Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.

Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.

From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He'd been deep in Horatio's ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He'd glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida's destination wasn't hard to guess.

He'd waited in the hall-he didn't want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn't help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio's garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.

She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness-a keen anticipation he could feel. He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.

She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.

She tilted her head, her eyes on his. "Good morning. Bristleford said you'd stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn't reappear?"

"No. All was quiet."

She waited, then said, "I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything-any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder."

How much to tell her? "Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?"

Her eyes widened to dark saucers. "Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!"

"In that case, possibly."

Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, "Well? What was it?"

A moment passed before he answered, "An inscription in a book."

So she had imagined. "What did it say?"

"What did you see in Horatio's drawing room last Sunday?"

Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. "You know I can't tell you-not yet."

His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. "Because it concerns someone else?"

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Yes."

They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio's garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.

Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn't left hers. "Someday I hope you'll trust me."

He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward the front door.

Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. "Walk back through the village. Until the murderer's caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you."

He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.

Phyllida watched until he'd disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off-through the village.

Of course she trusted him-he knew she did! Phyllida slapped the brass vase she'd just emptied down on the vestry table, then swept back into the nave. She headed for the font.

The flowers she'd arranged on Saturday had only just lasted through Sunday. Wrapping both arms around the heavy urn, she hefted it. Balancing the weight carefully, she slowly edged toward the vestry and the open door beyond; the last thing she needed was dirty water streaks down the front of her muslin gown.

That would be the last straw.

How could he not know that she trusted him? He did know-he must, after their little interlude in the shrubbery. He knew, but he was using the question of trust-her trust in him-as a lever to pressure her.

He wasn't really talking about trust at all-he was talking about dominance. About the fact that she hadn't weakened and told him what he wanted to know. If he wanted to discuss trust, what about him trusting her? She'd told him she couldn't tell him, but that she would as soon as she could, and that what she knew was of no consequence anyway!

And just what had he meant by his parting comment about shrubberies not being safe for her?

"I'll go into the shrubbery any time I like."

The words, uttered through clenched teeth, echoed in the empty vestry. Feeling ahead with one foot, she located the threshold, then stepped out into the grassy area at the back of the church.

The sky was overcast, at one with her mood. Peering around the urn, she turned toward the pile of discarded flowers-

Black cloth fell over her head.

The weight of a rope fell against her collarbone.

The next instant, it jerked tight.

And tightened.

She flung the heavy urn aside-it clanged against a headstone. Lashing back with her elbows, she connected, and heard a satisfying "Ouff!"

It was a man, and he was bigger, heavier, and stronger than she was. She didn't stop to think; years of wrestling with Jonas flared in her mind. She scrabbled at the rope with both hands, bending forward from the waist, hauling on the rope, forcing the man to reach over her, forcing him off-balance. Before he could pull back on the rope, she straightened. The back of her head hit his jaw. More important, the rope eased enough for her to hook her hands inside it.

He brutally yanked it back again, but she pulled with all her strength, dragged in a breath, and screamed.

The scream bounced off the church walls; it echoed from the stones all around them.

A door crashed; footsteps pounded, heading their way.

A rough curse fell on her ears. Her attacker flung her aside.

Phyllida fell over a grave. Rough stone grazed her calf, then she toppled, catching her upper arm on another sharp stone edge before tumbling blindly back. She landed across a marble slab, still shrouded in the heavy black cloth, the rope still hanging around her shoulders.

"Here! You! Stop!"

Jem's yells broke through Phyllida's stunned daze. She heard him run past and on down the path. Struggling to rise, she batted at the black fabric hanging heavily all about her. Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn't break free.

Then she heard another curse, more forceful, more virulent. Heavy footsteps strode quickly toward her.

Before she could gather her wits, she was swept up like a child in a pair of strong arms, then he sat, and she was deposited in his lap.

"Stop struggling-you're only tangling it. Hold still."

Her panic left her in a rush. She started to shiver. The rope was unwound from her shoulders. The next instant, the black shroud was lifted away.

She stared into Lucifer's face, blue eyes dark with concern.

"Are you all right?"

She drank in the sight of his face for one more moment, then slid her arms around him, ducked her head to his chest, and clung. His arms closed comfortingly about her. He rested his cheek on her hair and rocked her.

"It's all right. He's gone." He held her tight, safe. A minute passed, then he asked, "Now tell me, are you hurt?"

Without lifting her head, she shook it. She gulped in air and struggled to find her voice. "Just my throat." Her voice was hoarse from the scream and from the rope. She put a hand to her neck and felt roughened skin and the puffiness of swelling.

"Nothing else?"

"Just a graze on my leg and a bruise on my arm." She didn't think she'd hit her head on the slab, but her leg was stinging. Lifting her face, fists clenched in his coat, she peeked at her legs-her skirts were rucked up to her knees.

She blushed and tried frantically to flick them down.

Lucifer caught her hand, returned it to his chest, then reached out and straightened the flowing muslin for her. He noticed the graze and paused. "It's just a scratch-no blood." He arranged her skirts so they covered her calves.

Then he looked up, his gaze fixing on the path leading down to the lych-gate. "Here they come."

He looked down at her, then his arms tightened and he rose to his feet. Settling her in his arms, he set out, negotiating the narrow path between the graves to the grassy area by the vestry door. He stopped and waited. Mr. Filing and Jem joined them.

Thompson was with them, a heavy hammer in one hand. "What's to do?"

"Someone attacked Miss Tallent." Lucifer glanced back at the slab where he'd left the black cloth and rope. "Filing-if you would?"

Frowning, clearly upset, Mr. Filing was already on his way. He returned a moment later, distress very evident on his face. "This is my robe." He held up the black shroud, shaking it so it fell into a more recognizable shape. "And this"-he held up the rope; it was gold, about half an inch thick-"is the cord from one of the censers!"

Outrage rang in his tone.

"Where were they kept?" Lucifer asked.

"In the vestry." Filing looked at the open back door. "Good God-did the blackguard attack you in the church?"

Phyllida shook her head. Trying to hold it steady and not rest it on Lucifer's chest was an effort. "I was clearing the vases. I walked out…" She gestured to the area beyond the open door. She swallowed, and it hurt.