She glanced up, then waved at the door. "I was just thinking. I don't think Silas has ever worn brown."
Lucifer resumed his seat behind the desk.
Phyllida continued to frown. "What was he after the first time he called?"
"A book-at least one. Other than that, he was exceedingly careful to give no indication."
"Hmm."
Lucifer waited, but she said nothing more. After another minute of puzzled frowning, she returned to the ledger in her lap.
An hour later, Phyllida snapped the last of the recent ledgers closed. "Horatio did not sell that writing desk."
Lucifer looked up. "In that case, it must still be here somewhere."
"Humph!" Placing the ledger on the desk, she glanced at the window. "I'll search upstairs tomorrow, but I should return home now."
Lucifer rose as she did. "I'll walk back with you."
She looked at him. "I'm perfectly capable of walking through the wood on my own."
His jaw set. "I daresay." Rounding the desk, he waved her to the door. "Nevertheless, I'll accompany you."
She held her ground and held his gaze.
He stood there, rocklike, and looked calmly back.
When it became clear he was prepared to stand there all night, she lifted her chin, turned, and swept to the door.
She left the house with him prowling at her heels.
Lucifer didn't let her get out of arm's reach. If anything happened to her…
It was just as well she couldn't see his face. If he looked half as grim as he felt, she'd probably stop and demand to know his problem. Not something he could easily explain without telling her she was his. She hadn't realized it yet, but she would. By the time he finished seducing her again, she would be perfectly ready to marry him without any further explanations.
He certainly didn't need any further discussion, not with himself or with her. His role felt just right-it fitted him like a glove. Protecting women had always been his role. Even those he tempted to his bed-there was more than one form of protection. But this, following on a woman's heels ready to screen her from any danger-this was him. The essential him. A part of him that needed-demanded-almost constant exercise. He'd never gone for long without a woman to protect.
The twins, his fair and beauteous cousins, had most recently been his release, but they'd turned into harpies and insisted he leave them to their own devices. Under considerable duress and the none-too-subtle threat behind the smothering attention of society's mesdames, he'd retreated to Colyton-only to discover here the perfect answer to his need.
What, after all, was he supposed to do with his life if not to have a wife-and a family, too-to protect? What else was he, under the elegant glamour, if not a knight-protector? Until the twins had refused him and his cousins' marriages had left him too exposed to brave the ton, he hadn't fully appreciated his own nature.
To Have and to Hold, the Cynster family motto-he understood it now, appreciated all that it meant.
For him, it meant Phyllida.
He followed her through the shadows of the wood, and considered how best to break the news to her.
Phyllida plunged a gladiolus spike into the heart of the vase and stepped back. She eyed the arrangement through narrowed eyes, studiously avoiding the lounging presence darkening the vestry door. Collecting a handful of cornflowers, she started setting them in the vase.
She'd arrived at the Manor midmorning and searched the first-floor rooms, all except Horatio's and Lucifer's. Horatio's she'd already searched; Lucifer's… she didn't need to check there. While not large, the traveling writing desk wasn't so small it was difficult to see.
"How thorough was your search of the attics?"
He seemed to be following her train of thought. "Very thorough. So now you've looked, and I've looked-the desk isn't there."
She didn't look at him-she'd sworn she'd give him no encouragement. If he insisted on clinging to her skirts against her clearly expressed, not to say forcefully stated, wishes, she wasn't going to put herself out to entertain him.
Descending from the attics, disappointed yet again, she'd run into Mrs. Hemmings in the front hall. The housekeeper had been flustered. She had a pot of jam at the crucial stage and didn't dare leave it, but she hadn't yet done the church flowers. Hemmings had picked the best blooms that morning; they were in a pail in the laundry.