Dragging in a breath, she held it, forced the chill from her skin, waited until the shivery tremors had died. She couldn’t go on like this—she hated the sense of not being in control, of not being safe. She hated the taste of fear.
So—what to do?
It should have been an easy question; thanks to her promise about Mary Anne’s letters, it was anything but. Phyllida lay on her back and stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling.
She would bet her best bonnet Lucifer would be back tomorrow morning; this time, he wouldn’t let be. He’d insist she tell him all, and if she refused, he would speak to her father. She felt confident in predicting how he would react, certainly in those circumstances where honor and duty ruled. He might be many things, a reprobate, a rake, an elegant charmer of questionable constancy, but at his core he was a gentleman, one of the highest caliber.
It would not be in his lexicon to allow her to endanger herself—that was how he would see it. That, for him, would be the crux of the matter, regardless of how she felt.
After nearly being strangled, she could hardly argue. She would have to tell him all tomorrow. She would tell him about the hat—and then she would have to tell him about the rest, too.
But what of her promise to Mary Anne, her sworn oath that she’d say nothing to anyone about the letters?
What price an oath to a friend?
She’d never imagined facing such a decision. Finding the letters should have been so easy. Even now, if only she could search upstairs at the Manor. She’d been thinking of going one night, when the servants were abed. She knew which room to avoid, but the other rooms . . . Mary Anne’s grandmother’s traveling writing desk had to be in one of them. She doubted it had been put in the attic. No—it would be sitting on some chest somewhere, looking dainty and delicate, just waiting for her to retrieve the letters. . . .
Lifting her head, she looked across her room. The moonlight was bright; she could see her dresser clearly, even make out the scrollwork around her mirror’s rim.
She pushed up onto her elbows.
Before tomorrow morning dawned and brought Lucifer with it, she had at least four hours of deep night. Time enough to search the first floor rooms at the Manor, find the letters, and return home. And the window in the Manor’s dining room still had a loose latch.
She flung aside the covers. If she didn’t find the desk tonight, then tomorrow she’d tell Lucifer all and ask for his aid in finding the letters. Despite Mary Anne’s and Robert’s paranoia, she felt confident that if he bothered to read them at all, the contents of the letters would gain no more than a raised eyebrow from Lucifer; she couldn’t imagine him giving the letters to Mr. Crabbs.
But for Mary Anne, and to honor her promise, she’d make one last attempt to find the letters.
Struggling into her clothes, she glanced out at the shifting shadows of the wood. She’d be safe. No one, not even the murderer, would imagine she’d be out tonight.
She was still repeating that thought when she reached the edge of the wood and looked across at the Manor. She’d worked her way farther around the house; across the lawns stood the dining room. To reach the corner window, she’d have to pick her way across the gravel drive.
Steeling herself, she started across, carefully placing each foot before transferring her weight to it. Luckily, her enforced sleep and the brisk walk through the wood had left her physically alert. She reached the beds before the dining room with barely a crunch.
The latch was certainly loose; just a jiggle and the window swung wide. She hauled herself up onto the wide sill, then sat and swung her legs in.
Easing down to the floor, she closed the window, then listened. The house was asleep—she could feel the silence like a heavy cloak hanging undisturbed all around her. Shadows draped the furniture, rendered deeper by the moonlight slanting through the uncurtained windows. Like all the ground-floor rooms, this room was lined with bookcases. Once her eyes had adjusted enough to pick out the books, she moved silently around the large table.
The door to the front hall stood wide; beyond was a sea of shadows. She paused before the doorway, gathering her courage.
Movement. Just by the foot of the stairs. She froze.
A foot above the floor, a disembodied plume came swaying through the shadows, then the cat lifted its head; its eyes gleamed.
She sagged with relief. The cat considered her, then, unperturbed, paced down the hall, tail raised, still swaying.
