Authors: Stephanie Laurens
“She hasn’t refused?”
“No, but she has yet to agree.” Lucifer sat back. “However, in this, I’m thinking primarily of her safety. After the incident of our nighttime intruder, I ordered locks for all the doors and windows at the Manor. They’ve arrived—Thompson started installing them yesterday. He’s completing the task as we speak. Once that’s done, the Manor will be thoroughly secure. The Grange is not.” He shrugged. “Most country houses aren’t.”
“True. So little need, generally speaking.”
“Exactly, but this isn’t a usual case. There’s also the fact that my staff have no other guest to deal with, so they’ll be on hand to ensure Phyllida is cared for and protected at all times. Of course, I would imagine Miss Sweet would accompany Phyllida; thus, the proprieties will be observed.”
Sir Jasper humphed. “Very neat. For myself, given the seriousness of the situation, I’m grateful for the suggestion and to hell with the proprieties. But the ladies set such store by ’em, best to do what we can to preserve them.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Sir Jasper looked at Lucifer, then nodded. “As I said before, whatever permission you need, consider it given.” He paused, then asked, “Do you think she’ll agree?”
Lucifer’s expression remained impassive. “You may leave that to me.”
“Where are you taking me?” Phyllida looked up, into Lucifer’s face, and waited for an answer. With her cradled in his arms, he was striding through the shrubbery. They’d set out for a moonlit stroll around the back lawn, but then he’d scooped her up into his arms and turned between the hedges.
Her throat was still sore; despite having slept for half the day, she was tiring. She’d only just remembered to give orders for rooms for her aunt and family to be prepared for their arrival tomorrow. While she’d been talking to Gladys, Lucifer had chatted to Sweetie, then strolled up and inveigled her into believing that a turn about the gardens in the cool of the night would help her still difficult breathing.
An image of Sweetie’s face as, parting from Lucifer, she’d turned to go upstairs suddenly glowed in Phyllida’s mind. She tightened her arms about Lucifer’s neck. The end of the shrubbery was approaching. “Stop.”
He didn’t. He kept straight on through the gap in the hedges and onto the path through the wood.
Phyllida inwardly sighed. She relaxed her arms. “You’re taking me to the Manor. Why?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything; then he stopped in a spot where the moonlight beamed down. He could see her face bathed in silver; she could barely see his as he looked down at her.
“You’re going to let me take care of you.”
She wasn’t sure there was a question involved. She tried to think what her answer should be. She was the one who cared for everyone else—she couldn’t remember the last time someone had set themselves to care for her.
He shifted her weight in his arms, gathering her closer, tightening his hold—not enough to make her feel trapped, just enough to make her feel totally secure. Totally safe.
“You have to let me protect you.”
Those words were softer, more like a plea.
She tried to read his eyes, but couldn’t. There was, however, no one more capable of protecting her than he.
And she knew she needed protection.
She’d wondered how she was going to fall asleep, tired though she was. The fear and panic that had swamped her in the cottage hovered, a shadow at the edge of her mind. She would sleep much better knowing he was near.
Besides, if she wanted a marriage of sharing, of give and take, then perhaps this was one of those times she should give . . . and take. “Very well.” An instant later, she added, “If you wish to.”
His soft snort suggested, strongly, that her qualification was absurd. He started forward again.
“Sweetie’s packing your things. She’ll stay, too, so there’ll be no scandal. She’ll drive around in the carriage. We’ll be safe through the wood—no one could know we’d be out here.”
Phyllida considered that. “Our man—the murderer—has been like that, hasn’t he? All his attacks have been carefully planned. Even that time at Ballyclose, it was almost as if he’d been watching. It was all too neat.”
Lucifer nodded. “He knew we were looking for brown hats and that Cedric had a shelfful, and that you’d know Cedric wore brown hats. Everyone knew we’d both be at Ballyclose that night.”
“That suggests the murderer knows the Ballyclose household well. He knew where Cedric kept his hats.”
“True, but you mentioned that Sir Bentley was ill for some time. I take it he held court in his bedroom and that many of the local gentry attended.”
Phyllida grimaced. “Yes, but the murderer also knew of Molly. He knew she existed and that I knew her, too.”
