Her eyes widened to dark saucers. "Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!"
"In that case, possibly."
Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, "Well? What was it?"
A moment passed before he answered, "An inscription in a book."
So she had imagined. "What did it say?"
"What did you see in Horatio's drawing room last Sunday?"
Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. "You know I can't tell you-not yet."
His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. "Because it concerns someone else?"
She pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Yes."
They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio's garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.
Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn't left hers. "Someday I hope you'll trust me."
He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward
the front door.
Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. "Walk back through the village. Until the murderer's caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you."
He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.
Phyllida watched until he'd disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off-through the village.
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!"