The tension investing his body increased; she felt it through her hands, through her thighs—saw it in his face. She was heating, too. His hands left her hips to close over her breasts; his fingers played—her urgency grew.
Then he rose beneath her and brought his mouth to her breasts. Sharp sensation speared her; she nearly died. Nearly saw rapture again. She clung desperately to her wits as he laved, sucked, teased. The wet spots felt cool against her burning skin.
One hand returned to her hip—he gripped and slowed her. Slowed her until she was nearly frantic, mindless with the need to take him deeper, harder, faster. She spread her thighs and pressed down on him. She rose again—he halted her and pressed her down. And took one turgid nipple into the hot wetness of his mouth and suckled.
She cried out and plunged down, pressing him high inside her. Her world came apart, fragmenting into glimmering shards of rapturous wonder. They penetrated her skin, spread, and melted, until she was a mass of glowing heat with him hard and vibrant at her core.
With a sob, she put her arms around his shoulders, held his head to her breast, curled herself around him, and clung tight.
Gradually, he moved back, drawing her down with him. His breathing was harsh in her ear. Every muscle in his body was locked tight.
“Why?” She whispered the word against his skin.
Lucifer lay beneath her and couldn’t think enough to form a coherent thought. “I wanted you more than once, but . . .” He lost the thread. She was hot and so tight around him. He brushed a kiss to her temple. “In a moment.” His voice was a gravelly rumble, almost hoarse with need.
He’d wanted her more than once, but she’d been untried, untutored. If he’d had his wicked way with her, he’d have had her three times, and she’d have cursed him in the morning. Instead, once inside her, he’d stayed deep, moderating the length and thus the force of his thrusts to minimize the abrasion and pressure to her delicate flesh. So he’d been able to enjoy having her come apart in his arms with him sunk inside her twice . . . thus far.
Lifting her, he withdrew from her, sliding from beneath her. She murmured, tried to clutch and hold him. He soothed her with a kiss along her back. “You have to do all I say, remember?”
She slumped onto her stomach. “So what should I do?”
He reached for a pillow. “Absolutely nothing. It’s my turn now.”
She lay boneless and let him lift her hips and stuff the pillow beneath them. He knelt between her legs and bent one slender limb, nudging it to the side, knee almost level with her waist. Then he touched her, leaned over her, and slid home.
Her breath fell from her in a gasping moan.
“Did that hurt?”
She shook her dark head and pressed back against him. He took what she offered, sinking deeper into her body. Arms braced, he lowered his head and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
“Just lie still and let me love you.”
She did—he would have thanked her if he’d been able to form the words. Instead, he thanked her with his body. She lay hot, naked, and completely open before him; he filled her, his hips pressed to her firm derriere, the smooth hemispheres glowing palely in the moonlight. The curves caressed him, her body welcomed him, enclosing him in slick, sweet heat. The musky scent of her rose and wreathed through him; he drew it deep, and felt the beast within him slip its leash.
Beneath him, he felt her stir. She didn’t move, but her body tightened about him. He reacted instinctively, pressing his hips to her bottom, thrusting deep, rotating just enough to lift her hips in a roll.
She caught her breath and pushed back, then eased down again. He gritted his teeth, withdrew further, held back, then filled her slowly. He sank home, rolled, withdrew—she moaned.
Filled with feminine entreaty more primitive than words, the sound shredded his much-tried control. He rode her hard, plunging even deeper; she met him, urging him on. He’d meant to be gentle, but she was wild and wanton—he responded in the same way.
She shattered beneath him in a climax so intense he felt it in his bones. She spasmed so hot and tight about him, he thought he’d lose his mind. And then he did. Lost all touch with reality as he lost himself in her. Lost his soul to her heat, lost his heart to her.
Phyllida woke. She lifted her lids; through the nearby window she could see the sky. A gray light washed over the darkness, presaging dawn, but dawn was not yet here.
Her lids fell; she snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of the covers. Every muscle in her body felt stretched, released. The heavy arm across her waist was comforting.
She half sat up with a jerk—or would have, but that hairy arm tensed and held her down.
Lying on her side, she sent her senses searching. Lucifer lay sprawled on his stomach alongside her, one arm flung over her. And he was awake. And naked. And so was she. Escaping this while maintaining her composure was not going to be a simple matter.
Unfortunately, rack her brains though she did, she could recall no teachings on the etiquette of leaving a gentleman’s bed. If he’d been asleep, she’d have slipped away—and worried about meeting him face-to-face later. Fully clothed, she’d have managed with tolerable calm.
But naked? With him naked beside her?
If she lay there thinking about it anymore, she’d end in a witless panic. She turned; his arm slid over her waist. On her back, she glanced sideways at his face, half buried in the pillow. “I have to go.”
Only one of his eyes was visible; it opened and regarded her—far too intently for her liking.
“You haven’t yet told me what you were looking for, which is presumably why the murderer is after you.”
“It’s not, but it’s nearly dawn. I have to get through the wood and into the Grange. If you call later this morning, I promise I’ll tell you everything.”
He didn’t lift his head—he just shook it. He looked stunningly handsome with his black hair rumpled; had she done that? Her fingers itched.
