All About Love (4 page)

Grief ebbed and left him empty. He’d seen death too many times for the shock to hold him for long. He came from a warrior caste; unjust death was the trigger for one of his most primal responses. Revenge—not for personal satisfaction, but in the name of justice.

Horatio’s death would not go unavenged.

He lay in the soft sheets while grief transmuted to anger, eventually coalescing into icy resolution. His emotions hardened, he mentally returned to the scene, replaying every step, every recollection, until he came to the touch . . .

Fingers that small belonged to a child or a woman. Given the fascination behind the touch—one he recognized instinctively—he would wager his entire collection that a woman had been there. A woman who was not the murderer. Horatio might have been old, but he hadn’t been so infirm that a woman could have stabbed him so neatly. Few women would have the strength, or the knowledge.

So—Horatio had been murdered. Then
he
had entered and the murderer had coshed him with the halberd. Then the woman had entered and found him.

No—that couldn’t be right. Horatio’s body had been turned onto its back
before
he’d arrived; he agreed with “Papa”—it hadn’t been the murderer who’d done that. The woman must have, then she’d hidden when he appeared.

She must have seen the murderer strike him, then leave. Why hadn’t she raised the alarm? Some man called Hemmings had done that.

Something more than the obvious was afoot. He revisited the facts, but couldn’t shake that conclusion.

A board in the hallway creaked. Lucifer listened. A minute later, the door to his room opened.

He remained relaxed on his side, lids lowered so he appeared asleep, but he could see through his lashes. He heard a soft click as the door shut, then footsteps padded across the floorboards; a pool of candlelight approached.

His guardian angel came into view. She was in her nightgown.

She halted six feet away, studying his face. One hand held the candlestick; the other rested between her breasts, anchoring her shawl. It was the first time he’d seen all of her; he didn’t try to stop himself looking, noting, assessing. Her face was as he recalled, wide eyes, tapered chin, and sleek dark hair giving an impression of intelligence and feminine resolve. She was of average height, slender but not thin. Her breasts were full and high, nipples just discernible beneath the shawl’s fringe. He couldn’t judge her waist under the nightgown, but her hips were neatly rounded, her thighs sleek.

Her feet were bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.

While he’d studied her, she’d been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.

Lucifer bit back an urge to call to her. He wanted to thank her—she’d been a madonna of kindness and caring—but if he made a sound, he’d scare her out of her wits. He watched her stop by the sleeping woman; setting her candlestick down, she lifted a blanket, shook it out, then tucked it around the other woman. As she turned away, candle once more in hand, the soft light lit her smile.

She started for the door, but, as if she’d heard his silent plea, she halted before she passed the bed. She looked his way, then, hesitantly, drew nearer. And nearer.

Holding the candle aside so his face was screened by her body, she rested against the bed a foot away and studied his face anew. He fought to keep his lids steady; he could only just see her face. Her eyes were fathomless, her expression unreadable.

Then she released her grip on her shawl. Slowly, she reached out. With her fingertips she lightly traced his cheek.

Lucifer felt like he’d been branded—and he recognized the brand. He surged up on one elbow, seizing her wrist, transfixing her with a glare.

She gasped; the sound echoed through the room. The candlelight wavered wildly, then steadied. Eyes dilated, she stared at him.

He tightened his grip and held her gaze.
“It was you.”

Phyllida stared into
eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black. She’d seen them earlier, but they’d been hazed with pain, unfocused; they’d been startling enough then. Now, focused mercilessly on hers, clear and brilliant as a dark sapphire, they stole her breath away.

She felt like she’d been the one hit by the halberd.

“You were there.” His gaze held her trapped. “
You
were the first to reach me after the murderer hit me. You touched my face, just as you did then.”

She kept her expression blank. Thoughts popped up, then sank, flotsam thrown up by her whirling mind. His fingers clamping about her wrist had shocked her; they’d locked before she could react. She twisted her arm, trying to ease from his hold; he tightened his grip enough for her to sense his strength and the futility of struggling.

She felt light-headed. She’d forgotten to breathe.

Dragging her gaze from his, she did. Staring at his lips, she wondered what to say. How could he know just from a touch? He had to be guessing.

Draped in shadow, his face was even more compelling than she recalled. The impact of him—his conscious physical presence—was potent; he appeared altogether more dangerous, and he’d appeared dangerous enough before. He was decently covered in one of her father’s nightshirts, but the collar was open, exposing a V of chest—dark hair curled invitingly in the gap.

The realization that she was standing by a gentleman’s bed staring at his chest, in the small hours, in her nightgown, slammed into her. Heat prickled across her skin. Gladys was near, but . . .

She glanced across the room. As if sensing her hope that Gladys wouldn’t wake and hear him, he eased onto his back, pulling her across him.

Phyllida bit back another gasp. “Be careful of your head,” she hissed.

His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be careful.”

His voice was deep; it almost purred. He kept extending his arm, the one shackling her wrist. She had to lean across him, balancing the candlestick in her other hand. Inexorably, he drew her on.

She swallowed as her breasts neared his chest. Heart thudding, she scrambled onto the bed.

He smiled in triumph. “Now you can tell me what you were doing so secretively in Horatio’s drawing room.”

The command was blatant. Phyllida lifted her chin. At twenty-four, she wasn’t about to be bullied. “I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to slide her wrist free, to no avail. Kneeling beside him on the bed, one hand locked in his, the candlestick in the other, was not a position of strength. She felt like a supplicant.

His expression hardened. “You were there. Tell me why.”

