All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  She filled the jar, then lowered the pump handle. As she turned away, her gaze swept the graveyard—a vase on a grave had blown over. She tsked and went over to the grave. Righting the vase, she filled it from her jar and resettled it against the gravestone. Straightening, she approved of the alignment, then turned to retrace her steps.

  In the lane beyond the lych-gate, Silas Coombe clicked sedately along in his high-heeled shoes.

  Phyllida hesitated, then waved. He didn’t see; she put the jar down on a nearby slab and waved both arms.

  Silas noticed—Phyllida beckoned.

  She thought furiously while he made his way under the lych-gate and up the path. Halting before her, he bowed extravagantly, flourishing a silk handkerchief.

  When he straightened, she was smiling. “Mr. Coombe.” She curtsied—Silas liked the formalities. “I was wondering . . . I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Cynster last afternoon.” She summoned her most sympathetic expression. “He seems quite set on not selling any of Horatio’s treasures.”

  “Indeed.” Silas frowned. “A great pity.”

  “I hadn’t realized you were interested in Horatio’s volumes.” Sinking onto the marble slab, she gestured, inviting Silas to join her. “I had thought your own collection was quite extensive in its own right.”

  “Oh, it is—indeed, it is!” Silas flicked his coattails and sat beside her. “Just because I wish to purchase one or two of Horatio’s more interesting tomes is not to say my own collection needs them for validity.”

  “I had wondered . . .”

  “No, no! I do assure you. My collection is quite worthy as it stands!”

  “So what is it that attracts you to buying certain of Horatio’s books?”

  “Well—“ Silas blinked. “I . . .” He focused on her face, then leaned closer, raising a finger to tap the side of his nose. “There’s more reason for buying a book than just to read it, m’dear.”

  “Oh?”

  “Can’t say more.” Silas sat back, clearly pleased with Phyllida’s intrigued expression. “But I’m not one to be interested for no reason, m’dear.”

  “A mystery,” Phyllida murmured. “I do so love secrets. Surely you could tell me—I would tell no one else.”

  Striving to appear foolishly fascinated, she leaned closer, then wished she hadn’t. Silas blinked; the look in his eyes changed. His gaze lowered to her lips, then drifted lower still.

  Phyllida fought a blush—fought the urge to jerk upright. Leaning forward as she was, the scooped neckline of her gown was revealing more to Silas than she’d intended. But . . . Silas knew something. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to tell me, Silas?”

  She uttered the question gently, encouragingly. Silas wrenched his gaze up to her face. Then he grabbed her.

  Phyllida gasped and tried to straighten, but Silas had his arms around her.

  “My dear, if I’d known you preferred more elegant men—more sophisticated gentlemen—I’d have gone down on my knees years ago.”

  “Mr. Coombe!” Crushed against his chest, Phyllida dragged in a breath. His cologne nearly suffocated her.

  “My dear, I’ve waited and watched—you’ll need to forgive the strength of my passions. I know you’re unversed in the art of—”

  “Silas! Let me go!”

  “Coombe.”

  The single word fell like the sound of doom. A vengeful, threatening doom.

  Silas started. He uttered a sound like a shriek, released her, and leaped to his feet—almost landing against Lucifer. Silas whirled, clutching his chest, ruining his floppy bow. “Oh, my! My word. You—you startled me.”

  Lucifer said nothing at all.

  Silas looked into his face and started to back down the path. “Just having a friendly word with Miss Tallent. No harm in it—none at all . . . you’ll have to excuse me.” With that, he whirled around and clattered down the path as fast as his high heels would allow.

  Still seated on the slab, Phyllida watched him go. “Good Lord.”

  She knew when Lucifer’s gaze left Silas’s retreating figure and fixed on her. “Are you all right?”

  The words sounded like they’d been said through clenched teeth. She regarded him calmly and stood. “Of course I’m all right.”

  “I assume the impression Coombe was laboring under was mistaken?”

