Of course she trusted him—he knew she did! Phyllida slapped the brass vase she’d just emptied down on the vestry table, then swept back into the nave. She headed for the font.
The flowers she’d arranged on Saturday had only just lasted through Sunday. Wrapping both arms around the heavy urn, she hefted it. Balancing the weight carefully, she slowly edged toward the vestry and the open door beyond; the last thing she needed was dirty water streaks down the front of her muslin gown.
That would be the last straw.
How could he not know that she trusted him? He did know—he must, after their little interlude in the shrubbery. He knew, but he was using the question of trust—her trust in him—as a lever to pressure her.
He wasn’t really talking about trust at all—he was talking about dominance. About the fact that she hadn’t weakened and told him what he wanted to know. If he wanted to discuss trust, what about him trusting her? She’d told him she couldn’t tell him, but that she would as soon as she could, and that what she knew was of no consequence anyway!
And just what had he meant by his parting comment about shrubberies not being safe for her?
“I’ll go into the shrubbery any time I like.”
The words, uttered through clenched teeth, echoed in the empty vestry. Feeling ahead with one foot, she located the threshold, then stepped out into the grassy area at the back of the church.
The sky was overcast, at one with her mood. Peering around the urn, she turned toward the pile of discarded flowers—
Black cloth fell over her head.
The weight of a rope fell against her collarbone.
The next instant, it jerked tight.
And tightened.
She flung the heavy urn aside—it clanged against a headstone. Lashing back with her elbows, she connected, and heard a satisfying “Ouff!”
It was a man, and he was bigger, heavier, and stronger than she was. She didn’t stop to think; years of wrestling with Jonas flared in her mind. She scrabbled at the rope with both hands, bending forward from the waist, hauling on the rope, forcing the man to reach over her, forcing him off-balance. Before he could pull back on the rope, she straightened. The back of her head hit his jaw. More important, the rope eased enough for her to hook her hands inside it.
He brutally yanked it back again, but she pulled with all her strength, dragged in a breath, and screamed.
The scream bounced off the church walls; it echoed from the stones all around them.
A door crashed; footsteps pounded, heading their way.
A rough curse fell on her ears. Her attacker flung her aside.
Phyllida fell over a grave. Rough stone grazed her calf, then she toppled, catching her upper arm on another sharp stone edge before tumbling blindly back. She landed across a marble slab, still shrouded in the heavy black cloth, the rope still hanging around her shoulders.
“Here! You! Stop!”
Jem’s yells broke through Phyllida’s stunned daze. She heard him run past and on down the path. Struggling to rise, she batted at the black fabric hanging heavily all about her. Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn’t break free.
Then she heard another curse, more forceful, more virulent. Heavy footsteps strode quickly toward her.
Before she could gather her wits, she was swept up like a child in a pair of strong arms, then he sat, and she was deposited in his lap.
“Stop struggling—you’re only tangling it. Hold still.”
Her panic left her in a rush. She started to shiver. The rope was unwound from her shoulders. The next instant, the black shroud was lifted away.
She stared into Lucifer’s face, blue eyes dark with concern.
“Are you all right?”
She drank in the sight of his face for one more moment, then slid her arms around him, ducked her head to his chest, and clung. His arms closed comfortingly about her. He rested his cheek on her hair and rocked her.
“It’s all right. He’s gone.” He held her tight, safe. A minute passed, then he asked, “Now tell me, are you hurt?”
Without lifting her head, she shook it. She gulped in air and struggled to find her voice. “Just my throat.” Her voice was hoarse from the scream and from the rope. She put a hand to her neck and felt roughened skin and the puffiness of swelling.
“Nothing else?”
“Just a graze on my leg and a bruise on my arm.” She didn’t think she’d hit her head on the slab, but her leg was stinging. Lifting her face, fists clenched in his coat, she peeked at her legs—her skirts were rucked up to her knees.
She blushed and tried frantically to flick them down.