She looked down her nose at him. “I fear you’re still delirious.”

“I wasn’t delirious before.”

“You kept talking about the devil. Then, when we assured you you wouldn’t die, you asked for the archangel.”

His lips thinned. “My brother’s known as Gabriel, and my eldest cousin is Devil.”

She stared at him. Devil. Gabriel. What was
his
name? “Oh. Well, this idea you have is nonsense. I know nothing about Horatio’s murder.”

She met his gaze on the last, and fell into the blue. It was the most peculiar sensation; the nerves under her skin, all over her, tingled. Warmth spread through her. The sense of being held captive grew. The odd notion that her nightgown was transparent she dismissed as ridiculous.

“You weren’t in Horatio’s drawing room when I was lying on the floor?”

The words were soft, subtly challenging; an undercurrent of danger rippled beneath. Held trapped by his gaze, by his hold on her wrist, Phyllida pressed her lips tight and shook her head. She couldn’t tell him—not yet. Not until she’d spoken with Mary Anne and been released from her oath.

“So these fingers”—deftly, he altered his grip so his fingers wrapped around hers—“weren’t the ones that touched my cheek as I lay beside Horatio?”

He raised her hand, then looked at it; she looked, too. Long, tanned fingers surrounded hers. His hand swallowed hers in a warm clasp. That clasp firmed; slowly, he lifted her fingers to his face. “Like this.” He touched her fingertips to his cheek, then drew her hand down.

His stubble had grown, prickling against the pads of her fingers; the sensation only emphasized the fact that the sculpted lines were not rock but living flesh. Fascinated anew, Phyllida watched her fingers trace, drifting down, following her gaze to the tempting line of his lips . . . then she realized he’d slackened his grasp. Her fingers were tracing on their own.

She snatched her hand away, but he was quicker. His fingers shackled her wrist again.

“You were there.” His tone was grimly determined; conviction resonated through it.

Phyllida looked into his deep blue eyes; every instinct she possessed urged her to flee. She tugged. “Let me go.”

One black brow rose. He considered—heart thumping, she wondered what alternatives he was weighing. Then his lips eased; the intensity of his gaze didn’t. “Very well—for now.”

She tried to draw her hand free but he didn’t release it. Instead, he raised her fingers—this time, to his lips. His gaze remained locked on her face; she prayed her reaction—panic melded with insidious excitement—didn’t show.

His lips brushed her knuckles—she lost her breath. His lips were cool yet her skin burned where they’d touched. Eyes wide, she felt her senses sway. Before she could drag in a steadying breath, he turned her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm.

She snatched her hand back—he let her go, but reluctantly. Backing off the bed, she stood; her gown fell to decently cover her legs. From not breathing at all, she was now breathing too rapidly.

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

Lifting her head, she gathered her shawl, hesitated, then haughtily nodded. “I’ll check on you later in the morning.”

She turned to the door. A wave of peculiar heat washed over her. Without risking a backward glance, she escaped.

Lucifer watched the door close. He’d let her go. That hadn’t been what he’d wanted to do. But there was no need to rush, and matters might have rushed rather more than was wise if he’d kept her kneeling on his bed.

He inhaled deeply and could smell her still, sweet feminine flesh warm from her bed. Her nightgown had been totally opaque, but the material had lovingly outlined every curve it touched. Once she’d released the ends of her shawl, his distraction had been complete.

If the older woman hadn’t been in the room . . .

A minute passed; then he shook aside his thoughts. Tactically, it hadn’t been wise to so blatantly display his intent. Luckily, his guardian angel seemed committed to taking care of him, despite the threat she now clearly perceived.

Her last words had been more declaration than statement, uttered as much for her benefit as for his. If she’d found him struck down in Horatio’s drawing room but had been forced, for whatever reason, to leave him there, her stance was understandable. She felt guilty. No matter how difficult he proved, she would try to do the right thing.

In that respect, he already felt certain of her—she was a woman who would strive to do what she deemed right.

He stretched, easing muscles that had tensed; then he shifted onto his side, the better to spare his head. It still ached, but, true to form, while she’d been in the room, he hadn’t been aware of it.

All he’d been aware of was her.

Even before she’d touched his face.

But the knowledge that it was she who had knelt beside him in Horatio’s drawing room and traced his cheek with that hesitant, wondering touch had powerfully focused the attraction he’d been doing his best to decently ignore. The revelation meant he no longer needed to feign indifference; his attraction, her fascination, and her consequent skittishness were going to prove exceedingly helpful.

She knew something—he’d read that much in her wide dark eyes. They were easy to read; her face was not. Her expression had remained open but uninformative, her emotions screened. Even when he’d kissed her hand, only her eyes had flared. She seemed contained; judging by all he’d seen, she was used to being in control, in command.

Whatever the case, she wasn’t about to disappear; he’d have time to pursue his questions, and her. None knew better than he how to persuade women to do what he wanted, to give him what he wanted—that was, after all, his specialty. And after he’d learned what she knew of Horatio’s murder . . .

He drifted into sleep and dreamed.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, Phyllida marched into the bedchamber at the end of the west wing. She held the door wide so Sweetie, followed by Gladys carrying a laden tray, could enter.

“Good morning.” She addressed the room in general, as if the large body lying in the bed hadn’t immediately captured her entire attention.

As per her instructions, Sweetie had fluttered down to find her the instant their patient awoke. Phyllida knew he was awake—she could feel that midnight-blue gaze on her face, and on the rest of her, now unexceptionably garbed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin. It was infinitely easier to assert control while properly dressed.