All About Love (28 page)

She started at one end. The chest was divided into three compartments. Finishing one, she stood and massaged her back, taking a few steps before bending to the compartment at the other end. That, too, proved disappointing.

Standing before the middle section—the last place in this room left to search—she stared into the shadowed chest. Then she sighed, bent, and reached into it.

Her fingers touched polished wood. Her heart leaped. Instantly, she quelled it, reminding herself of the need for care. If she shifted wooden objects around, there’d be bumps and knocks—just the sort of sounds to wake people she didn’t want to wake. Like one blind, she felt with her hands, fingers outlining the shapes for her mind.

Walking sticks. A shooting stick. Wooden boxes—could this be it? No—too small. She reached further, easing her fingers between the boxes, trying to ascertain if there was a bigger boxlike object underneath.

Her fingers touched the planks at the bottom of the chest.

At the same instant, a light breeze wafted past her cheek, stirring her hair. Phyllida froze.

No window was open. The only door was the one to the corridor—the one she’d wedged shut.

That door, behind her, was now open.

Slowly, she straightened. Her wildly flickering senses screamed the information that there was someone in the doorway, blocking it. The murderer?

She felt him step forward and whirled—

“Well, well. Why am I not surprised?”

Her breath came out in a rush. Her mind all but wilted with relief.
Thank God, thank God
—the refrain filled her head, then abruptly died.

Her eyes flared wide, then wider; her wits tripped over themselves, then seized. Her lungs already had; they squeezed tight. She stood and simply stared.

Lucifer was standing just inside the room. His broad shoulders did indeed block the doorway. The moonlight washed over him, lovingly illuminating every muscle, every angle, every plane.

He was naked.

One part of her mind wanted to ask where his nightshirt was; the rest considered the point irrelevant. Wherever it was, it wasn’t on him, and that was all that mattered.

Her gaze slid helplessly over him, from his face, limned in silver, over his shoulders, his chest. The muscles of chest and forearms were shaded by dark hair, while those of shoulders and upper arms formed smooth, sculpted curves. She could imagine their heat beneath her palms. The band of hair across his chest coalesced to a dark line that trailed down, over his ridged abdomen. His waist was narrow, as were his hips. She couldn’t stop herself; she didn’t even try. Her gaze lowered. Her mouth dried.

She felt her lips part, her jaw drop; she couldn’t summon a single coherent thought. By the time her gaze reached his bare feet, her face was aflame.

In his right hand he was carrying a naked sword, its edge winking silver in the moonlight. He held it in a relaxed grip, as if he were used to wielding it. It was presently pointing at the floor.

Not so that other part of him, equally naked, equally unsheathed. That was pointing—

She wrenched her gaze upward and fixed it on his face. Even then, she couldn’t breathe. She could feel his gaze like a living thing, a warm weight on her skin. He was watching her, considering her, his eyes heavy-lidded.

Then he smiled, a flash of white in his dark face. It wasn’t a comforting smile. With the sword in his hand, he looked like a pirate. A naked pirate. Fully aroused. With wicked thoughts filling his mind.

He stepped forward; she stepped back—the backs of her booted calves struck the chest.

Without taking his eyes from her, he reached behind him and closed the door. The click of the latch sounded loud in the suddenly warm dark.

“I suppose,” he murmured, his voice deep, his tone languidly conversational, “that you’re going to be stubborn and refuse to tell me what you came here looking for.”

What she came here looking for. The letters? An alternative truth rose in her mind; she quickly buried it.

He stalked slowly toward her; she struggled to keep her gaze on the naked blade—the one the moonlight was glinting on. She’d seen Jonas in various stages of undress, but nothing had prepared her for this.

The letters. She’d intended telling him about them in the morning. Why not now? She looked into his face. He was close enough now that she could see his eyes glinting, could appreciate the subtle changes—changes she’d seen before.

Desire—he desired her with an almost brutal intensity. A thrill slithered down her spine. What was he planning—what would he do to her if she refused to tell?

“I . . .” Her voice wavered; abruptly, she lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I don’t want to tell you yet.”

