Authors: Stephanie Laurens
“How long do we have to wait for this blighter?” Hugey asked for them all.
“He’d better make it soon,” Oscar growled. “We got better things to do.”
“I’m here,” said a voice. “If it’s me you’re waiting for.”
They all turned, peering through the darkness. Lucius Appleby staggered up from a hollow off to the side of the knoll. His clothes were disheveled. He clutched the volume of
Aesop’s Fables
to his chest. His hair ruffled wildly in the wind. For a moment he appeared drunk, uncoordinated, then, with a visible effort, he pulled himself together. “About time you got here. I want nothing more than to leave this wretched place.”
Every word stung, bitter as gall. He swayed, his gaze fixed on the supposed smugglers. He spared not a glance toward the trees. “Well?” he grumbled, voice rising. “What’re we waiting for? Let’s go.”
He took an unsteady step toward them.
The smugglers, all except Oscar, backed away. They fanned out as they went, eyes never leaving Appleby. Then they joined with those moving forward, out from under the trees.
Appleby’s eyes widened. Even in the poor light, the shock on his face as he took in the solid cordon and realized its meaning was evident.
“No!”
Whirling, he scrambled up the knoll.
“Here!” Oscar remained on the knoll’s lower slope. “Don’t go near the edge.”
Sir Jasper stepped forward. He regarded Appleby sternly. “In my capacity as magistrate, I charge you, Lucius Appleby, with three counts of murder and three of attempted murder, to all of which you stand self-confessed.” He waited for a moment, then beckoned. “Come down, man—you can see there’s no escape. No sense making it worse.”
Book clutched to his chest, Appleby stared at him, then threw back his head and laughed maniacally.
“Make it worse?”
He caught his breath on a gasp and stared at Sir Jasper. “You have no idea.
“You see this?” Appleby thrust out the book, staggering back as he did so. “I killed three men to get my hands on this. Bartered my immortal soul and worse. Five long years I patiently searched, and for what? What do you think my life, my soul, would be worth?”
He wrenched open the front cover, holding it for all to see. The cover paper had been ripped away, the padding, too, exposing the blank board of the inner face. “Nothing.” Appleby’s voice dropped to a sobbing whisper, then abruptly rose to a shriek.
“There’s nothing there!”
He yelled it to the skies. “Some bastard got there before me!”
Eyes wild, he flung the book at Sir Jasper, then whirled and raced onto the knoll.
“No! Don’t—!” Oscar scrabbled up the slope. Thompson moved up behind his brother; Lucifer and Demon stepped forward.
Lips drawn back, Appleby turned on them. “Come and get me, then.” He brandished his knife. “Who’ll be first?”
He staggered wildly as he backed, grotesquely outlined against the roiling sky.
Thompson reached forward and locked a huge hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “You don’t understand—”
“It’s
you
who don’t understand. I’m not going to pay—not when there’s
nothing there
.” Appleby laughed wildly. “I’ve already paid with the last five years of my life.”
“You took the lives of three others.” Lucifer pitched his voice over the rising wind.
“They got in my way!”
Appleby yelled. He edged back, eyes darting this way, then that. “If they hadn’t, they’d still be alive—it was
their fault
.”
The last word was swallowed by a thunderous, murmurous
shussssh
.
Everyone froze.
Then Thompson pulled Oscar back. In the trees, Phyllida clutched Flick’s arm. “Oh, no.”
Appleby didn’t understand. He stood on the cliff’s edge, staring wildly from one shocked face to the next.
“What?” he asked.
“Wha—“
The ground beneath him disappeared; one instant he was there, then he was gone.
Lightning flashed, but it was tons of earth hitting rocks, crashing into the sea, that provided the thunder. The wind gusted hard, forcing them to hide their faces until the buffeting eased.
They looked up the slope. The new cliff edge cut through the middle of the knoll’s top.
Both Lucifer and Demon turned and walked back into the trees. Phyllida went wordlessly into Lucifer’s arms, hugging him tight, inexpressibly thankful for his warmth, for the solidity of the arms that locked about her, for the feel of his jaw against her hair. “Will he be dead?” she finally whispered.
“That cliff’s at least six hundred feet high. I don’t think there’s any alternative.”
Others wanted to be certain. They started off through the trees, Sir Jasper and Oscar bringing up the rear.