Phyllida dragged in a calming breath. It had to be a good sign—a cat would sense any evil intruder. Presumably she was the only intruder tonight. She hadn’t expected the murderer to be here, yet . . .
Putting the nagging worry aside, she crossed the hall, treading lightly, then started up the stairs. She trod close to the banister to minimize the chance of any telltale creak. Reaching the landing, she paused and looked up.
The gallery above was dense with shadow. She took a moment to reorient herself. The last time she’d been upstairs at the Manor was before Horatio had bought it. She knew he’d remodeled and refurbished extensively, but the basic layout of the rooms remained unchanged.
On the way through the wood, she’d distracted herself by planning her search. Horatio had been ill for a week before his death. He’d written to Lucifer in that time, and he’d always had a deal of correspondence. He might have been using the desk himself.
The idea had given her heart. There was no point looking anywhere else before she searched Horatio’s room, so she would search it first, even though it was separated from the room Lucifer occupied only by a narrow dressing room.
Reaching the head of the stairs, she stepped into the corridor. Hugging the wall, she slid along, tensing with each footstep, praying for no creaks. The door to the front corner room loomed out of the darkness; it was shut.
She halted, sparing a moment to take it in and breathe a little easier. The image of her nemesis sprawled on his stomach in the big bed at the Grange flashed into her mind. She’d survived the sight once. Even more to the point, tonight she wasn’t going to open his door.
She swiveled her gaze to the opposite door, the one to Horatio’s room. It stood open—another piece of luck. Mrs. Hemmings had told her that, other than tidying, they’d left the room as it was. Confidence welling, Phyllida resisted the urge to hurry; keeping to her careful glide, she covered the last yards to the door and moved inside.
Halting, she listened, senses straining for any sound, any hint she’d alerted anyone to her presence. Around her, the huge house remained silent, inanimate yet with a presence of its own. Nowhere in that presence could she sense any threat.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she looked around. The room was large, the curtains drawn. She could see enough to avoid the furniture, but not enough to be certain what it was. Grasping the doorknob, lifting to minimize any scrape, she eased the door into its frame. She didn’t push it fully closed, didn’t want to risk the sound of the bolt falling home. But it was shut enough for her purpose, wedged tight enough that it couldn’t swing open.
She still needed to move quietly, but she no longer needed to skulk. Surveying the room, she blew out a breath. Searching thoroughly was going to take more than a few minutes.
The huge bed stood foursquare between twin windows overlooking the lake. A large blanket chest stood at its foot; another heavy chest stood back against one wall. There were two large tallboys, both with deep lower drawers, and three huge armoires. The traveling writing desk could be in any one of them.
An escritoire filled one corner; a comfortable armchair sat before the hearth. The long bay window overlooking the kitchen garden was fitted with a window seat.
Moving past the bed, Phyllida parted the curtains at one side window. The moon was high; silver light streamed in. She looked up—the curtains hung from large wooden rings; both rings and rod were polished from frequent use.
Holding her breath, she drew the curtains evenly back. The rings didn’t rattle.
Exhaling, she circled the bed and did the same with the other side window, then, for good measure, with the bay window as well.
The result was good—not daylight, but sufficient to search without worrying that she would knock something she hadn’t seen to the floor. Fate was on her side tonight. Confidence brimming, she knuckled down to her task.
The desk was nowhere in open sight, but both Mrs. Hemmings and Covey had tidied—they might have tidied it away. Phyllida started with an armoire. The deep shelf at the top looked promising; she fetched the chair from the escritoire and checked, but the shelf held only boxes. The chest by the wall held only clothes. She spent minutes wrestling out the bottom drawers of the tallboys, all without making a sound; they were filled with books. The other two armoires were similarly disappointing. By the time she reached the blanket chest, her spirits were sinking. The chest was filled with blankets and linen.
Closing the chest, she sank down on it. The confidence that had fired her thus far—the conviction that tonight she had to find the letters and would—had faded. Yet as she glanced around the room, she couldn’t quite believe that the desk wasn’t here. She’d felt so sure it would be.