Lucifer caught her hand, returned it to his chest, then reached out and straightened the flowing muslin for her. He noticed the graze and paused. “It’s just a scratch—no blood.” He arranged her skirts so they covered her calves.
Then he looked up, his gaze fixing on the path leading down to the lych-gate. “Here they come.”
He looked down at her, then his arms tightened and he rose to his feet. Settling her in his arms, he set out, negotiating the narrow path between the graves to the grassy area by the vestry door. He stopped and waited. Mr. Filing and Jem joined them.
Thompson was with them, a heavy hammer in one hand. “What’s to do?”
“Someone attacked Miss Tallent.” Lucifer glanced back at the slab where he’d left the black cloth and rope. “Filing—if you would?”
Frowning, clearly upset, Mr. Filing was already on his way. He returned a moment later, distress very evident on his face. “This is my robe.” He held up the black shroud, shaking it so it fell into a more recognizable shape. “And this”—he held up the rope; it was gold, about half an inch thick—“is the cord from one of the censers!”
Outrage rang in his tone.
“Where were they kept?” Lucifer asked.
“In the vestry.” Filing looked at the open back door. “Good God—did the blackguard attack you in the church?”
Phyllida shook her head. Trying to hold it steady and not rest it on Lucifer’s chest was an effort. “I was clearing the vases. I walked out . . .” She gestured to the area beyond the open door. She swallowed, and it hurt.
Lucifer was frowning at her. “Filing, I think we should take Miss Tallent back to the Rectory so she can rest. We can discuss the matter more fully there.” He glanced at Jem and Thompson. “I take it he got away?”
Jem nodded. “I barely got a glimpse of him. He was already through the lych-gate when I got here.”
“Where were you?”
Phyllida waved. “I told Jem he could sit out at the front of the church and watch the ducks. I never imagined . . .”
“Indeed.” Lucifer tightened his hold on her, tipping her slightly so it seemed natural to lean into his chest.
“I heard the scream and grabbed my hammer and came running,” Thompson said, “but by the time I got to the lane, he was in the wood.”
“I followed into the wood a ways,” Jem said, “but then I couldn’t tell which way he’d gone.”
Lucifer nodded. “You did well. If he’s following his usual pattern, he would have had a horse waiting. No sense running on.”
Jem ducked his head, clearly relieved.
Filing had taken the robe and cord back into the vestry; now he fetched the urn, emptied it, and returned that, too, to the church. Phyllida watched as he shut the vestry door; the curate’s face was pale and set.
Lucifer turned and headed toward the Rectory. Filing caught him up and fell in just behind; Jem and Thompson brought up the rear.
As they started down the sloping path, Phyllida leaned closer and whispered, “I’m sure I can walk. You don’t need to carry me.”
Lucifer’s eyes met hers; the look in them suggested she’d missed the point entirely. “I do need to carry you.” His jaw tightened; he looked ahead. “Believe me, I do.”
They trooped into the Rectory; Lucifer made for the chaise in the parlor. He lowered Phyl
lida, laying her along it so she could lie back. The loss of his heat, his muscled strength protectively around her, made her tense. She fought the urge to cling. She’d never clung to any man in her life.
But sudden panic rose as he drew his arms from her and straightened. Fright flowed like a chill through her and she shook. She knew he was frowning down at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
Mr. Filing appeared with a glass of water. Gratefully, she took it and sipped.
Lucifer stepped back, then prowled around the chaise. Without looking, she knew he came to stand just behind her, a protective presence hovering over her.
Mr. Filing paced back and forth before the hearth. “This is shocking—most shocking. That anyone would dare—!” Words failed him; pressing his hands together in silent prayer, he stood for a moment, then turned to Phyllida. “Perhaps, my dear, you could tell us what happened.”
Phyllida took another sip of water. “I was emptying the vases—”
“Do you always do that on Monday mornings?”
She glanced up and back at Lucifer. “In this weather, yes. Mrs. Hemmings brings flowers up on Tuesday, and then I change the vases again on Saturday. That’s what we usually do—last week was different because of Horatio’s funeral.”
