All he'd been aware of was her.

Even before she'd touched his face.

But the knowledge that it was she who had knelt beside him in Horatio's drawing room and traced his cheek with that hesitant, wondering touch had powerfully focused the attraction he'd been doing his best to decently ignore. The revelation meant he no longer needed to feign indifference; his attraction, her fascination, and her consequent skittishness were going to prove exceedingly helpful.

She knew something-he'd read that much in her wide dark eyes. They were easy to read; her face was not. Her expression had remained open but uninformative, her emotions screened. Even when he'd kissed her hand, only her eyes had flared. She seemed contained; judging by all he'd seen, she was used to being in control, in command.

Whatever the case, she wasn't about to disappear; he'd have time to pursue his questions, and her. None knew better than he how to persuade women to do what he wanted, to give him what he wanted-that was, after all, his specialty. And after he'd learned what she knew of Horatio's murder…

He drifted into sleep and dreamed.

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Phyllida marched into the bedchamber at the end of the west wing. She held the door wide so Sweetie, followed by Gladys carrying a laden tray, could enter. "Good morning." She addressed the room in general, as if the large body lying in the bed hadn't immediately captured her entire attention.

As per her instructions, Sweetie had fluttered down to find her the instant their patient awoke. Phyllida knew he was awake-she could feel that midnight-blue gaze on her face, and on the rest of her, now unexceptionably garbed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin. It was infinitely easier to assert control while properly dressed.

"Good morning. Ladies." The deep, reverberating words were accompanied by a graceful nod. Phyllida resisted the urge to frown. That direct "Good morning" had been for her; the "Ladies" and the nod had been for the others.

Wrapping her habitual calm, collected demeanor about her, she followed Gladys to the bed, ignoring the heat still lingering in the center of her palm. Just as she was going to ignore him. She was determined not to succumb to the foolish fascination that had overcome her last night.

"We've brought you some broth, which is just what you need to set you up again." She let her glance slide over him, a confident smile on her lips; she made sure not to meet his eyes.

"Indeed?"

Sweetie and Gladys preened; a swift glance showed he was smiling at them. "Indeed," she averred, with rather more steel. "How is your head?"

"Considerably improved." He glanced at her. "Thanks to you."

"Indeed, yes!" Sweetie twittered. "So very right of dear Phyllida to insist you be brought here. Why, you were quite out of your senses, dear."

"So I understand. I do hope that, in my delirium, I said nothing to distress you."

"Of course not, dear-do set your mind at ease on that score. Gladys here and I have brothers, so you may be sure you surprised us not at all. Now, let me help you…"

He struggled to sit up; Sweetie grasped his arm and tugged. Phyllida plumped his pillows, careful not to touch his shoulders. Once he was settled, Gladys deposited the tray on his knees.

"Thank you."

The smile that went with that left both Gladys and Sweetie happily dazed; Phyllida mentally frowned. The man was past dangerous. His next words confirmed it.

"This is excellent broth. Did you make it?"

Gladys confessed; pink with pleasure, she excused herself to return to her duties, pausing at the last to assure him that, should he require anything further, he only had to ask.

Phyllida inwardly sniffed. She stepped back from the bed, biding her time, letting him eat. He did so smoothly, steadily-she could detect not the smallest tremor in his hands. Strong, long-fingered, inherently graceful, they plied the spoon and broke the bread.

"Good heavens!" Sweetie fluttered. "We forgot the butter. I'll fetch some right away." She rushed out the door.

Phyllida found herself staring at the closing door before she had time to protest. Being alone with a gentleman in his bedchamber was unquestionably improper. Still, what harm could befall her? He was more or less tied to the bed. And she was quite capable of keeping him in his place, disturbing blue gaze or no. There wasn't a man in the district she couldn't manage, and despite his elegant facade, he was just a man. Folding her arms, she faced the bed. "I daresay you have a number of questions-"

"Oh, I do."

She inclined her head, avoiding his eyes. "I'll attempt to answer them while you eat. You need to build your strength." He nodded in acquiescence; she continued. "You are presently at the Grange, my father's house. It lies south of the village. You were found at the Manor, which as you probably recall lies on the village's north boundary."

"That much I remember."

"My father is Sir Jasper Tallent-"

"Is he the local magistrate?"

She frowned. "Yes."

"Has he any idea who killed Horatio?"

Phyllida pressed her lips together, then relented. "No."

"Do you?"

She'd looked at him before she'd thought; his gaze locked with hers. Phyllida looked into eyes diabolically blue, took in the hard lines of his face, the unwavering determination, the hard mask that concealed his intention not at all. "No."

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head. "Perhaps not."

She almost sighed with relief.

He looked down at his soup. "You do, however, know something."

His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air-there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, "I daresay you're ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe-you'll need time to recover full use of your faculties."

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to force majeure. With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.

"My faculties," he murmured, "are returning in leaps and bounds."

Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.

Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. "You'll need to be careful."

She kept her expression blank, her tone direct.

He opened his eyes wide; innocence wasn't what she saw in them. "Shouldn't you check my wound?"

"Your wound needs nothing more than time to heal." No power on earth would get her closer to the bed-closer to him. Phyllida frowned, and held tight to her role. She was in charge, not he. "Papa would like you to join us for afternoon tea, if you're able."

His smile made her nerves tingle. "I'm able."

"Good." She turned to the door. "I'll have your bags brought up-as a precaution, we left them downstairs."

"Precaution?"

"Why, yes." Reaching the door, she looked back. "We kept your clothes from you in case you turned difficult over remaining abed."

His lips curved; his eyes glinted. The combination looked positively wicked. "Lying abed is one of my favorite pastimes. However, if I'd wanted to get up, the mere absence of clothes wouldn't have deterred me." His gaze slid over her; his voice deepened. "Not in the least."

Gripping the doorknob, Phyllida met his gaze blankly and prayed she wasn't blushing. "I'll let Papa know you'll be joining us later. Your name?"

His untrustworthy smile deepened. "Lucifer."

Phyllida stared at him; even with the width of the room separating them, all her instincts were screaming, warning her not to call his bluff. Any of his bluffs.

Some part of her knew he wasn't the sort who bluffed.

It went seriously against her grain to let him trifle with her and escape retribution, but arguing would simply be playing into his hands. She forced herself to incline her head and evenly state, "Sweetie-Miss Sweet-will return shortly. She'll take away your tray."

On that note, she opened the door; with a regal nod, she left.

Later, after he'd bathed and dressed, Lucifer sat on the window seat in his bedchamber and looked north, over a dense wood. Through the shifting canopies he could occasionally glimpse the gray slate roof of the Manor.

Gaze fixed, he thought of Horatio, and of Martha, and of what he should do next, how best to move forward. Horatio's death was an accepted fact in his mind, but the tale had only just begun.

It was quiet beyond the open window. The snoozy quality of a summer's afternoon blanketed the village, yet somewhere in that peace a murderer waited, and watched and worried. Horatio's death had not been neat. Not only had he, Lucifer, stumbled on the scene far too soon, but so, too, had Phyllida Tallent.

Lucifer pondered that last, and all that it might mean.

A knock interrupted his reverie. He faced the door, keen to see if intuition proved correct. "Come in."

Phyllida entered; he smiled in private triumph. Retreating earlier and leaving the field to him must have been difficult; despite her wariness, he'd predicted she wouldn't stay away. She glanced around the room, then discovered him. She hesitated, then, leaving the door wide, crossed toward him. Frowning, she studied his face, his eyes. He let her draw near before smoothly rising-no sudden movements.