“The cliff path Oscar’s band uses is safe,” Phyllida explained. Together with Flick and Demon, she and Lucifer trailed the band. They reached the windswept outcrop where the path started. Most of the group were strung out below, heading down.
A series of lightning flashes out over the Channel provided sudden illumination. Everyone stopped and searched. Then there were shouts of “There!” Arms pointed.
From within the protection of Lucifer’s arms, Phyllida looked down. The body of Lucius Appleby lay spread- eagled, facedown on the black water. There was no sign of movement, of life. Distance hid the damage undoubtedly inflicted by the rocks and the waves. As they watched, the body lifted on the swell, then whirled and was drawn out, toward the dark sea.
The light faded. Night closed in, blacker than before.
Lucifer’s arms tightened around her. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her temple. “It’s over,” he murmured. “Come, let’s go home.”
To her surprise, he took her back to the Grange. Demon and Flick didn’t come in; at Lucifer’s request, they took his and Phyllida’s horses with them when they rode on to the Manor.
Everyone gathered in the drawing room. Phyllida, still in breeches, organized drinks and sustenance to chase away the lingering chills, both of the elements and of the evil that had been Lucius Appleby.
There were many exclamations and much shaking of heads, but a sense of ending, of relief, of rightness, prevailed. The threat that had disturbed the peace of Colyton was gone.
In the instant Phyllida fully realized that truth, she sought Lucifer’s eye and smiled; she was no longer surprised they were here. At last she had her peaceful life back—the serenity and security of the village were restored. She was safe again. The only thing they’d lost was Horatio. And in his place, they had Lucifer.
Her eyes followed him as he moved through the room, exchanging words—the right words, she was sure—with Oscar, Thompson, and the other men. Life turned, changed, and moved on. Fate sometimes moved in mysterious ways.
Gradually, the crowd departed, at peace again. By tomorrow morning, the tidings would be spread throughout the village, the great houses, the farms and cottages.
Phyllida stopped beside Lucifer. Gazing out at the darkness of the back lawn, he drained his glass, then looked down at her. His gaze roved her face, then returned to her eyes. “There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask you, but it can wait until tomorrow.” He hesitated, then handed her his glass. “I’ll call in the morning.”
Phyllida opened her eyes wide. “Does that mean you’re going to leave me to walk back through the wood alone in the dark?” When he frowned at her, she smiled and patted his arm. “I’m coming home—to the Manor.”
He blinked, then cast a glance at Sir Jasper, shaking hands with Cedric, the last of the others to leave. “Much as I might wish that—”
“It’s got nothing to do with your wishes,” she informed him. “You forget—all my things are there.”
“All?”
“When you told Sweetie to pack my things, she did—all of them. She’s an incurable romantic, so, for better or for worse, I’m afraid
all
my things are at the Manor.”
Lucifer looked down at her, his dark eyes very blue. Then he brushed a thumb over her lower lip. “For better or for worse?”
Phyllida smiled; she pushed him toward the French doors. “Wait for me on the terrace—I must speak with Papa.”
Lucifer glanced back at Sir Jasper, but Phyllida shook her head and pushed, so he went. She watched as he stepped over the threshold, drank in the broad shoulders, the strength cloaked in that effortless grace, then she smiled serenely and returned to her father.
Sir Jasper met her in the middle of the room. He took her hands in his. “Well, m’dear—a great relief, having this settled. Can’t say I’m sorry Appleby’s gone—a bad egg he was, no doubt of that.”
“Indeed, Papa.”
“Well, then.” Sir Jasper stole a glance at Lucifer, waiting on the terrace looking out at the night. “I suppose, now there’s no more danger, you’ll be moving back, heh?”
His tone was neither insistent nor expectant; it was curious. He peered at her from under his shaggy brows, a light very like hope in his eyes.
“No, Papa.” Smiling, Phyllida stretched up and placed a kiss on his cheek. “My place now is elsewhere.”
“Oh?” Sir Jasper brightened; he all but grinned and rubbed his hands in delight. “Right, then—well, I daresay I’ll see you tomorrow . . . ?”
Phyllida chuckled and patted his arm. “I daresay. And now I’ll bid you a good night.”
