All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  Except that Lucifer would be living in the village. He wasn’t going to leave. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him.

  There was only one solution—to behave with her usual confidence and pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened on the cliff. Pretend he didn’t affect her at all.

  Not too easy when he was glowering at her.

  “You can’t possibly be so witless as to believe that it was some benighted huntsman who shot at you.”

  “You can’t argue that it’s not a possibility.”

  “It became much less of a possibility when we found hoofprints, just like those behind the Manor’s shrubbery, beside the copse in that field.”

  Her stride faltered; she slowed. “Someone rode there . . . it could still have been a huntsman.”

  “There was nothing to hunt in the field.”

  Except her. A cold hand gripped her nape; icy fingers trailed her spine. Phyllida suppressed a shiver. She continued walking. Her mind darted, sifting, rearranging the known facts in light of that new one.

  She’d almost convinced herself it had been a careless hunter—despite her instinctive fear, there’d been no logical reason to think otherwise. Now . . . could the murderer be trying to kill her?

  Why? She’d seen the hat, true, but it was just a brown hat—she’d know it again if she saw it, but she couldn’t recall seeing it before. She’d kept her eyes peeled, but she hadn’t sighted it again. In fact, until they’d confirmed otherwise, she’d assumed some outsider must have ridden in and stabbed Horatio. That no longer seemed likely. If Lucifer was correct and the same horse that had been tethered by the shrubbery on Sunday had been by the copse this morning, then she could only agree with him.

  The murderer was a local and had tried to kill her.

  He must think she could identify him, but surely not because of the hat? He’d have burned it by now, and as she hadn’t said anything, it must be obvious she hadn’t recognized it. Was there something else she’d seen?

  Frowning, she walked on.

  A disgusted sound came from beside her. She felt Lucifer’s gaze on her face and swiftly banished her frown.

  “I should tell your father of your connection with the murder.”

  She rounded on him. “You haven’t?”

  He scowled at her. “No—but I should. I will, if that’s the only way to ensure you remain safe.”

  She breathed easily again. “I’ll take care.”

  “Take care? Just look at you! Traipsing about in the dead of night—alone!”

  “But no one knows I’m out here.”

  “Except all those involved.”

  She snorted softly. “None of them is the murderer and you know it.”

  A charged silence ensued.

  “Are you going to tell me that no one ever notices the light shining from the church every few nights?”

  “Of course they notice—they think it’s smugglers.”

  “So everyone knows you’re there.”

  “No! No one even imagines I’m there—I’m a woman, remember?”

  That shut him up. Only for a moment. “Believe me, that’s one thing I’m highly unlikely to forget.”

  She tripped. He caught her arm, hauling her up, swinging her to him. She steadied, facing diagonally down the common. “Good Lord!” She stared. “A light just winked in your drawing room.”

  They both froze, staring down at the Manor. All was dark, then a pinprick of light flashed again. Before they could blink, a faint glow suffused the windows of the drawing room. A lamp had been lit and turned low.

  Phyllida sucked in a breath. “It must be the murderer!”

  “Stay here!”

  Releasing her, Lucifer plunged down the slope.

  “Hah!” Phyllida headed after him, in his wake, trusting that if there was a place to stumble, he’d find it first.

  They skirted the duck pond, then picked their way across the lane, careful to avoid loose stones. Gaining the cottages’ front fences, they hugged the shadows, ducking low as they rushed along the Manor’s garden wall. Lucifer reached the gate before her; he stood and swung it open—

  It creaked.

  The sound seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

  Lucifer flung himself up the path, gravel crunching under his feet. Phyllida followed at his heels.

  The light in the drawing room abruptly died.

  They skidded up against the front door, Lucifer juggling a set of unfamiliar keys. From within came the sound of footsteps fleeing across the tiles. Lucifer stopped, lifted his head, listened. . . .

  He swore and shoved the keys back in his pocket. He focused on her. “Dammit! Stay here!” He turned and charged along the front of the house.

  Phyllida followed.

  Lucifer rounded the corner and stopped; Phyllida cannoned into him. Steadying herself against his back, hands clutching his coat, she peered around his shoulder—

  And caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure at the edge of her vision. “There!” She pointed.

  The moon sailed free as the man fled across a stretch of open lawn. He was heading for the shrubbery.

  “Stay here!” Lucifer took off after him.

  Phyllida hesitated. There were only two other exits from the shrubbery—one to the lake, one . . . She looked at the entrance to the narrow path beside the lane. Dragging in a quick breath, she raced for it.

  It was the fact that she wasn’t following him that made Lucifer glance back. At first, he couldn’t see her—then he did; she was a shadow streaking across the stretch of lawn by the main gates. His heart stopped.

  “No!” he roared. “Come back!”

  She dove into the dark entrance of the path.

  Swearing violently, he swerved and headed after her.

  He plunged along the path. It twisted and turned, a tunnel whose walls were impenetrable black, whose ceiling was the night sky obscured by dark branches. He could barely see the ground beneath his pounding feet. Branches grabbed at his coat; he pressed on at full tilt.

