"You're going to sell them?" She looked shocked.

Frowning fleetingly, Lucifer shook his head; his gaze swung to the door as it opened. Silas Coombe minced in; Bristleford shut the door.

"Coombe. You know Miss Tallent, of course." Rising, Lucifer held out his hand.

Silas bowed extravagantly to Phyllida, who nodded. Then he grasped Lucifer's hand.

"What can I do for you?" Lucifer waved Silas to a chair.

"I won't keep you long." Silas glanced at Phyllida as he sat, then faced Lucifer. "As I mentioned, I'm interested in acquiring selected works from Horatio's collection. As you're a busy man and will doubtless have many other calls upon your time, I wondered if I might propose an accommodation that would suit us both."

"What accommodation?"

"I would be prepared to act as your agent in selling the collection." Silas rushed on. "It will be a very large job, of course, quite a commitment in time, but in the circumstances, I feel the arrangement will serve us both."

For a long moment, Lucifer said nothing; then he asked, "Let me see if I understand your proposal correctly. You're suggesting I should consign Horatio's entire collection to you, and you would arrange the sales for a commission. Is that right?"

"Precisely." Coombe beamed. "It'll make life much easier for you, especially with settling in-new county, new house." His gaze drifted to Phyllida, then he looked back at Lucifer. "Why, I'll even arrange to have the books removed to my house in the interim."

"Thank you, but no." Lucifer stood. "Contrary to your expectations, I have no plans to dispose of any part of Horatio's collection. Indeed, if anything, I shall be adding to it. Now, if there's nothing else?"

Forced to rise, Coombe stared at him. "You don't mean to sell?"

"No." Lucifer rounded the desk. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Miss Tallent and I have various accounts to check." He steered Coombe to the door.

"Well! I mean-well, fancy that! It never occurred… I do hope I haven't given the wrong impression…"

Coombe's protestations died away. Lucifer handed him to Bristleford, waiting in the hall, then shut the library door. He strolled back to the desk. Phyllida was sunk in thought. "What?" he asked.

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.

She'd gladly agreed to do the vases. The notion that the murderer might be haunting the church she'd dismissed as irrational; a brisk walk up the common followed by the soothing ambience of the church had sounded just perfect. Unfortunately, the door to the library had been open. Lucifer had materialized in the doorway-he'd insisted on coming, too.

A short argument had ensued. Once again, she'd lost. It was becoming a habit-one she indulged in with no one else. Losing arguments was not her forte.

By not one word would she encourage him further.

Sticking a finger in the vase, she checked the water. "Too low." Grasping a jar, she walked to the door, looked out, then stepped into the sunshine. She crossed the few feet to the pump-and listened to hear if he followed. No sound-he must still be brooding darkly in the doorway.

Indeed, he seemed to find her as irritating-that was not the right word, but it was something very similar-as she found him. Irritating, puzzling, unaccountable. Utterly impossible to comprehend.

She filled the jar, then lowered the pump handle. As she turned away, her gaze swept the graveyard-a vase on a grave had blown over. She tsked and went over to the grave. Righting the vase, she filled it from her jar and resettled it against the gravestone. Straightening, she approved of the alignment, then turned to retrace her steps.

In the lane beyond the lych-gate, Silas Coombe clicked sedately along in his high-heeled shoes.

Phyllida hesitated, then waved. He didn't see; she put the jar down on a nearby slab and waved both arms.

Silas noticed-Phyllida beckoned.

She thought furiously while he made his way under the lych-gate and up the path. Halting before her, he bowed extravagantly, flourishing a silk handkerchief.

When he straightened, she was smiling. "Mr. Coombe." She curtsied-Silas liked the formalities. "I was wondering… I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Mr. Cynster last afternoon." She summoned her most sympathetic expression. "He seems quite set on not selling any of Horatio's treasures."

"Indeed." Silas frowned. "A great pity."

"I hadn't realized you were interested in Horatio's volumes." Sinking onto the marble slab, she gestured, inviting Silas to join her. "I had thought your own collection was quite extensive in its own right."

"Oh, it is-indeed, it is!" Silas flicked his coattails and sat beside her. "Just because I wish to purchase one or two of Horatio's more interesting tomes is not to say my own collection needs them for validity."

"I had wondered…"

"No, no! I do assure you. My collection is quite worthy as it stands!"

"So what is it that attracts you to buying certain of Horatio's books?"

"Well-" Silas blinked. "I…" He focused on her face, then leaned closer, raising a finger to tap the side of his nose. "There's more reason for buying a book than just to read it, m'dear."