Her scan of the room had her swiveling around; she ended staring at the bed. She rose and looked under it.
Nothing. Heaving a dejected sigh, she clambered to her feet. One boot toe scraped on the polished boards; the sound wasn’t loud, but she warned herself to be careful. She still had to search the rest of the rooms on this floor.
She headed for the door, then halted. What about the curtains—would anyone notice if she didn’t close them? She frowned at the wide bay window and decided those curtains, at least, she would have to close.
Only fear of detection kept her from trudging dejectedly across the floor. Rounding the window seat, she reached up to the curtains bunched at that end. Her gaze fell on the window seat. Her hand froze on the curtain.
The window seat was a chest in disguise. The padded, chintz-covered top was hinged. Hope flared anew. Phyllida left the curtains wide and moved to the center of the window seat. Sliding her fingers under its edge, she gripped, then lifted. The long seat lifted up.
It was a weight, but she eased it over—at the very last, her fingers slipped and she lost her grip. The padded edge hit the windowsill with a muted thud. Muted enough to ignore. Phyllida looked down at the length of dark chest and prayed: Please, let it be here.
The interior of the chest was deeply shadowed. The lid shaded it and the side windows were too far away to throw much light inside. She would have to search by feel.
She started at one end. The chest was divided into three compartments. Finishing one, she stood and massaged her back, taking a few steps before bending to the compartment at the other end. That, too, proved disappointing.
Standing before the middle section—the last place in this room left to search—she stared into the shadowed chest. Then she sighed, bent, and reached into it.
Her fingers touched polished wood. Her heart leaped. Instantly, she quelled it, reminding herself of the need for care. If she shifted wooden objects around, there’d be bumps and knocks—just the sort of sounds to wake people she didn’t want to wake. Like one blind, she felt with her hands, fingers outlining the shapes for her mind.
Walking sticks. A shooting stick. Wooden boxes—could this be it? No—too small. She reached further, easing her fingers between the boxes, trying to ascertain if there was a bigger boxlike object underneath.
Her fingers touched the planks at the bottom of the chest.
At the same instant, a light breeze wafted past her cheek, stirring her hair. Phyllida froze.
No window was open. The only door was the one to the corridor—the one she’d wedged shut.
That door, behind her, was now open.
Slowly, she straightened. Her wildly flickering senses screamed the information that there was someone in the doorway, blocking it. The murderer?
She felt him step forward and whirled—
“Well, well. Why am I not surprised?”
Her breath came out in a rush. Her mind all but wilted with relief. Thank God, thank God—the refrain filled her head, then abruptly died.
Her eyes flared wide, then wider; her wits tripped over themselves, then seized. Her lungs already had; they squeezed tight. She stood and simply stared.
Lucifer was standing just inside the room. His broad shoulders did indeed block the doorway. The moonlight washed over him, lovingly illuminating every muscle, every angle, every plane.
He was naked.
One part of her mind wanted to ask where his nightshirt was; the rest considered the point irrelevant. Wherever it was, it wasn’t on him, and that was all that mattered.
Her gaze slid helplessly over him, from his face, limned in silver, over his shoulders, his chest. The muscles of chest and forearms were shaded by dark hair, while those of shoulders and upper arms formed smooth, sculpted curves. She could imagine their heat beneath her palms. The band of hair across his chest coalesced to a dark line that trailed down, over his ridged abdomen. His waist was narrow, as were his hips. She couldn’t stop herself; she didn’t even try. Her gaze lowered. Her mouth dried.
She felt her lips part, her jaw drop; she couldn’t summon a single coherent thought. By the time her gaze reached his bare feet, her face was aflame.
In his right hand he was carrying a naked sword, its edge winking silver in the moonlight. He held it in a relaxed grip, as if he were used to wielding it. It was presently pointing at the floor.
