All About Love

Chapter 18

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Cedric excused himself and returned to Ballyclose. At Sir Jasper's urging, Lucifer stayed to dine at the Grange.

The meal was a family affair. All present were subdued, reflecting on Phyllida's near escape. Even Lady Huddlesford spoke rarely, and then in a quiet tone quite different from her usual imperiousness. The only moment of interest arose when Percy declared he'd decided to leave the next day for "the congenial company of some friends in Yorkshire." The announcement was met with blank silence, then everyone returned to his meal.

When the ladies retreated to the drawing room and the port was set upon the table, Percy excused himself and retired to pack.

Frederick moved to a chair next to Jonas. "I say, terrible business. Is there anything I can do?"

The question-surely the first intimation that Frederick thought of anything beyond himself-arrested the three other men. Then Sir Jasper harrumphed, but kindly. "Nothing I can think of, m'boy. Nothing to be done-nothing we can do at present."

Lucifer wasn't so sure. His gaze on Jonas, he spoke to Sir Jasper. "I wonder, sir, if I might have a private word."

Jonas rose. "Come on, Frederick. Let's go pot some balls."

Frederick murmured his farewells and followed Jonas out of the room.

His face tight with worry, Sir Jasper turned to Lucifer. "Thought of something, have you?"

"In a way, yes. Lady Huddlesford mentioned earlier that you were expecting guests tomorrow."

Sir Jasper looked blank, then consternation filled his face. "Damn! Forgot. My sister, Eliza, her husband, and their brood arrive tomorrow. They come for a few weeks every summer." He looked at Lucifer. "Six children."

"Although I'm sure she'll declare otherwise, I doubt Phyllida is up to coping with such an invasion at present."

"Indeed, not-the four girls are a handful. Drive us insane. They tend to cling to Phyllida."

"Not this time."

"No. You're right. Although how to keep them from bothering her…" Sir Jasper shook his head. "I won't hide it from you, m'boy-I'm deuced worried about Phyllida."

"As am I. Which is why I'd like to suggest that Phyllida stay as a guest at the Manor for as long as this murderer is on the loose, for as long as we have reason to think her in danger. I realize the suggestion is somewhat unusual, but I've already made plain my intentions toward her and they haven't changed. For her part, Phyllida is aware of them."

"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.

A heartfelt groan was her reward; his body bowed, head and shoulders pressing back in reaction. "Dammit! You're an innocent-I know you are."

"Hmm." Innocent she might be, but she had a few ideas.

She put them into action. Her body and mouth moving on him, over him, slowly and in concert, seemed almost more than he could stand. His fingers gripped her shoulders, then tightened about her head-even then, he remembered and avoided the bump on one side. She'd started the evening with a mild but persistent headache. It had disappeared the instant their naked bodies had touched.

She wasn't about to let a few bruises stop her learning all she wanted to know. Only her breathing was still a restriction, and even that was easier now. Shallow little breaths. A little panting. All that she could manage.

Her hands continued their exploration; her mouth followed them down his body. She shifted lower, lower, until her swollen breasts brushed his rock-hard thighs.

The sheet was pushed behind her, leaving him fully exposed so she could worship by starlight. Resting her cheek on his hip, she traced, circled, then closed her hand around him. She'd done that before-it wasn't that which made him so tense. It was the anticipation that where her fingers went, her lips, her mouth, would follow. Lips curving, she let her fingers play.

Lucifer lay back and tried to think of England. The only part he could remember was a certain bed in Devon. His fingers sifted through Phyllida's hair, sliding through the sable silk, tracing her skull-tightening when he couldn't help himself. Her touch wasn't so much artful as wondering, naive, enthusiastically natural. His body reacted, helplessly in thrall.

She was a warm, supple, rounded weight lying across his thighs. Her head lay heavy to one side of his groin, her hand cupping, her fingers gliding over her current obsession. He felt possessed, as if in permitting it-letting her have her way-he'd somehow surrendered to her.

He had. He just hadn't told her so in words. Only groans.

Then she shifted and he felt her breath on him, an insubstantial warmth brushing him to even more painful erection. She was going to kill him, not with need, but through the violent clash of powerful emotions-the gut-wrenching desire to have her take him in her mouth, the fear she wouldn't, the suspicion she had no idea she could, and the nearly overwhelming, protective urge that insisted that she shouldn't. It was enough to drive a man insane.