“I was going to come and interrogate you this morning, but the present situation has a great deal to recommend it in terms of extracting information.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you won’t be leaving this bed until you’ve told me all.”
“Don’t be silly—I have to leave before your household gets up. You won’t want your servants to know I’m here.”
Lucifer shrugged. “If you don’t mind, why should I?” He was going to marry her; in the circumstances, everyone would turn a blind eye.
She stared at him, blank-faced, then her eyes flashed. “Well, I do mind!”
She tried to push his arm from her. He sighed and turned—and drew her into his arms. She quieted. He rolled her until she lay on her side, all but nose to nose with him, his arms locked around her, her legs tangled with his, his erection pressed to her soft belly. He looked into her eyes. “In that case, you’d better start talking.”
Her expression was impossible to read; only her dark eyes, still wide, still lustrous with lingering satiation, showed her awareness of his state. Of his unstated threat. Her lips firmed, obstinate to the end.
He held her gaze and waited, while the sun rose.
Phyllida capitulated. “I’ve been searching for a packet of letters. Not mine—someone else’s.”
“Mary Anne’s.”
The leap of logic was hardly great. “Yes. She hid the letters in her grandmother’s writing desk, and then her father sold the desk to Horatio and it was delivered here before Mary Anne realized.”
“What’s so threatening about these letters?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that Mary Anne and Robert are desperate to get them back without anyone knowing anything about them, much less reading them.”
He searched her eyes. “You promised not to tell anyone?”
“I swore I wouldn’t reveal the existence of the letters to anyone at all.”
After a moment, he nodded. “All right. So you were looking for
the letters . . .” His gaze sharpened. “That’s why you were in Horatio’s drawing room on Sunday last.”
Phyllida sighed. “Yes.” It felt good to be able to tell him. And he’d understood about her promise; she’d thought he would. “I was searching for the writing desk and walked into the drawing room—and saw Horatio lying there, dead.”
“Where was I?”
“You hadn’t arrived yet. I’d just turned Horatio over and realized he really was dead when I heard you striding up the path.”
“And?”
“I thought you might be the murderer coming back for the body. I hid.”
A frown formed in his eyes. “Where?”
She kept her eyes glued to his. “Behind the door.”
His eyes hardened; so did the planes of his face. The arms about her tightened. She’d imagined telling him that she’d been the one who had hit him with the halberd a hundred times, but she’d never imagined doing it while naked in his arms.
“You hit me?”
“I didn’t mean to! I realized you weren’t the murderer and stepped forward to speak to you, and the halberd overbalanced.”
He stared into her eyes for a long, long minute; then the muscles in his arms relaxed. “You tried to stop it. That’s why it didn’t kill me.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “I tried, but I couldn’t. I only managed to turn it a bit.” The remembered panic washed through her; it must have shown in her eyes.
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. “It’s all right.” His hands smoothed over her back. “A bit was enough.”
The comfort in his tone, in his touch, wiped away all resistance. She relaxed in his arms. Her gaze dropped to his lips. “Well, now you know.”
His lips quirked. “I now know a great deal that I didn’t go to bed knowing, but . . .”
She blushed and looked back at his eyes—away from those devilish lips.
“I don’t know why the murderer is after you.”
“I think it’s because of the hat.” She told him, describing it briefly. “But I don’t know whose it was, and I haven’t seen it since.”
A board creaked directly above them. They both looked up. Phyllida paled. “Oh, Lord!”
Lucifer pulled her to him and kissed her soundly, long and deep, his hands playing over her back, her bottom. Then he released her. “Go.”
Dazed and blinking though she was, she didn’t wait to be told twice. She scrambled from the bed. Her breeches were at her feet; she swiped them up and sat to struggle into them. Crossing his arms behind his head, he lay back and watched her.
She stuffed her feet into her boots, then raced across the room and grabbed her shirt. Neither shirt nor breeches had buttons anymore. Horrified, she turned to him, arms wide, demonstrating. He raised a brow.
She glared, picked up her jacket, and shrugged into it. She stooped to pick up her bands, stuffed them in a pocket, then made for the door, one hand clutching the jacket closed, the other beneath it, holding up her breeches.
“I’ll call on you later in the morning. Don’t go anywhere before then.”
His tone gave her pause; from the door, she looked back, then nodded, hauled it open, and fled.
Lucifer listened, but she was quiet as a mouse. None of his household were yet up—he always heard them going down the stairs. She’d be safe getting out of the Manor and safe enough through the wood; no one could know she’d spent the night in his bed. Both attacks on her had been planned; their murderer was not the sort to hang around on the off chance where someone might see him and grow suspicious. She’d be safe getting home; he trusted her to reach her room undetected, not that it was of any truly great moment, but she would worry if she were seen.
The thought gave him pause. He lifted the sheet and looked down. Blood spotted both sheets.
He lowered them, then looked across the room to his exceedingly sharp cavalry saber, standing propped in the chest. Obviously, he’d been unable to sleep, thought he’d heard a noise, and gone to investigate, carrying the saber. He’d nicked his leg, but hadn’t noticed in the dark. Then he’d decided to try out Horatio’s bed, to see if sleep came easier there. It had. Simple enough.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes and let his mind revisit the night. His lips curved in a wicked smile.