He halted in front of her, a yard away. He held her gaze, then his lips curved. His expression held no disappointment, only a keen anticipation.

“I’ll just have to torture it out of you, then.”

The intent was there, ringing in his voice, yet the promise was not one of pain but of pleasure—pleasure too tempting to resist, too powerful to withstand. The threat filled her mind with images of warm flesh, hard muscle, silk sheets, and burning touches.

She licked her lips. “Torture?”

His eyes had never left hers. They searched briefly, then he nodded. “Hands up.”

The sword flashed upward between them. Phyllida jumped.

“Up.” He gestured with the sword.

Frowning inwardly, she raised her hands, palms facing him, up to shoulder level.

“Higher.”

The sword flashed again; she frowned openly, but raised her hands to head height.

The sword tip hovered level with her nose, then slowly lowered . . . she followed it with her eyes. It stopped, resting on the top button of her shirt, just above her breasts.

She looked up—the sword flashed. Openmouthed, she watched as the button rolled over the floor and under the bed. “
What
. . . ?” The word came out as a strangled squeak.

She looked back at his face.

He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

The sword flashed again—once, twice—
pong, ping
. Her shirt gaped fully open. Instinctively, she reached to pull it closed.

“Oh, no.” The sword flickered warningly before her, quicksilver in the moonlight. “Keep your hands up.” He paused, studying her face. “You’re not ready to confess yet, are you?”

She looked into his eyes, glinting beneath heavy lids, pure temptation in the night. If she told him all, he’d stop. If she told him, he wouldn’t have any reason for continuing . . . and then she’d never know. “No.”

His head tilted, just a little; his gaze grew more intent. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure?”

The words were quiet, direct; she understood what he was asking. The night shimmered around them, filled with desire so potent she could taste it. It didn’t all come from him. They stood three feet apart, bathed in moonlight, he completely naked, she in breeches with her shirt gaping. And both of them were thinking of taking that next step—of closing the distance between them, of feeling skin against naked skin.

Her fingers itched, her palms burned, her skin heated.

“I’m sure.” She heard the words, felt them fall from her lips, sensed them deep inside her. She was sure—she wanted to know and with him she could learn and still feel safe. If the murderer had been a better shot, or if she hadn’t fought so hard this morning, she might have died not knowing; that seemed a fate too sad, too pathetic, to contemplate. Lifting her chin, she fixed him with a direct and, she hoped, challenging look. In for a penny, in for a pound. “What next?”

Humor lit his face, then was gone. “If you’re not going to confess, then you’ll have to do exactly what I say.” The “exactly” was invested with particular emphasis. “To begin with, you have to stand . . . absolutely . . . still.”

His gaze dropped as he said it. The sword flashed again—a quick zigzag. The two buttons closing her breeches flew off into the night.

The breeches gaped. Phyllida sucked in a breath and fought the urge to lower her hands.

“Keep them up,” he murmured as if reading her thoughts. “Now . . . what have we here?”

His deep purr made her toes curl. His gaze remained fixed below her waist.

The sword rose, its tip lifting one side of her jacket. His gaze rose with it to lock with hers. “Slip it off. One arm at a time. Keep the other hand up.”

She kept her expression bland; her nerves were skittering. Her stomach was one tight knot. His face right now branded him all pirate—all male predator—but it was desire that burned in his eyes. She did as he said, sliding the jacket off—it hit the window seat behind her. The instant it did, he was busy with the sword again, tangling it in one side of her loose shirt. He lifted, and drew the shirt—slowly—from her breeches, then slid the fabric over her shoulder, tugging it sideways until the seam lay over her upper arm, trapping her arm by her side. He repeated the exercise, trapping her other arm in the same way.

That accomplished, his gaze did not return to her face but fastened on her breasts, firmly bound in linen bands.

Phyllida swallowed.

“You were brave coming here tonight.” Eyes narrowing, he brought the sword tip in to rest at the top of the band between her breasts. “Brave—and reckless.”

He lifted his gaze to hers fleetingly, then drew the sword down and away. She glanced down. He’d sliced cleanly through just one layer.

“Take a deep breath—now!”