Lucifer frowned. “You’re right.”
Some minutes later, he stepped out from the trees. Ahead, the Manor stood pale and solid, a modern castle. Welcoming lights shone from the kitchen; one hung over the back door, which swung open as they neared. Mrs. Hemmings looked out and beamed.
“Welcome, Miss Phyllida, and right glad we be to see you safe and sound.” She stood back and let Lucifer past, then followed hard on his heels. “Now, you just let the master carry you on up to the old master’s bedroom—it’s the biggest and I’ve done my best to make it seem homey. The bed’s nice and big. All you need do is lie back and let us all take care of you.”
The eager anticipation in Mrs. Hemmings’s voice was impossible to mistake. As Lucifer started up the stairs, Phyllida looked into his impassive countenance—and wondered just what she’d agreed to.
Three hours later, Phyllida lay in the big bed in Horatio’s old room—the bed that, unbeknownst to Mrs. Hemmings, she’d occupied once before—and listened to the deep bongs of the longcase clock on the landing send waves through the silence of the house.
Twelve resonating bongs, then silence returned, deeper, thicker than it had been before. Beyond the Manor, the village and its surrounding houses lay sleeping. Somewhere lay a murderer, asleep—or awake?
Wriggling onto her side, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to reclaim her. Instead, black filled her mind—the black of the shroud—she could feel his hands on her throat!
Her eyes flew open. She was breathing too fast, too shallowly. Her skin felt cold; all warmth had drained away.
She shivered and drew in a breath, then exhaled and threw back the covers.
She moved quietly but not silently along the corridor, eyes open to their widest extent, ready to speak—or squeak—if necessary. She remembered the sword Lucifer had carried the last time they’d met in the dark. She didn’t know how good his night vision was.
His door stood open. She halted in the doorway; she hadn’t been in this room before. All the curtains were open letting starlight stream in; the moon had waned. Shadows lay thick, but she could make out the chests that stood between the windows, with what she assumed were items from Horatio’s collection arrayed on their tops. Tallboys and armoires lined the other walls. A long wall mirror hung opposite the bed—a huge four-poster with curtains cinched by tasseled cords at each post.
The rich covers were half turned down; white sheets and pillows filled the bed above. In their midst, Lucifer lay sprawled on his stomach, much as he’d been that first night at the Grange. The only difference was, this time he was wearing no nightshirt. Full knowledge of what wouldn’t be covered blossomed in her mind. She hesitated, uncertain what to do next, but she had no intention of retreating.
She’d made up her mind, although she wasn’t sure when. Perhaps when she’d woken in the cart and found him beside her, her savior, her protector who had faced death for her and rescued her from its vicious teeth. Perhaps later in the wood when she’d heard his plea, heard his heart speak without any social glamor to shield it. Or maybe it had been when she’d realized that it was the facet of his care she found most difficult to accept—his possessive protectiveness—that had given her a second chance at life and love. Whenever it had been, her decision was made.
Her time alone—managing alone, being alone, sleeping alone—had come to an end. She was here to let him know.
Whether he’d been asleep or not, she had no idea, but he slowly rose on one elbow and studied her.
“What is it?”
His voice was even, a little hoarse, but whether from the smoke or something else, she couldn’t tell.
Barefoot, she padded over the threshold, then paused, turned back, and shut the door. Clutching her robe around her, she walked—heart in her mouth—to the side of the bed. She stopped a foot from it. The bed was a mass of shadows; she couldn’t see his face.
She licked her dry lips, then drew breath and lifted her chin. “I want to sleep with you.” She meant more than just sleep, but surely he’d understand.
For one instant, he just stared at her, then his smile flashed. “Good.” He lifted the covers beside him. “I want you to sleep with me, too.”
A sigh of relief escaped her, chased by a shivery, anticipatory tingle. She shrugged the robe off her shoulders. It fell to puddle at her feet.
Noting his suddenly arrested state—the locking of muscles throughout his large body at the sight of her naked limbs—she shyly slid into his bed.
He let go of the sheets. And reached for her.
“You’ve just made my favorite dream come true.”