“I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
The words were amazingly easy to say. Lucifer turned from the window overlooking the Grange lawns and faced Sir Jasper.
Seated behind his desk, Sir Jasper beamed. “Excellent!” Then his smile faded. He cleared his throat. “Of course, Phyllida herself will have the final say. Headstrong female. Runs her own life, y’know.”
“Indeed.” Lucifer claimed a chair facing his father-in-law to-be. “Apropos of that, it appears her suitors to date have left her with a distinctly jaundiced view of marriage.”
“Indeed, indeed—she’s been adamant she’ll have none of it.” Sir Jasper eyed Lucifer consideringly. “Not sure if it’s some odd kick in her gallop or not having a mother for so long, or what, but there it is—she declares she has no interest in marrying.”
“With due respect, she’s been given little incentive to be interested. Everyone expects her to marry, assumes she will, and her suitors have sought to turn that to their own advantage.” Lucifer paused, then added, “Few women appreciate being taken for granted.”
Especially not intelligent ladies of managing disposition. “Because of that,” he continued, “while I wished to make my intentions known to you, I have not yet spoken to Phyllida. We first met only nine days ago, and although I’m sure of my own mind on the matter, I’m equally sure that the way to gain Phyllida’s agreement to the match lies in giving her time to convince herself of its rightness.”
“So you propose waiting before putting the question to her, heh?”
“I propose wooing her before, metaphorically, going down on bended knee. A few weeks—I’m in no urgent hurry.” An all-too-physical memory of Phyllida beneath him seared across his brain; he blocked it off, ignored his reaction, and continued. “I believe the most inimical step I could take at present would be to press my suit.”
If he did, she’d immediately want to know why—why he wanted to marry her. He’d be forced to trot out all the conventional reasons, which would paint him in precisely the same unappealing colors as all her other suitors. The reasons were sound, but he knew they were not what she would want to hear. She would not be swayed by them.
He did have one obvious reason no other had ever had—he’d bedded her and therefore should, by all honorable tenets, make all right by marrying her. Although in some respects—the ones pertaining to honor—that struck a chord with him, it wasn’t, to his mind, a wise or valid reason to advance in support of his cause.
No woman wanted to hear that she was being married because of honor’s dictates. To let Phyllida believe that—to even suggest it—would be both cruel and cowardly. It was nowhere near the truth. He’d bedded her because he intended to marry her, not the other way around.
“I believe,” he said, “that a course of gentle persuasion is in order.”
Sir Jasper nodded. “You may be right. Can’t hurt to try that tack.” He looked at Lucifer; his expression hardened. “I won’t hide it from you—right now I’d appreciate all the help I can get with Phyllida. This business of her being attacked—very possibly twice—has me more than worried. Can’t see rhyme or reason to it myself.”
“I think we must assume that the attacker is Horatio’s murderer. There’s no reason to believe Colyton is harboring two men with malicious intent. But the reason he attacked Phyllida is certainly a mystery.”
“She says she has no idea why he wants to kill her.”
“Hmm. I will, of course, be continuing my investigations into Horatio’s murder. With your permission, I’ll extend that to include the attacks on Phyllida. It must be the same man.”
“Hard to get one’s mind a
round any of it, but yes, I agree. It’s most worrying.”
Lucifer rose. “Again with your permission, I’ll keep an eye on Phyllida. I’ll be better placed than others to do so.”
Sir Jasper rose, too, shrewd consideration in his eyes. He regarded Lucifer, then nodded and held out his hand. “Whatever permission you need, consider it given. No one I’d rather welcome as a son.”
Lucifer grasped Sir Jasper’s hand.
“Well, then,” Sir Jasper said. “Now you can get to it with a clear conscience, what?”
Suppressing a smile, Lucifer inclined his head. “Indeed.”
He left Sir Jasper’s study, fully intending to get to the matter forthwith. His conscience, however, wasn’t entirely clear. He was concealing his real reason for marrying Phyllida; he intended to do so indefinitely. He knew what it was, yet he could barely let the concept take shape in his brain—stating it out aloud, to her or even to himself, would remain, he was convinced, forever beyond him.
It was simply too much to ask. Not now. Not ever.
He found the object of his thoughts—the object of his lust, his desire, and a great deal more—in the rose garden. She was lopping blooms and laying them in a basket. He stood under the arched entrance and watched her. Watched the sunlight play on her dark hair, striking red lights in the silky strands. Watched the pale gold gown she wore swing and sway around the slender body that had writhed beneath him last night.
Pushing away from the archway, he stepped down to the flagged path.
Phyllida rounded a bush and saw him. She waited, watching him approach with the graceful strength of some large hunting cat. As always, he was the picture of male elegance, this time in a dark coat over pale breeches that molded to his thighs before reaching into polished Hessians. Her heart thudded as he neared; she seized the moment to calm it and strengthen her hold on her emotions. She knew exactly where she stood, where he stood; she would not allow herself to imagine anything more. She inclined her head. “Good morning.”