She kept her expression blank. Thoughts popped up, then sank, flotsam thrown up by her whirling mind. His fingers clamping about her wrist had shocked her; they'd locked before she could react. She twisted her arm, trying to ease from his hold; he tightened his grip enough for her to sense his strength and the futility of struggling.
She felt light-headed. She'd forgotten to breathe.
Dragging her gaze from his, she did. Staring at his lips, she wondered what to say. How could he know just from a touch? He had to be guessing.
Draped in shadow, his face was even more compelling than she recalled. The impact of him-his conscious physical presence-was potent; he appeared altogether more dangerous, and he'd appeared dangerous enough before. He was decently covered in one of her father's nightshirts, but the collar was open, exposing a V of chest-dark hair curled invitingly in the gap.
The realization that she was standing by a gentleman's bed staring at his chest, in the small hours, in her nightgown, slammed into her. Heat prickled across her skin. Gladys was near, but…
She glanced across the room. As if sensing her hope that Gladys wouldn't wake and hear him, he eased onto his back, pulling her across him.
Phyllida bit back another gasp. "Be careful of your head," she hissed.
His eyes gleamed. "I'll be careful."
His voice was deep; it almost purred. He kept extending his arm, the one shackling her wrist. She had to lean across him, balancing the candlestick in her other hand. Inexorably, he drew her on.
She swallowed as her breasts neared his chest. Heart thudding, she scrambled onto the bed.
He smiled in triumph. "Now you can tell me what you were doing so secretively in Horatio's drawing room."
The command was blatant. Phyllida lifted her chin. At twenty-four, she wasn't about to be bullied. "I don't know what you mean." She tried to slide her wrist free, to no avail. Kneeling beside him on the bed, one hand locked in his, the candlestick in the other, was not a position of strength. She felt like a supplicant.
His expression hardened. "You were there. Tell me why."
She looked down her nose at him. "I fear you're still delirious."
"I wasn't delirious before."
"You kept talking about the devil. Then, when we assured you you wouldn't die, you asked for the archangel."
His lips thinned. "My brother's known as Gabriel, and my eldest cousin is Devil."
She stared at him. Devil. Gabriel. What was his name? "Oh. Well, this idea you have is nonsense. I know nothing about Horatio's murder."
She met his gaze on the last, and fell into the blue. It was the most peculiar sensation; the nerves under her skin, all over her, tingled. Warmth spread through her. The sense of b
eing held captive grew. The odd notion that her nightgown was transparent she dismissed as ridiculous.
"You weren't in Horatio's drawing room when I was lying on the floor?"
The words were soft, subtly challenging; an undercurrent of danger rippled beneath. Held trapped by his gaze, by his hold on her wrist, Phyllida pressed her lips tight and shook her head. She couldn't tell him-not yet. Not until she'd spoken with Mary Anne and been released from her oath.
"So these fingers"-deftly, he altered his grip so his fingers wrapped around hers-"weren't the ones that touched my cheek as I lay beside Horatio?"
He raised her hand, then looked at it; she looked, too. Long, tanned fingers surrounded hers. His hand swallowed hers in a warm clasp. That clasp firmed; slowly, he lifted her fingers to his face. "Like this." He touched her fingertips to his cheek, then drew her hand down.
His stubble had grown, prickling against the pads of her fingers; the sensation only emphasized the fact that the sculpted lines were not rock but living flesh. Fascinated anew, Phyllida watched her fingers trace, drifting down, following her gaze to the tempting line of his lips… then she realized he'd slackened his grasp. Her fingers were tracing on their own.
She snatched her hand away, but he was quicker. His fingers shackled her wrist again.
"You were there." His tone was grimly determined; conviction resonated through it.
Phyllida looked into his deep blue eyes; every instinct she possessed urged her to flee. She tugged. "Let me go."
One black brow rose. He considered-heart thumping, she wondered what alternatives he was weighing. Then his lips eased; the intensity of his gaze didn't. "Very well-for now."
She tried to draw her hand free but he didn't release it. Instead, he raised her fingers-this time, to his lips. His gaze remained locked on her face; she prayed her reaction-panic melded with insidious excitement-didn't show.