Lucifer looked down into her wide eyes, still dark, still huge, still frightened. “So it was common knowledge that you’d be at the church, most likely alone, with the vestry door open this morning?”
Phyllida hesitated, then nodded. She looked at Filing.
“If we could start at the beginning,” Filing suggested. “You reached the church . . . ?”
Phyllida sipped, then lifted her head. “I reached the church and as usual entered through the main door from the common. I left Jem outside, sitting on the steps.”
“There was no one inside?” Filing asked.
Phyllida shook her head. “I picked up the vase from the altar and carried it through to the vestry. I opened the vestry door, propped it open, and took the vase out to empty it. Then I took it back inside.”
“You didn’t see or hear anyone about?” Lucifer asked.
“No. But . . .” Phyllida glanced up at him. “I was . . . absorbed. Someone might have been near, but I wasn’t paying attention.”
The fleeting awareness in her eyes told him what she’d been absorbed with—she’d been annoyed at him, which was exactly what he’d intended. He’d wanted to irk her, to prod the temper he’d sensed and occasionally glimpsed behind her calm facade; wanted to bring it to life and use it to get her to tell him the truth. Instead, he’d distracted her and made her an even easier target for the murderer.
No more games. Jaw setting, he looked at Filing as Phyllida did the same.
“And then . . . ?” the curate prompted.
Phyllida drew in a deeper breath. “I fetched the urn. It’s heavy and cumbersome—I have to wrap both arms about it. I reached the door and stepped out . . .” She paused, then went on. “That’s when the cloth fell over my head. Then the rope—“ She broke off and took another sip of water.
“Quite, quite,” Mr. Filing soothed.
After a moment, she added, “He was behind me. I struggled, then I screamed—I heard a door crash.”
“That was here.” Filing glanced at Lucifer. “Mr. Cynster and I were considering the list of men who did not come to church last Sunday when we heard your scream.”
“What happened next?” Lucifer asked.
“He flung me aside and ran off.” Phyllida glanced back at Lucifer. “I never saw him.”
He looked down at her. “Think back. He was standing behind you—how tall was he?”
She considered. “He was taller than me, but not as tall as you.” She glanced across the room. “About Thompson’s height.”
“Did you get any sense of build?”
“Not as heavy as Thompson”—her gaze swung to Filing—“but not as slim as Mr. Filing.”
Lucifer turned to Jem, standing by the door. “Does that sound right for the glimpse you caught, Jem? A man about Thompson’s height but of average weight?”
Jem nodded. “Aye. And he had brown hair—leastways, not dark like yours.”
“Good. What about clothes? Any idea?”
Jem scrunched up his face. “Neat. Couldn’t rightly say gentl’man or not, but neat. Not a smock or anything shabby.”
Lucifer glanced down at Phyllida. She’d gone quiet, withdrawn. She was not moving, barely breathing. “Phyllida?”
She raised her face; her eyes were drowning dark pools filled with revisited fear. “A coat,” she said, then shivered and looked away. “When I was struggling . . . I think he was wearing a proper coat.”
Lucifer left Phyllida with Filing and strode back to the Manor to fetch his curricle. Returning to the Rectory, he carried Phyllida out to the carriage, ignoring her hissed protests, and set her gently on the seat.
When he flung a rug over her knees, she stared at him. “It’s summer,” she said as they rattled down the Rectory drive.
“You’re in shock,” he replied, and said nothing more.
Silence was definitely wise; God alone knew what might tumble out if he let the chaos of emotions inside him free.
He concentrated on driving as quickly as he dared; he wanted her safe indoors again as soon as possible. They reached the Grange gates in a few minutes; a minute later, he pulled up before the steps.
Phyllida flicked back the rug and clambered out before he could tie off the reins. Jem, who had hustled back earlier, came running; Lucifer threw him the reins and followed Phyllida. He caught up with her on the porch.