  Phyllida was fast—faster than he’d expected—unencumbered as she was by skirts. She was still ahead of him, but he thought he could hear her footfalls over his own and the pounding in his ears.

  The pertinent question was not how fast she was, but how fast the murderer was. And whether he was armed or not.

  Would they reach the end of the shrubbery in time?

  Would he catch Phyllida before she ran headlong into the murderer’s arms?

  Then he rounded a bend and saw her; exerting every last ounce of strength, he forged ahead. He caught up with her where the shrubbery hedges ended; shoulder to shoulder, they burst into the clearing beyond.

  The mocking thud of retreating hooves greeted them.

  They halted, sagged. Chest heaving, hands on his hips, Lucifer looked at Phyllida. Half bent over, hands on her knees, she puffed and puffed.

  He waited, then asked, “Did you recognize him?”

  She shook her head, then straightened. “I barely glimpsed him at all.”

  They’d been too late to even catch a glimpse of the horse. Beneath his breath, Lucifer swore. He scowled at Phyllida, then brusquely gestured back up the path. He’d give her his opinion of her behavior later—after he’d caught his breath.

  They retraced their steps. At the end of the path, they emerged onto the lawn. Phyllida looked ahead, sucked in a breath, and stepped back.

  Lucifer halted. Dodswell and Hemmings were prowling the lawn. Inwardly sighing, he murmured, “Stay here.” He began to walk forward, then paused and added, “You don’t want to know what I’ll do if you are not in that precise spot when I get back.”

  He thought he heard a haughty sniff, but he didn’t look back. Pushing into a lope, he crossed the lawn, waving when Dodswell saw him.

  “An intruder—I gave chase but lost him.” He waited until Hemmings came up, then said, “I’m going to prowl around a bit more. You can check through the house, see how he got in and out, then lock u
p. I’ve got my keys—we can compare notes in the morning.”

  Both Hemmings and Dodswell were in their nightshirts; they nodded and started toward the house.

  Lucifer waited until they’d gone indoors, then turned and headed back to the path.

  Phyllida was waiting where he’d left her, just inside the entrance to the path. Arms folded, she might have been scowling at him; he couldn’t be sure in the dark.

  He halted beside her, looming over her, deliberately intimidating. She gave not an inch.

  “Do you always have such difficulty following orders?”

  “There are very few people who give orders to me.”

  They stood, gazes locked, then he stepped back and gestured to the lawn. “I’ll walk you through the wood.”

  She glanced at the house. “It might be better to go through the shrubbery and out by the lake path.”

  He waved her on, and followed.

  Phyllida retraced their steps, then turned into the shrubbery, all too conscious of the poorly suppressed male energy prowling at her back. She tried to tell herself he was doing it only to intimidate, to pressure her into revealing all and following his orders henceforth, but she knew it wasn’t that. If he’d wanted to intimidate her, he would have been more forthright.

  Not that the sense of something dangerous, something violent and not fully under control, stalking on her heels, wasn’t intimidating enough.

  They skirted the lake and traversed the wood in silence. She paused when they reached the Grange’s shrubbery, but he frowned and waved her on.

  The back lawn lay just ahead when he caught her arm and drew her to the side, onto one of the connecting paths. He released her; she faced him, her back against the hedge, luckily one of a small-leaved conifer. Neatly trimmed, it formed a cushion at her back. He leaned one shoulder into the hedge, just beside hers, and looked down at her. “When are you going to tell me what it is you know?”

  She wished she could read his eyes, but they were lost in shadow. He stood there, so close, yet there was no sense now of intimidation. Invitation was what reached her. No pretense, no guile, simple dealing, him and her. To her, that was so much more appealing. She blew out a soft breath. “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I can’t say, but not long. A few days, perhaps.”

  “Is there anything I can do to shorten the time?”

  “If I could tell you . . .” She paused. “But I can’t. I gave my word.”

  “Is this knowledge of yours the reason the murderer now has you in his sights?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t see how it could be any threat to him.”

  He considered, then nodded. “I’ll make a bargain with you.” He straightened, and suddenly the sense of physical menace was back; a leashed predator stood before her.

  “I’m not aware of any need to make any bargains.”

  “Believe me, there’s a need.”

  The growl in his voice warned her against challenging the statement. “What, then?”

  “I want a promise from you that until we’ve laid this murderer by the heels, you will not roam about alone, either by day or by night.”

  She lifted her chin. “And in return?”

  “In return, I won’t tell your father that you were there, and know something to the point.”

  She relaxed. “You won’t tell Papa anyway.”

  He frowned; his eyes narrowed. “Are you so sure you’re prepared to risk it?”

  She was, but this didn’t seem a wise time to admit it. “I’ll be careful.” She would have moved on again, but he was in the way.

  “ ‘Careful.’ “ His features hardened. “Someone tries to kill you and you talk of being careful? I should tell your father and have him lock you in your room.”

  “Nonsense! We can’t be absolutely certain it was the murderer who shot at me.”

  “Who else? And don’t say it was a hunter.”

  “There’s no reason for the murderer to kill me!”

  “He must think there is.” He searched her face. “This thing you know must identify him.”

