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 have 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.
Chapter 14
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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.