As they reached the trees bordering the back of the Manor and stepped into the mild sunshine, she reminded herself that this man was different-he was like no other she had met before, altogether a very different proposition.
She'd do well to remember that.
"Your horses will be in there." She indicated the stone stables that stood to one side. "I'll let the Hemmingses and Bristleford know you're here." Evening was approaching. "John will probably look in shortly."
She headed on through the kitchen garden, aware that Lucifer's dark gaze lingered on her before he turned to the stables.
The Hemmingses were in the kitchen, Mrs. Hemmings cooking, Hemmings by the fire. Hemmings immediately went out to the stables. Phyllida discussed the preparations for Horatio's wake, then excused herself and went into the house, ostensibly to take a last look at Horatio.
She did. Then she looked around the drawing room and
Horatio's library across the hall. Mary Anne's grandmother's traveling writing desk had to be somewhere. It was small enough and ornate enough to be placed on a side table as an ornament, especially in a house full of antiques. Phyllida searched, but didn't find it. Going back down the hall, she checked in the dining room, then in the back parlor and its adjoining garden room. In vain.
Returning to the hall, she halted at the foot of the stairs and looked up. The thud of a drawer being shut reached her ears. Covey, most likely, tidying his late master's effects. Phyllida grimaced. The desk had to be upstairs. There were bedrooms on the first level with attics above. Covey and the Hemmingses had rooms in the attics, but that would account for only part of the space. She would have to find time, and some excuse, to search upstairs.
Retreating through the kitchen, she bade Mrs. Hemmings an absentminded farewell and strolled out into the kitchen garden, pondering the how and when. No answers leaped to mind.
Standing before the stables, Lucifer watched her amble along the path. He'd glimpsed her in one of the back rooms. What had she been doing there? Yet another question to which she'd be giving him an answer. Soon.
His blacks were eating their heads off; John Ostler had just left. Hemmings nodded and headed back to the house. Phyllida looked up as Hemmings passed her, smiled a vague greeting, then saw Lucifer waiting. She moved forward more purposefully and joined him. "Ready?"
He fell into step beside her. "You were right-John Ostler knows his horses."
She smiled; her gaze lingered on his eyes, then slid over his face. "How's your head?"
"Better."
She looked ahead. "The fresh air should help."
They walked into the wood and cool silence enveloped them. The westering sun threw slanting beams through the trees, golden shafts to light their way. The bustle of day faded as evening approached; birds settled on boughs, into nests; soft cooing filled the air.
Nearing the Grange, they reached a spot where the path dipped sharply. Phyllida halted, assessing it. Lucifer stepped past and over the gap; turning, he held out a hand. She took it and leaped-her narrow skirt restricted her stride; her sole slipped in the leaf mold lining the dip's edge.
He caught her around the waist and swung her clear. She landed against his chest.
The unexpected contact shocked them both. He heard her indrawn breath, felt the tensing of her spine. Felt his own inevitable reaction. She looked up, lustrous brown eyes wide… the procession of emotions through their depths held him spellbound.
Wonder-fleeting, innocent thoughts of what it might be like…
Her fingers, spread across his upper chest, fluttered, then stilled.
Her gaze dropped to his lips; his dropped to hers.
Her lips parted, just a little.
He bent his head and covered them.
They were petal-soft, and sweet-a delicate, fresh sweetness that hinted, not of innocence, but of innocent pleasures.
He hadn't intended this. He knew he should stop, draw back, let her escape even if she didn't know enough to run. He didn't. Couldn't. Couldn't bear to release her without tasting her, without giving his clamoring senses at least that much reward.
No easy task, to take that much in a first kiss without frightening her. The implicit challenge tantalized.
He kept the caress gentle, undemanding, waiting with the patience of one who knew for her curiosity to overcome her scruples. It didn't take long-she was inherently confident, with little reason to doubt her ability to cope, even if, in this arena, she was out of her league. Just how out of her league was not a point she appreciated. Not yet.
When her lips firmed, tentatively molding, gently returning his kiss, the pirate within him gloated. He swooped, but was careful to disguise his attack. Skillfully fanning her interest, teasing, tantalizing, he set himself to captivate with simple kisses laced with potent temptation.
The promise of something new, illicit, sensual-a taste she'd not tried before.