His lips brushed her knuckles-she lost her breath. His lips were cool yet her skin burned where they'd touched. Eyes wide, she felt her senses sway. Before she could drag in a steadying breath, he turned her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm.

She snatched her hand back-he let her go, but reluctantly. Backing off the bed, she stood; her gown fell to decently cover her legs. From not breathing at all, she was now breathing too rapidly.

Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.

Lifting her head, she gathered her shawl, hesitated, then haughtily nodded. "I'll check on you later in the morning."

She turned to the door. A wave of peculiar heat washed over her. Without risking a backward glance, she escaped.

Lucifer watched the door close. He'd let her go. That hadn't been what he'd wanted to do. But there was no need to rush, and matters might have rushed rather more than was wise if he'd kept her kneeling on his bed.

He inhaled deeply and could smell her still, sweet feminine flesh warm from her bed. Her nightgown had been totally opaque, but the material had lovingly outlined every curve it touched. Once she'd released the ends of her shawl, his distraction had been complete.

If the older woman hadn't been in the room…

A minute passed; then he shook aside his thoughts. Tactically, it hadn't been wise to so blatantly display his intent. Luckily, his guardian angel seemed committed to taking care of him, despite the threat she now clearly perceived.

Her last words had been more declaration than statement, uttered as much for her benefit as for his. If she'd found him struck down in Horatio's drawing room but had been forced, for whatever reason, to leave him there, her stance was understandable. She felt guilty. No matter how difficult he proved, she would try to do the right thing.

In that respect, he already felt certain of her-she was a woman who would strive to do what she deemed right.

He stretched, easing muscles that had tensed; then he shifted onto his side, the better to spare his head. It still ached, but, true to form, while she'd been in the room, he hadn't been aware of it.

All he'd been aware of was her.

Even before she'd touched his face.

But the knowledge that it was she who had knelt beside him in Horatio's drawing room and traced his cheek with that hesitant, wondering touch had powerfully focused the attraction he'd been doing his best to decently ignore. The revelation meant he no longer needed to feign indifference; his attraction, her fascination, and her consequent skittishness were going to prove exceedingly helpful.

She knew something-he'd read that much in her wide dark eyes. They were easy to read; her face was not. Her expression had remained open but uninformative, her emotions screened. Even when he'd kissed her hand, only her eyes had flared. She seemed contained; judging by all he'd seen, she was used to being in control, in command.

Whatever the case, she wasn't about to disappear; he'd have time to pursue his questions, and her. None knew better than he how to persuade women to do what he wanted, to give him what he wanted-that was, after all, his specialty. And after he'd learned what she knew of Horatio's murder…

He drifted into sleep and dreamed.

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Phyllida marched into the bedchamber at the end of the west wing. She held the door wide so Sweetie, followed by Gladys carrying a laden tray, could enter. "Good morning." She addressed the room in general, as if the large body lying in the bed hadn't immediately captured her entire attention.

As per her instructions, Sweetie had fluttered down to find her the instant their patient awoke. Phyllida knew he was awake-she could feel that midnight-blue gaze on her face, and on the rest of her, now unexceptionably garbed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin. It was infinitely easier to assert control while properly dressed.

"Good morning. Ladies." The deep, reverberating words were accompanied by a graceful nod. Phyllida resisted the urge to frown. That direct "Good morning" had been for her; the "Ladies" and the nod had been for the others.

Wrapping her habitual calm, collected demeanor about her, she followed Gladys to the bed, ignoring the heat still lingering in the center of her palm. Just as she was going to ignore him. She was determined not to succumb to the foolish fascination that had overcome her last night.

"We've brought you some broth, which is just what you need to set you up again." She let her glance slide over him, a confident smile on her lips; she made sure not to meet his eyes.

"Indeed?"

Sweetie and Gladys preened; a swift glance showed he was smiling at them. "Indeed," she averred, with rather more steel. "How is your head?"

"Considerably improved." He glanced at her. "Thanks to you."

"Indeed, yes!" Sweetie twittered. "So very right of dear Phyllida to insist you be brought here. Why, you were quite out of your senses, dear."

"So I understand. I do hope that, in my delirium, I said nothing to distress you."

"Of course not, dear-do set your mind at ease on that score. Gladys here and I have brothers, so you may be sure you surprised us not at all. Now, let me help you…"

He struggled to sit up; Sweetie grasped his arm and tugged. Phyllida plumped his pillows, careful not to touch his shoulders. Once he was settled, Gladys deposited the tray on his knees.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Cynster Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net