Not so that other part of him, equally naked, equally unsheathed. That was pointing—
She wrenched her gaze upward and fixed it on his face. Even then, she couldn’t breathe. She could feel his gaze like a living thing, a warm weight on her skin. He was watching her, considering her, his eyes heavy-lidded.
Then he smiled, a flash of white in his dark face. It wasn’t a comforting smile. With the sword in his hand, he looked like a pirate. A naked pirate. Fully aroused. With wicked thoughts filling his mind.
He stepped forward; she stepped back—the backs of her booted calves struck the chest.
Without taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him and closed the door. The click of the latch sounded loud in the suddenly warm dark.
“I suppose,” he murmured, his voice deep, his tone languidly conversational, “that you’re going to be stubborn and refuse to tell me what you came here looking for.”
What she came here looking for. The letters? An alternative truth rose in her mind; she quickly buried it.
He stalked slowly toward her; she struggled to keep her gaze on the naked blade—the one the moonlight was glinting on. She’d seen Jonas in various stages of undress, but nothing had prepared her for this.
The letters. She’d intended telling him about them in the morning. Why not now? She looked into his face. He was close enough now that she could see his eyes glinting, could appreciate the subtle changes—changes she’d seen before.
Desire—he desired her with an almost brutal intensity. A thrill slithered down her spine. What was he planning—what would he do to her if she refused to tell?
“I . . .” Her voice wavered; abruptly, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to tell you yet.”
He halted in front of her, a yard away. He held her gaze, then his lips curved. His expression held no disappointment, only a keen anticipation.
“I’ll just have to torture it out of you, then.”
The intent was there, ringing in his voice, yet the promise was not one of pain but of pleasure—pleasure too tempting to resist, too powerful to withstand. The threat filled her mind with images of warm flesh, hard muscle, silk sheets, and burning touches.
She licked her lips. “Torture?”
His eyes had never left hers. They searched briefly, then he nodded. “Hands up.”
The sword flashed upward between them. Phyllida jumped.
“Up.” He gestur
ed with the sword.
Frowning inwardly, she raised her hands, palms facing him, up to shoulder level.
“Higher.”
The sword flashed again; she frowned openly, but raised her hands to head height.
The sword tip hovered level with her nose, then slowly lowered . . . she followed it with her eyes. It stopped, resting on the top button of her shirt, just above her breasts.
She looked up—the sword flashed. Openmouthed, she watched as the button rolled over the floor and under the bed. “What . . . ?” The word came out as a strangled squeak.
She looked back at his face.
He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
The sword flashed again—once, twice—pong, ping. Her shirt gaped fully open. Instinctively, she reached to pull it closed.
“Oh, no.” The sword flickered warningly before her, quicksilver in the moonlight. “Keep your hands up.” He paused, studying her face. “You’re not ready to confess yet, are you?”
She looked into his eyes, glinting beneath heavy lids, pure temptation in the night. If she told him all, he’d stop. If she told him, he wouldn’t have any reason for continuing . . . and then she’d never know. “No.”
His head tilted, just a little; his gaze grew more intent. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure?”
The words were quiet, direct; she understood what he was asking. The night shimmered around them, filled with desire so potent she could taste it. It didn’t all come from him. They stood three feet apart, bathed in moonlight, he completely naked, she in breeches with her shirt gaping. And both of them were thinking of taking that next step—of closing the distance between them, of feeling skin against naked skin.
Her fingers itched, her palms burned, her skin heated.
“I’m sure.” She heard the words, felt them fall from her lips, sensed them deep inside her. She was sure—she wanted to know and with him she could learn and still feel safe. If the murderer had been a better shot, or if she hadn’t fought so hard this morning, she might have died not knowing; that seemed a fate too sad, too pathetic, to contemplate. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a direct and, she hoped, challenging look. In for a penny, in for a pound. “What next?”