Then she raised her head, not moving closer but over. Her fingers traced his throbbing head again, fascination very clear in her touch. Then she bent her head.

Every muscle in his body locked tight at the first touch of her lips; she trailed openmouthed kisses around, then down, then licked, gently, then more firmly, as if she liked his taste. Then her tongue went questing and he thought he might die. His chest hurt-he dragged in a quick breath-

Without warning she took him into her mouth, closed that hot, wet sweetness around him, taking just a little, then, deliberately, more. For a definable instant, he lost touch with the world and floated in a sensual heaven. He felt her tongue curl, around, then about. He slumped back, easing muscles he hadn't known he'd tensed. He was breathing raggedly and they'd only just begun. He knew that for a fact; it made him feel light-headed. His hands sifted through her hair, caressing, tensing responsively as she tightened, sucked, kissed, then went back for more.

He was clinging to sanity by his fingernails, guiding her, just a little-it was too much, too precious, to break the moment, but… she was wearing him down.

Tightening his stomach, he half sat and reached down and around to grasp her hips. "Enough." He barely recognized his voice, so rough, so low. She looked up, releasing him; the loss of her wet heat was almost painful. She slid her palms to his chest, bracing to push him back down. He gathered her in his arms, lifted her to his chest, then rolled and trapped her beneath him.

One hand on his shoulder, she met his gaze. Her eyes were dark pools, wide and lustrous. That was all he could see in the starlight. But he could sense something else in that dark gaze, a weight of instinctive feminine knowledge, of innate womanly need.

"I haven't finished yet," she murmured, and the sound was close to a purr. Her gaze lowered to his lips as she spoke. She licked hers.

The knowledge that she was responding instinctively didn't help at all. "No," he agreed, "but it's my turn now."

He bent his head and took her lips, and she surrendered her mouth readily. Sliding her arms around his neck, she leaned back against the bank of pillows. Her body softened under his.

His turn. His turn to worship, to visit pleasure on her heated flesh. To lave and lick and suckle until she gasped and arched beneath him. When her breasts were swollen and aching, he moved lower, anointing the skin over her ribs, past her waist to her navel, then lower still, over the flickering tautness of her stomach to the thatch of dark curls at its base.

Her fingers sank into his shoulders at the first delicate probing of his tongue. Hands trailing down from her hips to grip her buttocks, he kneaded, then slid his palms even lower, over the backs of her thighs. Grasping gently, he urged them wider. She hesitated, then, with a gasp close to a sob, she parted them. Gripping her hips again, he bent his head. He licked, and her fingers clenched in his hair.

She was a delight-wanton in her passion, open and eager in her desire to be his. All his. He claimed every last slick inch, tasted every soft fold. Her essence swirled through his senses and sank deep.

He wound her tight, then tighter, calling on experience to further her horizons, ruthlessly sending her spinning, then reeling her back the instant before she went over the edge.

Some primal need drove him. She'd come to him, offered him all she was, knowing what his demands would be-not just of the flesh but of the soul. Her own actions made it clear she wanted to plunge headfirst into their new life; that was so much like her, so much a reflection of the directness he prized in her, that he was more than willing to teach her how to fly and extend himself to be her safety net, at least in this arena.

For the rest-the emotional adjustments, the more subtle changes-whether he would teach her or she him was moot. Perhaps they'd learn together. But for tonight, she'd chosen to open her arms to passion. His, and hers.

He stoked both and let her feel the power rise, the insatiable hunger, the greedy need, the hot urgency that poured like molten gold down their veins.

And then he joined with her. Bracing his arms, he held himself above her and filled her with long, steady strokes. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the rhythm, concentrated on the hot embrace of her body, on their pulsing, driving need. He felt her hands, fingers extended, trail down his chest. Cracking open his lids, he looked down. Eyes shut, head thrown back, pressed into the pillows, she was lost in their union. Caught in the sensual waves that rolled through him, through her, she surrendered and rode the tide. Every thrust lifted her, rocked her breasts, her hips, shifted her head against the pillows. Her dark hair rasped softly, silk against linen, again and again.

Her breath came in little pants. She lifted her hips and met him, took him in, accepted him deep, then let him ease back so he could love her again.

They were drowning in each other, drowning in a sea of desire so intense it was close to rapture. Then that, too, swirled into the mix, into their bodies, into their blood. And took them.