  She shot him a frosty look, straightened her skirts, lifted her head, pointedly stepped past him, and headed up the path. “Silas knows something—something about one of Horatio’s books.”

  He fell in beside her, a large, hard, darkly masculine presence pacing by her shoulder. “Perhaps I should pay him a visit. I’m sure I could persuade him to reveal his precious secret.”

  There was a wealth of menace in his tone; Phyllida was grateful Silas wasn’t there to hear it—he’d have fainted on the spot. “Whatever it is may have nothing to do with Horatio’s murder. We know Silas is unlikely to be the murderer, and he certainly isn’t the man who attacked me—he’s too short.” She paused before the vestry door and glanced at Lucifer. “You can’t go around intimidating everyone into doing as you wish.”

  His midnight-blue eyes met hers. The message in them was simple: You think not?

  Raising her chin, she stepped into the vestry—and stopped dead. He walked into her—she would have fallen but for the arm that wrapped around her, effortlessly lifted her, then put her down two feet farther into the room.

  She caught her breath and swung around. “I left the water jar outside.”

  He raised one hand—it held the water jar.

  “Thank you.” She took it—her fingers brushed his. She blocked the sensation, wiped her reaction from her mind. Turning to the vase, she filled it.

  The sense of menace behind her didn’t abate.

  “Don’t do that again.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Slip away where I can’t see you.”

  Amazed, she turned. “Where you can’t . . . Who appointed you my keeper?”

  His face hardened. “Your father and I—”

  “You discussed this with Papa?”

  “Of course. He’s worried. I’m worried. You can no longer”—he gestured sweepingly—“waltz around the village as if you don’t have someone trying to kill you.”

  “You have absolutely no right to—to dictate to me!” She whirled, snatched up the vase, and headed into the nave. “I’m my own person and have been for years. I’m astonished Papa—“ She broke off; she couldn’t think of words to express the jumble of her feelings. Not precisely betrayal, but certainly a sense of having been handed over . . .

  She plonked the vase down on the shelf beside the pulpit, breathed in, then rearranged the disturbed blooms.

  She didn’t need to think to know where Lucifer was—she could feel him right behind her. After a moment, he stepped around to her side. She felt his gaze on her face, sensed him trying to glimpse her eyes. She refused to look at him.

  Finishing the flowers, she brushed her hands, then tensed to step away—

  Hard fingers slid beneath her chin; he turned her face to his.

  He held her gaze, studied her eyes. “Your father is seriously worried about you. So am I. He cares for you . . .” He paused, then his face hardened. “And just so you can get your astonishment over all at once, your father has agreed to let me watch over you. In his words: ‘Whatever permission you need, consider it given.’ ”

  She stared at him—into that harsh face, all hard angles and planes, into his eyes, filled with ruthless candor. A weight—some power—amorphous but unrelenting, invincible, inescapable, settled around her and held her. She didn’t need to wonder if he was telling the truth—his eyes told her he was.

  “And what of my permission?” Her voice was calm, steady—much more so than she felt. Her heart was thudding in her ears, in her throat.

  His gaze held hers, then it lowered. To her lips.

  “As far as I’m concerned, I ha
ve your permission already.”

  The words were dark and low. The weight around her closed in.

  Phyllida stiffened. Lifting her chin from his fingers, she looked him in the eye. “In that, you’re quite definitely mistaken.”

  She stepped past him, out of the circle of that dark embrace, and walked—calmly—out of the church.

  After lunching alone, Lucifer strode into the wood and headed for the Grange. Phyllida had insisted on returning home immediately after leaving the church. He’d insisted on accompanying her. He’d seen her onto the Grange’s front porch, then returned to the Manor via the wood. Now he was retracing his steps—because he couldn’t bear the thought of her being simultaneously in danger and out of his sight.

  Ten days since they’d first met, and look what he’d been reduced to.

