Not that direction.
Inwardly, he sighed. Then, closing his eyes, sinking into the bed, he opened his mind and let his grief take him.
Let sorrow for the good times he would not now share with Horatio rise and spill over-let grief for the passing of one who had, in one way, been a kind of father, well and pour through him. No more the joy of shared discoveries, the eager quest for information, the shared hunt to pin down some elusive provenance.
The memories lived, but Horatio was gone. A formative chapter in his life had ended. It was difficult to accept that he'd reached the last page and now had to close the book.
Grief ebbed and left him empty. He'd seen death too many times for the shock to hold him for long. He came from a warrior caste; unjust death was the trigger for one of his most primal responses. Revenge-not for personal satisfaction, but in the name of justice.
Horatio's death would not go unavenged.
He lay in the soft sheets while grief transmuted to anger, eventually coalescing into icy resolution. His emotions hardened, he mentally returned to the scene, replaying every step, every recollection, until he came to the touch…
Fingers that small belonged to a child or a woman. Given the fascination behind the touch-one he recognized instinctively-he would wager his entire collection that a woman had been there. A woman who was not the murderer. Horatio might have been old, but he hadn't been so infirm that a woman could have stabbed him so neatly. Few women would have the strength, or the knowledge.
So-Horatio had been murdered. Then he had entered and the murderer had coshed him with the halberd. Then the woman had entered and found him.
No-that couldn't be right. Horatio's body had been turned onto its back before he'd arrived; he agreed with "Papa"-it hadn't been the murderer who'd done that. The woman must have, then she'd hidden when he appeared.
She must have seen the murderer strike him, then leave. Why hadn't she raised the alarm? Some man called Hemmings had done that.
Something more than the obvious was afoot. He revisited the facts, but couldn't shake that conclusion.
A board in the hallway creaked. Lucifer listened. A minute later, the door to his room opened.
He remained relaxed on his side, lids lowered so he appeared asleep, but he could see through his lashes. He heard a soft click as the door shut, then footsteps padded across the floorboards; a pool of candlelight approached.
His guardian angel came into view. She was in her nightgown.
She halted six feet away, studying his face. One hand held the candlestick; the other rested between her breasts, anchoring her shawl. It was the first time he'd seen all of her; he didn't try to stop himself looking, noting, assessing. Her face was as he recalled, wide eyes, tapered chin, and sleek dark hair giving an impression of intelligence and feminine resolve. She was of average height, slender but not thin. Her breasts were full and high, nipples just discernible beneath the shawl's fringe. He couldn't judge her waist under the nightgown, but her hips were neatly rounded, her thighs sleek.
Her feet were bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.
While he'd studied her, she'd been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.
Lucifer bit back an urge to call to her. He wanted to thank her-she'd been a madonna of kindness and caring-but if he made a sound, he'd scare her out of her wits. He watched her stop by the sleeping woman; setting her candlestick down, she lifted a blanket, shook it out, then tucked it around the other woman. As she turned away, candle once more in hand, the soft light lit her smile.
She started for the door, but, as if she'd heard his silent plea, she halted before she passed the bed. She looked his way, then, hesitantly, drew nearer. And nearer.
Holding the candle aside so his face was screened by her body, she rested against the bed a foot away and studied his face anew. He fought to keep his lids steady; he could only just see her face. Her eyes were fathomless, her expression unreadable.
Then she released her grip on her shawl. Slowly, she reached out. With her fingertips she lightly traced his cheek.
Lucifer felt like he'd been branded-and he recognized the brand. He surged up on one elbow, seizing her wrist, transfixing her with a glare.
She gasped; the sound echoed through the room. The candlelight wavered wildly, then steadied. Eyes dilated, she stared at him.
He tightened his grip and held her gaze. "It was you."
Chapter 2
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Phyllida stared into eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black. She'd seen them earlier, but they'd been hazed with pain, unfocused; they'd been startling enough then. Now, focused mercilessly on hers, clear and brilliant as a dark sapphire, they stole her breath away.
She felt like she'd been the one hit by the halberd.
"You were there." His gaze held her trapped. "You were the first to reach me after the murderer hit me. You touched my face, just as you did then."