Leaving her father, she walked to the French doors. Stepping outside, she slid a hand into Lucifer’s arm. Just as he had been doing, she looked up at the sky, at the racing clouds streaming, fleeing before the thunderheads.
Lucifer glanced back, then she felt his gaze on her face. After a moment, she met his eyes. In the poor light, she couldn’t see their expression, but possessiveness, protectiveness, fell about her like a cloak.
He closed his hand over hers. “Let’s go home.”
She let him lead her there, through the wood, now a-flurry with the storm. As the wind rose and the branches lashed more furiously, they walked faster and faster; eventually, he pulled her along at a run. She was laughing when he dragged her from the trees, down the drive, and around the house. She imagined he was heading for the front door, but once they gained the front of the house, she realized that wasn’t his goal.
He tugged her across Horatio’s garden—it was screened from the wind by the wood, the house, the village, and its own stand of trees. In the dark of the humid night, it was a paradise of evocative scents, of lush growth and mysterious shapes. Lucifer hurried her to the honeysuckle-draped, peony-backed arbor where they’d once before paused of an evening and discussed the realities of love.
Halting, he faced her. His dark hair was tousled, as if she’d already run her fingers through it; his face was hard-edged, his mobile lips straight. He studied her as she was studying him, then, her hands in his, he went down on one knee.
“Phyllida Tallent, will you marry me? Will you help me tend this garden over all the years to come?”
He’d pitched his voice above the roar of the wind, above the wild threshing of the leaves.
Phyllida looked down, into his face. He’d spun her world around, then steadied it; he’d taught her so much, answered so many questions. She had only one left. “This garden needs constant love to keep it blooming. Do you love me that much?”
He held her gaze. “More.” He kissed the backs of her hands, first one, then the other. “I’ll love you forever.”
Phyllida pulled him to his feet. “Just as well, for I’ll love you for even longer.” She went into his arms, forever safe where she belonged. “I’ll love you for longer than forever.”
His arms closed around her. Their lips met, melded; their bodies eased against each other, seeking remembered delights.
Lucifer broke the kiss to ask, “When can we marry?”
Phyllida drew back. “It’s Saturday. If we speak to Mr. Filing tonight, he could read the banns tomorrow. Then we could marry in just over two weeks.”
They looked up the common at the Rectory. The small house lay in darkness. “I really don’t think,” Lucifer said, “that Filing will mind being woken—not for this.”
He didn’t; the curate was delighted when he heard their reason for hauling him from his bed. He assured them that the banns would be called in the morning. Declining his offer of a celebratory sherry on the grounds of the imminent downpour, they left the Rectory and raced down the common—anticipating a celebration of a different sort.
They reached the duck pond and the skies opened. They were soaked, dripping and bedraggled by the time they reached the Manor’s front porch. The smell of rain-washed greenery and the ever-present perfume of the garden—their garden now—swept over them as they stood catching their breath while Lucifer hunted for his key.
He unlocked the door and swung it wide. Phyllida entered; Lucifer followed and reset the lock. Turning, he saw Phyllida standing just outside the open drawing room. He joined her as she stepped into the doorway. Slipping an arm around her waist, he held her back against him.
Phyllida crossed her arms over his and leaned back to whisper, “It’s peaceful here now—can you sense it?”
He could. He rubbed his chin over the wet silk of her hair. “Horatio’s gone to talk to Martha about her pansies.”
Phyllida turned her head and smiled. Sliding around in his arms, she touched his cheek. “You’re the most fanciful man.”
He kissed her, then murmured, “I know what I fancy at the moment.”
So did she. Her sigh was just a little skittery, just a touch breathless. “We’d better get upstairs.”
“If you insist.”
Phyllida led the way with him padding at her heels like some obedient jungle cat. She detoured via the linen press to fetch two large towels, then led him, not to her room, but to his. He made no demur but went past her to light the lamp that sat atop one tallboy.
It was pouring outside. Lightning still flickered and thunder rolled, but the storm front had already swept past. Rubbing her hair with the towel, Phyllida pushed the door shut, then turned—just as Lucifer adjusted the wick so the lamp shed a golden glow through the room.
“Great heavens!” She stared. “That’s
it!
”
She walked toward Lucifer, her gaze fixed beyond him. He glanced around to see what had so excited her. “It, what?” Then the penny dropped and he stared, too.