  He’d already visited Silas Coombe. Although almost incoherent, Silas had said enough to convince him he knew nothing about any specific volume in Horatio’s collection; he’d simply hoped to lay his hands on some treasures at bargain prices. Silas was not the murderer.

  Lucifer swung along the leaf-strewn path; he moved quietly, an innate hunter. There was a point where the path curved sharply, thick bushes limiting the view ahead. He rounded it—and stopped, just in time to avoid mowing Phyllida down.

  She ran into him instead.

  He caught her, steadied her—he had to fight not to close his arms around her. Her breasts pressed to his chest were a remembered delight; lust, desire, and that simple need she and only she evoked poured through him.

  She must have felt his instant reaction. Her breath caught in her throat, then she stiffened, dragged in a breath, and stepped back.

  “My apologies.” She sounded breathless; she didn’t meet his eyes as she flicked her skirts straight. Lifting her head, she looked past him. “I was on my way to your house.”

  He felt her gaze touch his face; his own gaze was fixed on the empty path behind her. She hadn’t brought any escort. His temper rose; hot words burned his tongue—an elemental need to lash her with them gripped him.

  He swallowed the words, resisted the urge; the effort left him feeling like a beast caged. At least she’d been coming to see him. After this morning, he should probably be grateful.

  Stepping aside, he gestured her on. He fell in behind her, on her heels, and waited to hear why she wanted to see him. To say she understood? To admit that she was wrong to wander about alone and that she appreciated his watchful care?

  They reached the edge of the trees and she walked into the sunshine. “I came to ask,” she said, “if you would mind if I look through the outbuilding and storerooms.” She surveyed the former across the kitchen garden. “They’re stuffed with furniture—it’s possible I missed the writing desk when I searched that Sunday.”

  Lucifer looked at her face, but she didn’t—wouldn’t—look at him. After a moment, he drew breath. “If that’s what you wish, then by all means . . .” With a bow that was cuttingly polite, he waved her on. “You will, however, have to excuse me—there are other matters requiring my attention.”

  She inclined her head haughtily and headed for the outbuilding. He watched until she entered it, then turned to the house. He marched through the kitchen, curtly dispatched Dodswell to keep watch on the outbuilding, then retired to the library, leaving strict instructions he was not to be disturbed.

  * * *

  Phyllida stepped into the outbuilding and finally managed to draw a full breath. Her nerves were still twitching; she stood in the silence and willed them to settle.

  What was going on? In the space of a few days, her life had changed from humdrum to unpredictable, from mundane to exciting, from sleepy to intense. And it had very little to do with Horatio’s murder. That might be part of the drama about her, but it was not the source of the whirlwind of change.

  A hot wind named Lucifer.

  Luckily, he’d left her alone. If he’d stayed, she—or he—would not have been able to resist reopening their unfinished discussion. The result would not have been a happy one. She was still smarting from learning that he’d discussed her safety with her father rather than with her. No one—not Cedric, not even Basil—had simply and so arrogantly assumed control of her.

  The thought made her so angry, she thrust it aside, bundled the whole question of Lucifer away. She looked around. The long building was filled with boxes and furniture stacked along the walls and also down the center, leaving a path circling the room.

  She’d searched here first on that fateful Sunday. She’d thought she’d been efficient, yet, as she studied the jumble, hope flickered to life. The traveling writing desk wasn’t big—about twelve inches wide, twelve deep, maybe nine inches tall at the back. The sloping lid had leather the color of rose lavender set into it. A handsome piece, she could recall seeing it on Mary Anne’s grandmother’s knees innumerable times.

  She could have missed it. Determination renewed, she started checking each stacked piece, each box, moving counterclockwise around the room. Her eyes searched; her hands touched, reached, poked.

  Her mind wandered.

  She should never have allowed him to seduce her, of course, but even now she didn’t—couldn’t—regret that night. She had wanted the experience, had yearned for the knowledge. Thanks to him, she’d got her heart’s desire. That, however, should have been the end of it—a bargain of sorts, an exchange completed. One night filled with passion for the answers he’d wanted. The exchange had been made, yet something lingered.

