He’d flung them against the rising bank that bordered the path at that point, Phyllida first, his body protectively over hers. They’d landed roughly horizontal, stretched full length on a narrow shelf in the bank. Lucifer slowly turned over, assessing their state. He slipped and slid down, ending on the path, flat on his back.
Phyllida, who’d been trying to push herself away from the bank, lost his support behind and beneath her. With a muffled shriek, she followed him down. She landed on top of him, her shoulder digging into his chest.
He winced. Gasping, she wriggled around; they ended literally nose to nose, lips and eyes mere inches apart.
They both froze, stilled . . . waiting . . . thinking . . .
He started to raise his arms to close them about her, then stopped. Percy had grabbed her only hours before and tried to force his attentions on her. He wanted to seize, to hold, to capture, but the last thing he wanted was to remind her of Percy.
His night vision was good. Her face was a pale oval, her expression not her usual serene mask but carefully blank. Eyes wide, she was staring at his face. Considering . . . wondering . . .
He knew what he’d like her to consider—what he wanted her to wonder. “I believe”—his voice had deepened—“that I deserve a reward for that.”
Phyllida stared at him and tried to marshal her wayward wits. His hands were at her waist, but not gripping. She lay fully upon him; he lay passive beneath her. She knew that he was infinitely more dangerous than Percy. Why, then, did she feel so much safer, all but in his arms, lying atop him, entirely alone in the dark wood late at night?
It was a conundrum, one she felt she should solve. But she couldn’t, not now, not with his dark gaze on her eyes, with the hard warmth of him beneath her, threatening, in the most tempting way, to surround her.
He did deserve a reward. If she’d been alone, she would have stopped and looked around, and probably have ended being hurt. Even killed. He deserved a reward, and she didn’t even have to think to know what it was he would like.
His wish was the glint in his eyes, the tension in the hard body beneath her—an almost discernible hum of desire. Of its own volition, her tongue came out; she licked her lips, leaving them slightly parted.
His gaze lowered; her lips throbbed. She waited . . .
His gaze rose to her eyes. He held her gaze, then slowly raised one brow.
You may be as bold as you like . . .
His earlier words returned to her; their true meaning—the meaning his deep, purring, seductive voice had invested them with—rang crystal-clear. She hesitated no longer. Framing his face with her hands, she set her lips to his.
They felt as they had before, alive, firm, tempting; they made her lips tingle. She kissed him and he kissed her back, pressure for pressure but no more. She kissed him again and the same thing happened—she was in control. Some part of her mind tried frantically to remind her just how dangerous he was; the rest gloried in the unexpected possibilities. There were so many things she’d always wanted to know, sensations she’d wanted to experience.
She traced his lower lip with her tongue and he obediently parted his lips. She ventured in and was immediately lost in a carnival of delicious delights, slipping from one to the next and back again. Whatever she asked, he gave; wherever she ventured, he followed. The texture of his tongue against hers, the heated wetness of the kiss, were all still new to her. She reveled in each novel delight, then, confident and secure, explored further.
Lucifer lay there and let her have her way with him. He had to concentrate to maintain his passive state, given she was a mature twenty-four and every development in their kiss apparently necessitated a wriggle or a squirm. Luckily, she provided a distraction, too—her naivete coupled with her blatant curiosity left him wondering what the local gentlemen had been doing for the past six years. Asking for her help, apparently—certainly not kissing her. Especially not kissing her as she deserved to be kissed.
She was twenty-four—the warm swells that tantalizingly brushed his upper chest, the warm weight of her hips pressed to his waist, the long sweeps of her thighs riding down, over his hips— He abruptly cut off that train of thought and focused again on her hungry lips, on satisfying her and satisfying himself.
He felt they’d succeeded very nicely when she finally raised her head.
Phyllida looked down at him, and felt her heart thud. Her skin, all her nerves, had come alive; she was intensely aware of his body, and hers, of the masculine power he exuded yet controlled so effortlessly. It surrounded her, yet she didn’t feel trapped, didn’t feel like pulling away. She felt like plunging deeper in.
Temptation might well be his middle name.
She frowned, then struggled, just a little. “Let me up.”
His lips curved. “I’m not holding you.”
She stared at him; heat rose in her cheeks. His hands on either side of her waist might be burning her—they weren’t gripping her. She tried to push away, to roll off him. His fingers gripped lightly and he lifted her from him.
Scrambling upright, she brushed herself down, tugged her cap firmly on her head, then, with barely a glance to confirm he was on his feet, she strode on toward the house.
Lucifer followed, careful, even in the darkness, not to grin too triumphantly. Close behind her as they navigated the shrubbery, he felt more than victorious. He felt honored, curiously so, as if she’d bestowed something on him that was worth more than words could define. In one way, she had—she’d gifted him with a degree of trust she’d never given to any other man.
He’d invited it, true, but it wasn’t something he could have forced from her. Inordinately pleased with himself, and her, he stepped onto the back lawn.
She’d trusted him in one way—that augered well for his plan, a plan that was simplicity incarnate. She knew something about Horatio’s murder and she was a sensible, intelligent female; the only reason she hadn’t told him all was because she didn’t yet trust him that far. Once she’d learned more of him and convinced herself that he was an honorable man, then she would tell him her secret. Simple.