He felt her shatter beneath him, felt her hands clutch, her body cling. Then she eased, her heated softness rippling about him in the ultimate caress. Head back, eyes shut, he clung to the moment; then his own release swept through him. He shuddered and filled her, then slowly collapsed, turning, taking her with him, holding her close, wrapping her limbs about him.

He would never let her go.

On the cusp of oblivion, Phyllida felt him within her, hot and liquid at her core. With her hands, her arms, her body, she held him tight. If she was his, then he was hers. And he'd definitely lived up to her dreams.

She woke to find herself high in the bed. His head against her breast, his arms wrapped around her waist, he was a warm, solid mass of muscle trapping her mostly beneath him.

She was curiously comfortable and not in the least sleepy-presumably the afternoon's rest had been enough. She felt relaxed. No specter of death could possibly haunt her, not in his bed. Raising one hand, she lifted a dark lock from his forehead, smoothing it back amid the rest.

He stirred, tensed for an instant, then, eyes still closed, hugged her and placed a deliberate kiss on the nipple all but against his lips. "Very nice."

Phyllida laughed. He sounded like a very large human cat, purring with masculine satisfaction. Shifting, he freed a hand from beneath her, then settled back, head cradled on one breast, his hand on the other. He touched her gently, soothingly-not so much with desirous intent as for sensual comfort. She had no difficulty making the distinction.

Content, she lay back, luxuriating in the warm caresses, in the golden glow of the moment that still held them. Fingers stroking his hair, she set her mind free-free to feel, to think. To wonder. "I think I love you." It had to be that, this golden feeling.

The lazy drift of his fingers ceased. "Why aren't you sure?"

She answered truthfully. "I don't know what love is." Lifting her head, she peered at his face. "Do you?"

He met her gaze, eyes dark, mysterious. Then he looked at his fingers, lying on her breast, and started to gently stroke once more.

She smiled and leaned back on the pillows, her gaze lost in the shadows of the canopy above. She didn't press for an answer. If she didn't know, why would he?

Then again… "Do you love me?" She didn't look down but she felt him look up.

After a moment, he said, "Can't you tell?"

"No."

She waited. He shifted, lifting his head, moving back just a little. She felt his gaze on her face; it lingered for some time, then swept down, over her breasts, over her waist, over her hips, down her long legs. It returned, but stopped at the top of her thighs. The hand at her breast firmed. His touch changed.

"I'll have to demonstrate, then."

"Demonstrate?"

"Hmm. Cynsters are better with actions than words."

He proved it. The night became a heated odyssey through realms of passion, desire, sensation, anticipation, hunger, and need. He drew from them both and created the landscape, then guided her through it, ever onward to peaks gilded with ecstasy.

Each touch became invested with more than just feeling, each joining with more than the physical fact. Sensations battered at them, emotions drove them, onward, upward, to impossible bliss.

At the last, she shattered and drank it in, and felt it sink into her bones. A heartbeat later, he joined her. They clung, and the wave washed over them, through them, then the tension slowly drained. Her lips curved. She leaned her forehead to his. He traced her face, then touched his lips to hers in a chaste, final kiss.

Their pact was sealed.

Giddy with release, relaxed beyond this world, they slumped together, drew the sheets up, and slept in each other's arms.

At ten the next morning, Lucifer left the Manor and set off for the old Drayton cottage. The night had given him more than he'd thought he'd ever have, but it had also left him with much to think about. Possessing for such as he always entailed a certain responsibility-the obligation to take due care. How much did he care for Phyllida? There wasn't a word to encompass the reality.

He strode out, drawing the morning air deep, letting it clear his mind. He'd been up since dawn when he'd lifted Phyllida, still asleep, from the cocoon of his bed and carried her to her own. She'd clutched at him as he'd placed her between the cold sheets. He'd stayed with her, sharing his warmth, until the first sound of his awakening household had sent him back to his bed.

His extremely rumpled, storm-tossed bed. God only knew what Mrs. Hemmings would make of it, but he was quite sure she wouldn't imagine the truth. Or, at least, nothing like the whole truth. That was hard enough for even him to believe.

Underneath her serenely decorous facade, Miss Phyllida Tallent was a wanton in disguise. He now knew that for a fact, and very comforting it was. He'd strolled into her room after breakfast, having been informed by Sweetie that her erstwhile charge had agreed to rest quietly for the morning but was suitably attired to permit of a visit. So he'd visited and with just one look, one wicked, suggestive grin, had sent a wave of heat rising to her cheeks.