  “Well, it doesn’t.” She didn’t try to hide her chagrin. “I thought at first it might, but I can’t see how it can, not now.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether it identifies him or not, only that he believes it might. That’s enough to put you in danger.” As he said the words, Lucifer felt their weight—for the first time fully realized their truth. She was in danger. Real, acute danger. She could be killed by the same killer who’d taken Horatio from him.

  He drew a tight breath. “You have a choice. Either you can promise me you won’t set foot outside the Grange except on urgent matters, and then only with a male escort, or we can go inside right now and speak with your father and lay all the pertinent details before him.”

  For once, she allowed her irritation to show. “This is ridiculous. You are not my keeper.”

  He stared down at her, and let that point lie.

  “I’m going inside.”

  He didn’t move.

  She glared, then darted out—

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, swung her back to the hedge, then trapped her against it. He looked into her smoldering eyes. “You are not safe.” He’d meant from the murderer, but it suddenly occurred to him that he was speaking literally. He lowered his head. “You’re a woman—the murderer’s a man.” He breathed the words along her cheek, his lips tracing down to her jaw. Her scent rose, wreathed his senses—and ensnared him.

  Muscles bunched, locked. The temptation to taste her rose within him, more compelling than ever before. On the hedge beside her shoulder, his fist clenched as he fought the urge—and won.

  He was a man, too. In the heat of the moment, he’d overlooked that fact. Steeling himself, tightening his reins, he tensed to draw back.

  “Kiss me.”

  The words were a whisper in the dark, a soft plea so unexpected he felt stunned. Raising his head, he looked at her face, unsure he’d heard aright.

  His jacket had been open; her hands had come to rest on his shirt-clad chest. Now they slid to his sides, gripping, urging him nearer.

  “Kiss me again.” He saw her lips move as she stretched up; they touched his jaw. “Kiss me like before . . . just once more . . .”

  She didn’t have to ask a fourth time, but it wouldn’t be just one kiss. Bending his head, capturing her lips, he assumed she knew that, that her last words were simply part of her entreaty. He wanted to kiss her a million times, over and over again. He’d never get tired of her taste, of the sweet, innocent, trusting way she yielded her lips, her mouth.

  She did it again and captured his senses. He fell into the kiss, into her.

  He was ravenous.

  The springy hedge was soft enough to press her into. He did; the feel of her supple body taut against his inflamed his need. Her hands slid further, searching, then spreading over his back. She clung and he kissed her more deeply. His hunger exploded. She arched against him, instinctively offering, and then she kissed him back.

  She was still new to the game, enough so to distract him. He took the time to coax, to tease, to tutor, until, lips melded, tongues tangling, they were satisfied with the depth of the shared intimacy.

  It wasn’t enough—not for him.

  It wasn’t enough for Phyllida, either. When he ventured nothing more but simply remained, a hot, vibrant, intensely exciting male all but wrapped around her in the dark, she presumed it was her turn to take the lead. Sliding her hands around from his back, savoring the hard muscles, the tension she felt invest them as she stroked, she searched and found the buttons of his shirt. Quickly, she worked her way up, sliding the small buttons from their moorings, all the while kissing him, taking him in, then returning his hot caresses with heated caresses of her own.

  The give-and-take—the reciprocity of it all—was something she hadn’t foreseen. It intrigued her and spurred her on. He’d seen her breasts, stroked them, played with
her nipples; it had all been gloriously pleasurable. Now was her chance to return the gift.

  The last button gave; she slipped her hands inside the soft fabric. Splaying her fingers, she pressed her palms to the broad muscle that was the equivalent of her breasts.

  He reacted as she had; a sharp tensing all but instantly converting to heat, to a curious thrumming resonance of the flesh. Pleased, she caressed, shifting her hands, fingers flexing, digging in, releasing; she wondered if that thrumming resonance was desire—his desire.

  Hair rasped against her palms. She found the flat disks of his nipples, so unlike hers yet they still budded as hers did. She played, intrigued by the discovery, by the welling reaction she sensed in him. Their lips remained fused, her mouth trapped beneath his. She sensed his control, his holding back. Boldly, she caressed him with hands and tongue and tempted him more.

  The dam broke; heat washed through her in a burning tide.

  She’d been right—it was desire; she knew it in her bones. It filled her, warmed her. She basked in its heat and bravely drank it in, as much as he would give her.

  She wanted this—desperately wanted to know about all the things she’d feared she never would. She wanted to feel, wanted to know what mutual desire was like, how it felt to burn with that flame.

  Tonight might be her last chance to find out—once she told him her secret, he would no longer be interested in her, not like this. He would have no cause to compel her, no reason to seduce her. Once she found the letters, she would have to tell him all; the instant she did, this brief moment—her opportunity to be the object of a man’s desire—would be over.

  She didn’t want it to pass. The realization shook her; she pushed it aside, too confusing to deal with now. Now when she had so many new sensations, not just physical but ethereal, to deal with. To experience, to understand—it was like plunging into a new world with new wonders, new customs. There was so much she had to learn.

  He pressed her back into the hedge; his hands tugged at her shirt. It didn’t button down the front. She sank back, easing her hold on him. He yanked the shirt from her breeches and then his hands were underneath it.