He'd started today with breakfast at a table too empty for his liking. He'd never lived alone; the solitary life did not suit him. He'd repaired to the library and started sorting through Horatio's desk. He'd spent two hours reading accumulated correspondence.
After that, he'd had to get out. Walking through the wood to explore the lay of his land all the way down to the Axe seemed a sensible, and sufficiently physical, exercise.
He felt like the energy of last night's storm was bottled up inside him.
The storm had brought rain; they'd gained Colyton in the teeth of a downpour. Although the sun was now out, the wood remained damp; the tang of rain-washed greenery rode the light breeze. He'd headed east from the rear of the stable bloc
k, leaving the lake on his left. The trees ahead thinned; he'd trudged for less than half a mile. Fifty paces more and he stood on the edge of a wide field, gently sloping down; beyond lay a lush meadow. Beyond that lay the Axe, a gray-blue ribbon glimmering in the sunshine.
He ambled down the sloping field. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye. He looked, then halted.
Phyllida was marching-no, storming-through his field. Her skirts frothed about her, whipped by the violence of her stride. Her gaze was fixed in front of her. Her dark hair gleamed. She held her poke bonnet in both hands.
She was mangling the bonnet, twisting it, hands clenched on the brim.
He stepped out to intercept her.
She didn't see him until he was almost upon her. She recoiled, eyes flaring, one hand rising to her breast. A squeak escaped her; it would have been a scream if she hadn't recognized him and smothered it. Gulping in a breath, she stared up at him through huge dark eyes.
"What's wrong?" He smothered an urge of his own-to haul her into his arms. "What happened?"
She dragged in another breath and looked at her bonnet. She was shaking. "Look!" She thrust her finger through a hole in the crown. "The ball just missed my head!"
Her tone made it clear she wasn't shaking with fear. She was shaking with fury. She whirled and looked back the way she'd come. "How dare they!" If both hands hadn't been clenched on the bonnet, she would probably have shaken her fist. "Stupid hunters!"
The words trembled; she bit them off and hiccupped.
Lucifer reached out and wrapped his hand around one of hers, tugging until she released the bonnet. He enveloped her small hand in his and drew her to face him.
Her expression was blank, not calm and serene but blank, as if she couldn't maintain her usual mask but was fighting not to let her feelings show. Her eyes, wide and dark, were turbulent, awash with emotions. Fear was there, very real; she was using her fury to counter it.
He drew her nearer still, until she stood close enough to feel his heat and the shield of his physical presence. She was wound tight, her control so brittlely fragile he didn't want to risk even putting an arm around her; she wouldn't thank him if she broke. "Where did it happen?"
She dropped her gaze to his chest, drew a tight breath, then gestured with her bonnet. "Back there. Two fields back." After a moment, she added, "I was returning from visiting old Mrs. Dewbridge-I go there every Friday."
A chill touched his spine. "Every Friday morning?"
She nodded.
His grip on her hand tightened; he forced himself to relax it. He looped her arm through his. "I want you to show me where."
He turned her back along the track, an old right-of-way. She resisted. "It's no use-they won't still be there."
"I know." He kept his tone calm, even; that wasn't how he felt, but it was what she needed. "I just want you to show me where you were. We won't go any further."
She hesitated, then nodded. "All right."
He guided her along and helped her over the stile. A sliver of blue fabric was caught in the crossbar where she'd ripped her gown in her haste.
Despite her fury, she'd been very frightened.
She still was.
They reached the boundary of the next field and she stopped. "I was there." She waved with her ruined bonnet. "Right in the middle of the field."
Lucifer held her hand and looked, gauging distances. "Can I have your bonnet?"
She handed it to him; he took it and raised it-there were two holes punched through the crown. Without a word, he handed it back. His face felt like stone. She'd glanced down at the critical moment; the ball had entered through the back of the bonnet just below the crown seam, then exited through the bonnet's top, on the other side of the seam. "Let me check your head."