She'd glared, then had to hide it as Sweetie bustled in. He'd stayed long enough to assure himself that Phyllida was indeed well; with carefully worded replies, she'd given him to understand that she was suffering more from sexually induced lethargy than from fire-induced trauma.

He'd been careful not to smile too triumphantly, or to show his relief. He'd explained where he was headed and why, then left her sewing on the buttons he'd sliced off the week before.

Striding along the tracks, he followed the acrid smell of burned thatch. The day was cool, so peaceful, when yesterday had held so much panic.

And resulted in so much being resolved.

In actions, at least-intentions declared but not stated. He understood what Phyllida had meant to tell him-at least, he thought he did. What he was far less sure about was why she'd made her decision.

Who knew what went on in the minds of women?

After all these years, he really ought to have a clue.

She'd asked whether he knew what love was. He knew what he felt for her-the compelling need to know she was well, safe, and happy, the joy he felt when she laughed, when she smiled. He knew how his gut knotted when she was in danger and how his nerves flickered when she was away from his side. He knew the pride that warmed him as he watched her going about her daily round, so competent, so caring, so giving in that managing yet selfless way that was so uniquely hers. Knew, too, the overwhelming impulse to cosset her, to protect her emotionally and physically, to care for her. To meet her every need, to give her all she could ever desire.

So, yes, he knew about love. He loved her and always would. She loved him, too, but didn't know it-couldn't see it-even though she wanted to see, to know.

Could he teach her what love was?

He could hear fate cackling in the wings, but he shut his ears and set his jaw. If that was what Phyllida wanted, someone to show her, to point out the truth in such a way that she could see it, too, then… if he wanted their marriage to be what it could be, it behooved him to do it.

Decision made-simple, easy. She wasn't the only one who could act decisively.

He emerged from the last copse and looked up; the blackened ruin of the cottage stood on the crest, still smoking, charred timbers listing crazily against the summer sky. He heard a grunt and saw Thompson grappling with a crowbar at one side of the shell. An instant later, Oscar joined him.

Lucifer strolled up the path and around to where they worked on the one wall still standing. They both stopped and nodded, leaning on their tools.

"Miss Phyllida?" Oscar asked.

"She's well. Still resting, but I doubt there'll be any lingering effects."

"Best not be," Thompson growled. "But we've got to find this maniac. Doesn't look like he's about to stop."

"I came up to take a look around." Lucifer looked at the half-collapsed wall. "Do you need a hand?"

"Nah." Thompson turned back to the wall. "We'll have this down soon enough. If we left it standing, sure as the sky is blue, some of the tykes would come up to play, and then we'd have an accident."

He leaned on his crowbar and a burned log split.

Lucifer stepped back. "I'll leave you to it." He glanced around, then walked down the overgrown track toward Dottswood, the way most of the locals had come running yesterday. A little way down, he stopped and turned; eyes narrowed, he surveyed the cottage. If he'd been the murderer…

Two minutes later, he started back up the slope, then cut around, away from the front of the cottage, circling through the overgrown trees and shrubs at its rear.

He found what he'd been certain he would-and just a little more-in a small clearing tucked away behind a stand of rhododendrons run wild. He stared, then hunkered down and looked more closely, hardly daring to believe their luck. Then he stood and went to fetch Thompson.

Thompson came; Oscar followed. The three of them stood behind the rhododendrons and stared down at the clear impression of a horse's hooves-all four of them.

"Ordinary-sized beast, but well set up." Thompson knelt to inspect the indentations. He traced one with a broad fingertip. "Better yet-it's my own work, that is."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure." With a grunt, Thompson got to his feet. "I'm the only one hereabouts who uses those particular nails. See the odd-shaped heads?"

Both Lucifer and Oscar looked, and nodded.

"And that left back shoe?" Lucifer asked.

"Gets better'n better, it does. I haven't seen this horse recently, but I'm going to soon, and then we'll have our man." Thompson nodded at the left back hoofprint. "That shoe's going to come off any day."

Lucifer had to wait until later that evening when Sweetie retired and he and Phyllida were finally alone in the library before he could tell her the news.