Grinning, he walked on by her side.
His next thought came out of nowhere, unheralded—unwanted. It destroyed his triumph, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Was he any better than the others who courted her, not out of real desire, but out of a desire for something she could give them?
The question clanged in his brain. The sensual memory of her body lying flush atop his washed over him.
Jaw setting, he willed both memory and question away.
The house rose before them, silent and still. Without words, they made their way inside, and parted for what was left of the night.
Late the next morning, Lucifer walked into the front corner bedchamber at the Manor and looked around. His brushes were on the dresser. If he opened the wardrobe, he would, he was sure, find his coats neatly hanging. Covey had been busy.
He’d breakfasted at the Grange with Sir Jasper and Jonas; Phyllida, he assumed, had still been abed. Or perhaps, after last night, she’d decided to avoid meeting him quite so soon. If so, he was grateful. Taking leave of his host, he’d walked through the woods to the Manor to take up the reins Horatio had willed him.
After speaking with Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses, assuring them that he would, indeed, be residing permanently at the Manor and that he was happy to have them continue in their present positions, he’d allowed himself to be shown around the house and had chosen this room as his.
Leaving Mrs. Hemmings and Covey to organize and fuss—which had reassured them as no words could—he’d settled in the library to write letters. One to his parents, one to Devil, one to Montague, and a summons to Dodswell to join him here. He didn’t know where Gabriel and Alathea were, so he couldn’t write to them. Had it really been only four days since their wedding? It felt like weeks.
Leaving the letters for Covey to take to the Red Bells for collection, he’d wandered up here.
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He’d chosen this room because of the windows, the light. The room Horatio had occupied, similarly large but at the back, was shady and quiet.
Here, the front windows looked over the flower garden, the drive, and the gates to the lane, while the side windows gave views of the shrubbery, the lawns, and the lake. Between the side windows sat a large four-poster bed invitingly arrayed with plump pillows and a rich red-and-gold tapestry bedspread. Curtains of the same fabric were gathered at the four corners and tied back with tasseled gold cords.
All the furniture gleamed; the faint scent of lemon polish hung in the air.
Walking to the window facing the common, Lucifer gazed out, mentally assembling a plan, one that didn’t involve pressuring Phyllida Tallent into telling him all she knew. She could come to trust him of her own accord; he refused to seduce her into it.
Shaking aside all memories of last night, including the hours during which he’d been unable to sleep, he focused on the lane. He recalled driving into the village, halting, and looking around . . . he’d seen no horse or carriage, no one on foot. . . . How had the murderer left the scene?
“If by horse . . .” Crossing to the side window, he studied the shrubbery.
Two minutes later, he was striding across the side lawn. The shrubbery entrance was wide but shaggy; inside, the hedges were overgrown. Making a mental note to speak to Hemmings about hiring more help for the grounds, Lucifer pressed on along a path leading, he hoped, to the lane.
He discovered an archway in the hedge running parallel to the lane. Pushing through, he found himself on a narrow path winding between the shrubbery hedge and the hedge bordering the lane. Topping him by more than a foot, both hedges were so poorly tended that arching new growth met and tangled overhead. Even though the path was wide enough to walk freely, when he’d stopped in his curricle only yards farther along the lane, he hadn’t had any inkling this path was here—it had appeared that the shrubbery hedge and the lane hedge were one and the same.
Presumably the path started by the Manor’s drive. Turning, Lucifer paced in the other direction.
He found what he’d suspected he might just beyond the shrubbery. The side and back shrubbery hedges met in a corner; a grassy area wide enough to accommodate a horse lay between the back of the shrubbery and a briar-filled ditch marking the edge of a paddock. Hard by the lane, the ditch closed over and the path led on, hugging the lane hedge to swing out of sight around a bend.
Turning his attention to the grassy area, he looked, then squatted and parted the grass to study the impressions in the earth beneath.
A horse had stood there, not long ago. He didn’t think it had rained since Sunday. As the grass sprang back, he saw that some tufts had been chomped. So—a horse had stood there recently, for at least a little while. Why?
There seemed only one likely answer.
Lucifer rose and continued along the path. He was out of sight of the shrubbery when he came upon a place where the lane hedge had partly died. There was a gap, wide enough for a horse to push through.
Twigs were snapped on both sides of the gap. He twisted one free and studied it. It had broken, not this morning, not even yesterday, but not long ago.
From the other side of the hedge came a rustle of skirts, a quick, light step. Lucifer looked up. His senses prickled.
The steps halted. A small hand appeared, fingers extended to touch a broken twig.
The owner of the hand stepped into the gap.
She gasped and nearly stepped back when she saw him.
Lucifer stared at her.
Phyllida stared back.
For one wild moment, her consciousness of their kiss in the night flared in her eyes; he felt the same awareness tug, hot and strong, in his gut. Then she blinked and looked down—at the twig he still held in his fingers. Her gaze swung up to his face. “What have you found?”
Sharing would make her trust him sooner. He glanced back down the path. “I think a horse was ridden through here and left waiting at the back of the shrubbery.”
