Those words were softer, more like a plea.
She tried to read his eyes, but couldn't. There was, however, no one more capable of protecting her than he.
And she knew she needed protection.
She'd wondered how she was going to fall asleep, tired though she was. The fear and panic that had swamped her in the cottage hovered, a shadow at the edge of her mind. She would sleep much better knowing he was near.
Besides, if she wanted a marriage of sharing, of give and take, then perhaps this was one of those times she should give… and take. "Very well." An instant later, she added, "If you wish to."
His soft snort suggested, strongly, that her qualification was absurd. He started forward again.
"Sweetie's packing your things. She'll stay, too, so there'll be no scandal. She'll drive around in the carriage. We'll be safe through the wood-no one could know we'd be out here."
Phyllida considered that. "Our man-the murderer-has been like that, hasn't he? All his attacks have been carefully planned. Even that time at Ballyclose, it was almost as if he'd been watching. It was all too neat."
Lucifer nodded. "He knew we were looking for brown hats and that Cedric had a shelfful, and that you'd know Cedric wore brown hats. Everyone knew we'd both be at Ballyclose that night."
"That suggests the murderer knows the Ballyclose household well. He knew where Cedric kept his hats."
"True, but you mentioned that Sir Bentley was ill for some time. I take it he held court in his bedroom and that many of the local gentry attended."
Phyllida grimaced. "Yes, but the murderer also knew of Molly. He knew she existed and that I knew her, too."
Lucifer frowned. "You're right."
Some minutes later, he stepped out from the trees. Ahead, the Manor stood pale and solid, a modern castle. Welcoming lights shone from the kitchen; one hung over the back door, which swung open as they neared. Mrs. Hemmings looked out and beamed.
"Welcome, Miss Phyllida, and right glad we be to see you safe and sound." She stood back and let Lucifer past, then followed hard on his heels. "Now, you just let the master carry you on up to the old master's bedroom-it's the biggest and I've done my best to make it seem homey. The bed's nice and big. All you need do is lie back and let us all take care of you."
The eager anticipation in Mrs. Hemmings's voice was impossible to mistake. As Lucifer started up the stairs, Phyllida looked into his impassive countenance-and wondered just what she'd agreed to.
Three hours later, Phyllida lay in the big bed in Horatio's old room-the bed that, unbeknownst to Mrs. Hemmings, she'd occupied once before-and listened to the deep bongs of the longcase clock on the landing send waves through the silence of the house.
Twelve resonating bongs, then silence returned, deeper, thicker than it had been before. Beyond the Manor, the village and its surrounding houses lay sleeping. Somewhere lay a murderer, asleep-or awake?
Wriggling onto her side, she closed her eyes and waited for sleep to reclaim her. Instead, black filled her mind-the black of the shroud-she could feel his hands on her throat!
Her eyes flew open. She was breathing too fast, too shallowly. Her
skin felt cold; all warmth had drained away.
She shivered and drew in a breath, then exhaled and threw back the covers.
She moved quietly but not silently along the corridor, eyes open to their widest extent, ready to speak-or squeak-if necessary. She remembered the sword Lucifer had carried the last time they'd met in the dark. She didn't know how good his night vision was.
His door stood open. She halted in the doorway; she hadn't been in this room before. All the curtains were open letting starlight stream in; the moon had waned. Shadows lay thick, but she could make out the chests that stood between the windows, with what she assumed were items from Horatio's collection arrayed on their tops. Tallboys and armoires lined the other walls. A long wall mirror hung opposite the bed-a huge four-poster with curtains cinched by tasseled cords at each post.
The rich covers were half turned down; white sheets and pillows filled the bed above. In their midst, Lucifer lay sprawled on his stomach, much as he'd been that first night at the Grange. The only difference was, this time he was wearing no nightshirt. Full knowledge of what wouldn't be covered blossomed in her mind. She hesitated, uncertain what to do next, but she had no intention of retreating.
She'd made up her mind, although she wasn't sure when. Perhaps when she'd woken in the cart and found him beside her, her savior, her protector who had faced death for her and rescued her from its vicious teeth. Perhaps later in the wood when she'd heard his plea, heard his heart speak without any social glamor to shield it. Or maybe it had been when she'd realized that it was the facet of his care she found most difficult to accept-his possessive protectiveness-that had given her a second chance at life and love. Whenever it had been, her decision was made.
Her time alone-managing alone, being alone, sleeping alone-had come to an end. She was here to let him know.
Whether he'd been asleep or not, she had no idea, but he slowly rose on one elbow and studied her.
"What is it?"
His voice was even, a little hoarse, but whether from the smoke or something else, she couldn't tell.