His voice rang with such command that she’d obeyed before she’d thought. The bands slipped, slid, then unraveled in a rush. They clung for an instant, then gave up their hold, collapsing around her waist.

Leaving her breasts naked, exposed to his gaze. She quaked; she couldn’t bring herself to look into his face.

But she knew he was looking—she could feel the warmth of his gaze. A slow flush suffused her. Her nipples crinkled, then puckered tight.

He moved then, transferring the sword to his left hand. He stepped closer—his lower body came into view and she quickly raised her gaze. To his chest, to the fascinating pattern of silver-etched muscle and shadow. He bent his head; his lips traced lightly along her temple. He shifted closer, so that all along one side she could feel his heat.

She was breathing quickly, as if she’d run a race.

His right hand rose; he trailed the backs of his fingers along her collarbone, then reversed his hand. It lowered; she watched him cup her breast, then slowly close his fingers about it. His voice was a dark whisper, his lips close to her ear. “Now let’s see how much of my torture you can take, before you beg for mercy.”

His fingers tightened; she looked up on a gasp. His lips closed over hers.

Lucifer took her lips, took her mouth. He deliberately let passion flare, let the smoldering embers catch fire, then drew back.

He was operating on instinct, primal instinct—a primitive blend of wants, needs, and desires. He wanted her—wanted to possess her, to brand her unequivocally his. After the shock of the morning, and the consequent realization that he’d come within minutes of losing her—of never having her at all—he needed to make her his.

But he also needed her with him, needed her to share the moment fully, needed her to want him as much as he wanted her. To desire him as deeply as he desired her. He desired her as he had no other—wanted her and needed her in myriad ways, some entirely new to him. That emotion he’d hoped never to feel had sunk its claws deep, so deep he didn’t even want to shake free.

He was a willing captive—he wanted her to be one, too.

So he drew back from the kiss until their lips parted, not even by an inch but enough to breathe. Enough for her to be fully aware, to feel, to know. To watch from beneath heavy lids.

His hand at the back of her waist still held the sword; the hilt was pressed to her back. Releasing her breast, he slipped his fingers into the folds of her bands; slowly, he drew the linen strip free, then let it fall to the floor. He splayed his hand across her naked midriff, then, lightly caressing her breast on the way, trailed his fingers to her shoulder. He traced the bare roundness; her skin shimmered pale in the moonlight. Instinct prodded; he bent his head. With his lips, he followed the line his fingers had laid over her shoulder, then continued lower, fingers artfully stroking, lips following, until he cupped her breast and lifted the tight peak to his mouth.

Her gasp shivered through the room. Her knees weakened; he tightened his arm about her, bringing her hip against his thigh. He’d warned her he would torture her and he did—rasping her sensitive flesh with his tongue, then suckling hard enough to make her cry out.

The evocative sound ripped through him and set his instincts racing. He shifted across her, trapping her thighs between his, and turned his attention to her other breast, repeating the torment until her hands, trapped low by her shirt, reached for him. Her fingers gripped, then sank into his flanks.

He raised his head and kissed her, took all she offered, all she gave; the flames of desire licked hotly, hungrily. Lifting the sword, he stood it in the open chest behind her. Then he spread his hand across the back of her hips and drew her fully against him.

She murmured, not in protest but in discovery. He held her close, letting her feel the flagrant promise of his body, the heady certainty of pleasure to come.

Her clothes chafed. He lifted his head, then lifted both hands to her shoulders, caressing briefly before sliding his hands down her arms, taking the shirt to her wrists. Her eyes were open but screened beneath lids sensuously heavy; her breathing was rapid, shallow. He paused, hands light on hers. She drew in a deeper breath, held it, and drew her hands from his, tugging them from the sleeves.

He held the shirt until she was free, then dropped it in the chest behind her. Closing his arms around her, he slid his palms along her back, urging her to him, glorying in the exquisite sensation of her silken skin, already heated, brushing, then settling, then sinking against his chest.

She looked up at him briefly; her gaze came to rest on his lips. Her hands rested lightly on his arms; she pushed up, fingers tracing, flexing, over the muscles, then up and over his shoulders. Stretching on her toes, she lifted her lips and touched them to his.