She reached for him and drew him to her. “Do you think you can return the favor?”
He looked into her face. “I’ll do my very best.” He lowered his head. “You can count on it.”
That first kiss sealed that promise; she felt it in her bones. Warmth unfurled between them, driving out her chill. She sank into it, offering her mouth and more. Although he claimed her lips, tangled her tongue, mesmerized her wits with slow, tantalizing surges, with one hand framing her face, the other trapped next to her shoulder, he remained beside her, his body a hot line alongside hers, but not touching.
She wanted to touch, to feel, to explore. She wanted to give herself to him and take all he would give in return. There was something very liberating in the thought, a free exchange that, ultimately, would balance, with body, mind, heart, and soul all freely offered on the scales. She turned and pressed, stretched upward against him, matching her body to his.
He gave a wicked chuckle, one not entirely steady. Closing his arms around her, he shifted onto his back, urging her across him. She followed his lead, quite content to sprawl atop him. Much easier to explore from there.
She took his urging as invitation. Wriggling until she straddled his hips, knees bent, calves gripping lightly along his flanks, she braced her arms, palms flat on his chest, and lifted up—so she could survey her prize.
His chest had always fascinated her—the sharp contrasts of smooth, lightly tanned skin and crisp black hair, the palpable weight of muscle and the heavier, harder curves of bone. Fingers splayed, she pressed, glorying in the resilience of muscle, the solid resistance of bone. Then she softened her touch and went searching, caressing lightly, then lovingly, across the broad muscles, down over his ribs, across the ridges of his abdomen. Only her position stopped her from reaching further, but she had all night.
“None of your chest was burned.” Her sighing comment reeked with satisfaction.
“No real burns. Just the backs of my hands got scorched.”
She examined his hands as he held them up. “Do they hurt?”
He skimmed his palms down her back. “Not enough to stop me from touching you.”
She responded to the long, artful caress with a low, murmurous moan.
Of their own volition, her hands stroked upward again to cover his flat nipples. She let her fingers tease and draw, then circle, roll—until his nipples were as tight as hers.
That seemed fair. She smiled and leaned forward, remembering what else he liked to do to her. And how much she liked his doing it. Presumably the same actions worked in reverse. The way he stiffened even before her tongue touched convinced her that was true. She licked, laved, then nipped lightly. That last made him jerk. His hands gripped her hips, fingers sinking in, but he made no effort to stop her.
So she played, fingers firm on one bud while she tortured the other with lips, tongue, and teeth. Then she switched hand and head, trailing wet, openmouthed kisses across his chest on the way. She settled to her task and thought she heard a low moan. He was burning up beneath her, his skin fire-hot everywhere she touched.
A wicked thought occurred. She pressed her body lower, so that her breasts caressed his lower chest and the backs of her thighs moved against his hips, the hot, wet, aching flesh at the juncture of her thighs a bare inch above his flat stomach. Just out of reach of the ultimate prize.
Then she moved. Sliding her body from side to side, she caressed him.
He sucked in a breath; his body tensed beneath her. She sensed his struggle to lie still. His fingers flexed on her hips, tightening before he forced them to relax . . . she felt their touch drift upward, over her shoulders. She suckled one nipple lightly, then tightly. He arched beneath her. His fingers tangled in her hair, clutched—then he drew her away, turning her face to his.
He swooped—his lips closed on hers in a searing kiss so full of heated passion it stole her breath. The kiss went on and on. He started to turn, to roll her beneath him. She pulled away, hand on his shoulder pressing him back. She shook her head, then found her voice, a little hoarse, like his. “Not yet.”
He was tempted to disobey—the tension in his body told her that—but after a fraught moment, he eased back to the bed. His eyes, dark in the night, watched her; his gaze held a heat all its own. His chest rose and fell beneath her hands. “All right. For now.”
She smiled and made the gesture beatific, then ducked her head to lick first one aching nipple, then the other. Then she shuffled her legs, her hips, farther down his body, lifting slightly to accommodate the hard shaft of rampant flesh that thrust upward so aggressively from its thicket of black hair, then lowering again so she caressed it, too, sliding the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs down from its broad head all along its ridged length.