  Something else. And she wasn’t even sure it had been born of that night. His possessiveness was a tangible thing—she had to wonder, given his recent behavior, if it had been there before and their night of passion had been driven both by his wish for answers and by his wish to . . .

  Lips thinning, she shook her head. If he’d thought that would help his cause, he would need to think again. She wasn’t a possession—not his, not any man’s, not even her father’s. She was herself—her own woman—and she would remain so, come what may.

  As long as she stayed out of his arms so she wasn’t visited by that all-but-overwhelming compulsion to spread her hands over his chest, she’d be safe. Safe from him. As for the murderer, they’d have to work together to ensure he was caught. On that they did not differ. Regardless of what lay between them, finding the murderer remained a shared goal.

  That thought was comforting—she didn’t want to ponder why. Shifting her mind back to the task at hand, she continued steadily searching.

  She was almost at the far end of the building when Lucifer paused in the doorway. He saw her and stopped, hesitated.

  He wished he knew what he was doing—what he was going to do. He was operating totally on instinct, an instinct that told him she didn’t understand. She thought he’d seduced her for information. Regardless of the truth of that, did she seriously imagine that after that night he’d simply shrug and walk away? That he’d stop wanting her?

  While he did not wish to examine, much less explain, his deeper motives, he was more than willing to correct that particular misconception.

  Stepping over the threshold, he closed the door. Light slanted through narrow windows set high in the walls; Phyllida did not notice the dimming of the light behind her. He strolled toward her, watching her shift a box and peer under a table. She bent over; lilac muslin pulled tight over her hips. He considered the sight as he neared.

  She straightened; he heard her sigh. Then she replaced the box and stepped back. Into him.

  She tripped backward over his boots. His arm about her, his hand splayed across her midriff, he steadied her against him. She caught her breath; dark hair sliding like silk over his shoulder, she looked up, into his face.

  Their eyes met, held for an instant, then her gaze lowered to his lips. His gaze slid to hers, then to the expanse of ivory breasts revealed by her neckline. The sweet mounds rose and fell. He bent his head, turning her to him.

  She stopped him, her fingers light
on his cheek.

  He held her in one arm, her breasts against his chest, her thighs between his. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide; her gaze was fixed, not on his eyes, but on his lips.

  “Why?” The whispered question overflowed with genuine puzzlement. She lifted her eyes to his.

  He looked into them and searched for a true answer. “Desire.” He lowered his head. “Hasn’t anyone told you of that?”

  He kissed her; she kissed him back, not hungrily so much as wonderingly. Her lips were soft and full, warm, tempting. They parted tentatively—a hesitant invitation; when he immediately accepted, she softened in his arms, surrendering her mouth, inviting further conquest.

  Conquest of whom, by whom, was moot; he pushed the question aside and sank into her, into the delight of her, letting the feel of her awaken him fully, letting his desire for her unfurl. It was a deliciously wicked moment, and even more delicious in its promise. He closed his arms about her, bringing her fully against him. The kiss deepened; their senses swirled, whirled, waltzed.

  When they came up for air, she didn’t pull away. Her dark eyes searched his face, then settled once more on his lips. “Is this desire?”

  “Yes.” He brushed her lips with his. “But there’s more. You’ve heard the music, but that’s just the introduction. There’s more steps, many more movements to the dance.”

  She hesitated; desire shimmered about them, a silvery anticipation hovering, waiting . . . She drew a short breath. “Show me.”

  He drew her closer; she let him. Let him hold her hard against him so her breasts caressed his chest and her thighs met his. His hands firmed about her waist; hers slid up to his shoulders. Their gazes were locked on each other’s face; slowly, he bent and covered her lips with his.

  Phyllida gave her mouth, her body, readily, too intrigued, too enthralled to draw away. Walk away. Did he truly desire her? No one else ever had. Was it possible? Was it desire that lingered after their night of passion?