desire thrummed. She felt it in her fingertips, felt it spread under her skin.
He raised his head and drew her close, his breathing as unsteady as hers. He breathed deeply, chest expanding, coat rasping against her naked breasts. Lips close by her ear, he murmured, “Do you want more?”
“Yes.” The word left her lips as she lowered her hands. She plucked the sapphire pin from his cravat, anchored it in his lapel, then tugged at the folds around his throat. At the edge of her vision, she saw his lips curve. Cravat loose, she started on his shirt buttons and flicked him a glance. “What?”
The curve deepened into a wicked smile. “Not quite what I had in mind, but . . . do carry on.”
She did, tugging his shirt loose and baring his chest. She stared. Moonlight had not done him justice—not at all. There was a warm tone to his skin that made her palms ache; she set them to the heavy muscle band across his chest and pressed, stroked outward. He closed his eyes. She stroked down, fascinated by the contours, the ridges, by the contrast of smooth skin roughened by crisp hair. He was heavy yet lean, sleek but solid. So very real.
She skimmed her hands back up to the flat disks of his nipples; greatly daring, she pressed closer, nearer, bringing her breasts, bare and sensitive, against his lower chest. Her skin tingled; her breasts ached. Easing them against him, she circled his nipples with her thumbs.