"Don't mention it to anyone," he warned. "Thompson has customers from beyond Lyme Regis, so it's not possible to search for the horse. We have to wait for the shoe to fall and the animal to be brought in. Only you, me, Thompson, and Oscar know of it-we've agreed to say nothing, so there's no possibility the murderer will realize and take the horse somewhere else."

Phyllida sat in the armchair by the desk, her face, for once, awash with emotions. "Soon, Thompson said?"

"It depends on how often the horse is ridden. If it's ridden every day, Thompson says in less than a week. Ridden less, and it'll be longer, but he doesn't expect that shoe to stay on much above a fortnight."

She considered, then asked, "And it's been the same horse every time?"

"I believe so." Lucifer frowned. "Just to be sure, I'll send Dodswell to look at the latest prints. The others would all have washed away by now."

"I really don't believe we have more than one phantom horseman in the village," Phyllida returned. "He always hides his horse, too, doesn't he?"

"He makes sure it isn't somewhere where a chance passerby would see it. That suggests the horse, too, would identify him, which makes our prospects of catching him at last look good." Lucifer met Phyllida's gaze. "It's ironic. He tried to kill you and succeeded in destroying the one piece of hard evidence we had. But in doing so, he's given us another piece of even better evidence. We might never have traced the hat. It's unlikely we won't trace the horse."

Phyllida blinked. "I didn't think of that."

Lucifer rose and circled the desk. "I think we need to think of that." Halting before Phyllida, he hunkered down so his face was level with hers. "This murderer, whoever he is, has shown himself capable of the most ruthless acts. Murdering Horatio. Trying to kill you." Reaching out, he smoothed her hair, then cupped her face lightly. "We can't take any chances for the next few weeks."

Phyllida looked into his eyes, then smiled. She leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "You're right."

Lucifer blinked. His hand remained about her face, stopping her from retreating. He held her gaze. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

Phyllida's smile softened. "Is that a promise?"

Lucifer studied her eyes, then drew her nearer. "A sworn oath."

Five minutes later, distinctly breathless, she drew back, tried to frown at him, and lifted the book that had fallen, forgotten, in her lap. "We haven't finished these yet." She held the book like a shield between them.

Lucifer glanced at the pile of tomes with inscriptions that Covey had left stacked between the desk and the chair.

"We might have nearly identified Horatio's murderer, but we've yet to find any explanation for why he's so interested in Horatio's books." Phyllida picked up the top volume and slapped it against Lucifer's chest.

He grimaced and took it. "As you say." He rose.

Phyllida looked up at him. "Have you any idea what that item was that Horatio wanted you to look at?"

Lucifer shook his head. "That, too, remains a mystery. It's possible we'll never know what it was Horatio had found."

"Don't give up hope." Phyllida handed him two more books. "Not when there's so many places still left to search for clues."

Smiling, Lucifer returned to the desk. "Speaking of searching, you still haven't discovered that writing desk and the oh-so-important letters."

"I know." Smiling, Phyllida shook her head. "When Mary Anne visited this afternoon, she never mentioned the letters, even when Mrs. Farthingale left us alone. All she could talk about was the fire, and me staying here with you."

"Perspective," Lucifer said, sitting down and opening a book. "It comes to us all."

Phyllida humphed, then settled to deciphering notations.

An hour later, they called a halt. The house was already secured for the night; Dodswell had stuck his head into the library and reported that fact. All they had to do was to turn out the lamps, collect their candles from the table in the hall, and climb the stairs.

They turned along the corridor. All about them was quiet and still. Sweetie had the other back corner room at the end of the other corridor. When they reached the point where they would part, each to their separate rooms, Phyllida halted. She glanced at Lucifer. "You're the experienced one. Your room or mine?"

Lucifer looked into her dark eyes, lit by the candle flame. It was on the tip of his tongue to inform her that in this particular arena, the one they were playing in, he was no more experienced than she.

Except, perhaps, that wasn't quite true.

He was a Cynster. He had generations of love matches behind him. These days, love matches abounded all around him. It was something in the blood, something not even he could resist. He'd grown up knowing of no other sort of marriage. It was the only sort that would do for him.

He bent his head and kissed her lightly. "Are you sure?" He breathed the question over her lips, then eased back.

Her hand had fisted on his lapel; she held him near, her eyes locked on his. Then her gaze dropped to his lips. Hers, he noted, curved gently. "Yes," she whispered. "I'm sure."

"Your room, then, for now. We'll have the rest of our lives to enjoy mine."