She stopped him with a look. “I am not going to faint.”
This was her home; she should be safe here. “All right.” His tone was grudging, precisely how he felt. He looked up as Mortimer opened the door. “Miss Tallent has been attacked—she’ll need Gladys and Miss Sweet. If Sir Jasper’s at home, I’d like to speak with him immediately.”
An hour later, Lucifer stood before the window in Sir Jasper’s study and stared out over the Grange lawns. Behind him, seated in the big chair behind his desk, Sir Jasper raised a glass and sipped, then sighed heavily.
Summoned by a horrified Mortimer, Miss Sweet and Gladys had descended on Phyllida and borne her off upstairs. Lady Huddlesford had swept majestically after them, declaring her intent to see that her niece did not play fast and loose with her nerves. Whose nerves, Lucifer wasn’t quite sure.
Miss Sweet had popped her head into the study half an hour ago. She’d informed them that Phyllida was resting quietly on her bed and had agreed to the wisdom of remaining there for the rest of the afternoon.
That much he’d accomplished. She was fussed over and safe, at least for the time being.
Lucifer turned. Sir Jasper had aged years in the past hour. The lines in his face had deepened; fretful worry had taken up residence in his eyes.
“What’s this place coming to, that’s what I’d like to know.” Sir Jasper set his glass down with a snap. “Dreadful business when a lady can’t go to fix the church flowers without being attacked, what?”
Lucifer opened his mouth, then shut it. Again he felt compelled to bite his tongue. Telling Sir Jasper that the attack was not general but quite specific might dampen his concerns as local magistrate, but would only escalate his fatherly fears.
Sir Jasper fixed him with a frowning glance. “From what you said, it seems unlikely this was some itinerant laborer passing through. Not a gypsy or a tinker.”
“No. Phyllida’s impression that the culprit wore a coat tallies with Jem’s description of him being neatly dressed. In Jem’s words, ‘not a smock or anything shabby.’ ”
“Hmm.” After a long moment of staring into space, Sir Jasper looked at him. “Any chance this attack is connected to Horatio’s murder?”
Lucifer looked down into eyes that were very like Phyllida’s but had seen a great deal more. “I can’t say.”
That was the literal truth.<
br />
He turned back to the window. He felt even grimmer than his grim expression showed. “With your permission, I’d like to talk to Phyllida tomorrow morning.” He glanced at Sir Jasper, meeting his gaze. “There are a number of matters I’d like to discuss with her, and if I could speak with her privately, I think there are various points we might clarify.”
Sir Jasper held his gaze, then turned back to his desk. “Privately, heh? Well, you might be right—not easy to get her to open her budget.” He paused, then asked, “Should I mention you’ll be dropping by to speak with her?”
Lucifer looked out of the window. “It might be better if my visit came as a surprise.”
Midnight. Phyllida lay in her bed and listened to the clocks throughout the Grange chime. The last echoes died and left her in silvered darkness.
She’d slept through half the afternoon, then, after dinner, she’d been harried and hounded until, simply to gain some peace, she’d retired early to her room and her bed. She’d slept. Now she was wide awake.
Nothing hurt. The scrape on her calf and the bruise on her arm were distant irritations.
Her thoughts were more tortured.
Being shot at across a field was something she’d been able to push aside—despite the evidence of the horse Lucifer had uncovered, it could still have been a hunter. Being shot at was distant; she hadn’t seen her attacker.
At the church, she hadn’t seen him, but she’d felt him.
Felt his strength, and known the threat was real.
Fear. She could still taste it at the back of her tongue. She’d never known real fear before—not here in her peaceful, maybe not quite happy but content, existence.
That existence was under threat; she felt it like cold iron at her back. Her life was not something she’d thought of before—she’d taken it for granted. Just like all those around her. How ironic.
She didn’t want to die. Especially for no reason. Especially at the hands of some cowardly murderer. Lucifer had been right. The murderer obviously thought she knew more than she did. He was after her in earnest.
All About Love Page 20