She pressed into the gap, craning to see; the curve of the lane prevented that. “The back of the shrubbery?”
“There’s a clearing there.”
“Show me.” She began to push through the hedge. Branches grabbed at soft curves protected only by her delicate blue gown.
“No!” He waved her back. “Use your parasol as a shield.”
She looked at him inquiringly. He showed her how; holding the open parasol before her, she maneuvered through the hedge without sustaining any serious damage. Shaking out her skirts, she raised the parasol again. “Thank you.”
He said nothing but waved her down the path; it wasn’t his pleasure—he wasn’t at all sure he wanted her this close, alone and private again. He had to keep reminding his rakish senses that she was more innocent than her behavior painted her. Not an easy task when he could all too clearly remember the sensations of her lips on his, her tongue . . . He shook his head. “The clearing’s beyond those briars.”
She stopped at the spot. He hunkered down and showed her what he’d found, the clear impressions made by front hooves neatly shod.
“Can you tell anything from the hoofprints?”
He shook his head and stood. “The back hooves were on harder soil, and the horse was here long enough to shift about a good deal. There’s no imprint with any distinctive mark.” He frowned, still looking down. “But the shoes are good quality—clean, good lines.”
“So it’s unlikely to be a workhorse, a plow horse . . .”
“No, but any decent mount would fit the bill.” He moved back, onto the path. Phyllida joined him. Without further words, they strolled toward the Manor.
Temptation whispered; Lucifer ignored it. He glanced at her; there was no evidence of awareness in her face—but then, there rarely was. Her face was a mask; only her eyes would tell him what she was feeling, and she was being careful not to meet his gaze. Being very careful not to touch him as they strolled.
He looked forward and drew in a breath. “Let’s hypothesize that on Sunday morning, the murderer rode here, pushed through the hedge, and left his horse waiting at the back of the shrubbery while he went on to the Manor. Where could he have ridden from?”
“You mean from which towns?”
He nodded.
“Lyme Regis is close, about six miles, but the route is by the coast, so if they’d come from there, they would have ridden through the village.” She glanced at him. “Old Mrs. Ottery lives in the cottage by the Bells. She’s chair-bound and spends her Sunday mornings looking out over the common. She swears no one rode through the village.”
Lucifer eyed her calm profile. “If not Lyme Regis, where else?”
“Axminster is the closest town, but it’s not very large.”
“I passed through it on my way here. Chard is further, but might be worth considering. I saw a few stables there.”
“Chard is the most likely place where someone from outside would hire a horse to ride here. The mail coaches to Exeter stop there.”
“Very well. Let’s consider nearer at hand. Who rides in from this end of the village?”
She glanced at him; a frown filled her eyes. “The households of Dottswood and Highgate—their lane joins the main lane back by the first cottages.”
Lucifer remembered the lane beside the ridge. “Who else commonly rides into the village?”
She hesitated. They’d passed the archway into the shrubbery; the end of the path lay just ahead. “Most of the men living outside the immediate village ride in. Papa and Jonas rarely ride in the village. Silas Coombe and Mr. Filing I’ve never known to ride at all. All the rest, even Cedric, would normally ride in.”
Stepping through the ragged entrance to the path, she halted on the lawn. He followed, glancing around. They were some yards from the main gates, the hedge bordering the lane still to their immediate right. The gravel path leading to the front door started twenty paces away.
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sp; He returned his gaze to Phyllida. “Could a man from any of the other estates—not Dottswood or Highgate—easily circle the village and reach the lane at that spot?”
“Yes. Bridle paths link all the lanes, although you’d have to be a local to know them.”
No one wanted to think the murderer was a local, yet . . . “Ignoring that gap in the hedge, could the horse have been ridden to that clearing from the other direction?”
“By coming up the field?” When he nodded, she shook her head. “That field—in fact, all your fields—runs down to the river. The Axe. It’s not far and it’s too deep to ride across without getting thoroughly wet. To come along this side of the river, they’d have to cross the Grange fields first—a lot of fields, most bordered with briar ditches.”
Lucifer looked across the drive to the colorful blooms nodding in Horatio’s garden. “So we’re looking for some outsider who hired a horse, most likely in Chard, and rode in, then out, or it could have been any of the local gentlemen.”
“Bar Papa, Jonas, Mr. Filing, and Silas Coombe. And the other gentlemen who were at church, of course.”
He’d forgotten. “Basil and Pommeroy. I haven’t checked the others, but that should narrow the list.”
Phyllida threw him a glance. “Don’t count on it.”
Lucifer grinned. He was about to twit her on the comment when the rumbling of a carriage reached them.
They glanced toward the lane, then looked at each other. Their gazes met, held . . .
Without a word, they stepped into the drive—into the open. Where anyone could see them and no one could suggest they’d been “private.”
They were standing in the middle of the drive, facing the gate, when the carriage slowed and halted.
Lady Fortemain leaned over the side and beamed. “Mr. Cynster. Just who I was looking for!”
Lucifer quashed an urge to flee. With an easy smile, collecting Phyllida with a glance, he strolled to the barouche.