All About Love (15 page)

A shadow loomed on the page.

With a gasp, she swung around—

Lucifer stood beside the lamp, arms crossed, dark blue eyes narrowed. Her heart thudding in her throat, she stared at him.

“Would you care to tell me what this is all about?”

She drew breath into her lungs—and narrowed her eyes back. “No. And might I suggest that, given you intend to reside in this village, you’d do well not to prowl around at night scaring the occupants out of their wits!” She’d started her tirade evenly; the last word was shrill. Swinging back to stare at her ledger, she concentrated on breathing. Grabbing a piece of blotting paper, she blotted her figures.

After a moment, he replied, “You might have momentarily been frightened, but you haven’t lost your wits. And you may as well tell me what’s going on, because you know I won’t leave you be until I know.”

She did know that; he wasn’t easily deflected. And there really was no reason he couldn’t know the truth, especially as he was remaining in Colyton. Shutting the ledger, she returned it to its niche. “I’m running an import business.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Is that the new name for smuggling?”

“It’s all perfectly legal.” Rummaging in a niche, she drew out a sheet of printed paper and handed it to him.

He took it and read, “The Colyton Import Company.” He looked up. “A legal importing company that operates in the dead of night?”

His incredulity was transparent; nose in the air, she slid from the stool. “There’s no law against it.”

She reached past him for the lamp—he anticipated her and lifted it. Laying the paper on the sarcophagus, he waved her to the stairs. Head high, she led the way; as she climbed she became increasingly conscious of the side-to-side sway of her hips. She scampered up the last stairs, but with one step he was beside her, looking beyond her to the church door. Phyllida shut the small door to the crypt; he extinguished the lamp, set it aside, and pulled open the church door. Together, they went out into the night.

He tugged the door shut. She felt his gaze on her face.

“Explain.”

Phyllida headed for the common. He fell in beside her, his dark presence more comforting than unnerving. He had the sense not to repeat his command; if he had, she might not have obliged. “This is a smuggling coast. There’s always been smugglers here, running goods either heavily taxed or, in more recent times, prohibited because of the war with France. The end of the war led to trade resuming, so the goods previously prohibited could once again be openly imported.”

Leaving the graveyard, she continued down the common. “Virtually overnight, smuggling was no longer, or only marginally, profitable. Selling smuggled goods became difficult because merchants could buy the same goods legally at a reasonable price—there was no longer any incentive to take risks. Most of the smugglers are farm laborers—they turn to the night trade to supplement their incomes and support their families. Suddenly, that extra income was no longer there, and the whole”—she gestured—“
balance
of things hereabouts was in jeopardy.”

They crossed the lane and headed down the alley; she waited until they were in the wood before continuing. “The only way I could see to help was to set up the Colyton Import Company. Papa knows all about it—it’s entirely legitimate. We pay our excise duties to the Revenue Office in Exeter. Mr. Filing is an accredited collector.”

He was following close at her shoulder, head bent as he listened. She glanced his way and saw him shake his head.

“Legitimized smuggling.” Through the gloom, he caught her eye. “You arranged it all?”

She shrugged. “Who else?”

A fair answer, Lucifer supposed, but it led to the next question. “What do you get out of it?” An impertinent question, but he wanted to know.

“Get out of it?” The concept puzzled her; she halted and looked at him, then moved on again. “I suppose peace of mind.”

Not what he’d expected. Excitement, the thrill of being in charge, something along those lines, but . . . “Peace of mind?”

“Just consider the alternative to smuggling in these parts.” Her voice hardened. “We’re two miles from a coast riddled and raked with reefs and sandbars.”

“Wrecking?” His blood ran cold.

“That’s what happened before. I wasn’t having it happening again—not with Colyton men.” Even through the dark, she exuded determination. Now he understood. Peace of mind.

“So instead, you organized this entirely legitimate enterprise.” Not a question but a statement, one tinged with surprise and more definitely with approval.

She inclined her head.

They walked on in silence as he digested it all. “But why work at night?”

The sound she made, half snort, half sigh, was distinctly patronizing. “So it
looks
like the men are still smuggling, of course.”

“Why is that important?”

“It isn’t, not to anyone but them.” Resigned frustration colored her tone. “Other than myself, only Papa, Mr. Filing, Thompson, and the men involved—and now you—know that the business is legal. In the company’s name, I organize the rendezvous with the ships—most French captains are happy to unload without having to lay into an English port. The gang keeps the rendezvous and brings the goods up to the church—”

“And you store them in the crypt.”

She nodded.

“What happens then?”

“Mr. Filing takes the signed bills of lading to the Revenue Office and pays the duties owed, then brings back the stamped clearances. Thompson isn’t involved with the incoming goods, but his brother, Oscar, is the gang’s leader. Once Mr. Filing has the clearances, the gang comes back one night and loads the goods onto Thompson’s dray. The next day, Thompson drives the goods into Chard, where the Company has an arrangement with one of the major merchants. He sells the goods on commission and the funds come back to Mr. Filing, who pays the men their share.” She gestured. “That’s it.”

“But why do the men pretend they’re still smuggling?”

“They pretend they’re still members of the brotherhood essentially to save face. They’ve got used to a regular income and a comfortable existence free of any threat from the Revenue, but the mystique of smuggling runs deep in these parts—they don’t want it known they’re no longer involved, no longer taking risks. There are other smuggling gangs still operating in the district. The gang that operates to the west of Beer is all but legendary.”

Eyes on the ground, she strode on. “When I suggested the Company, the men were adamant that they’d only be part of it if the legality of the operation was kept secret. I had to agree to them continuing to operate like smugglers.”

She shot him a glance; he sensed her contemptuous air. “Male egos are nonsensical things.”

Lucifer grinned. The woman came out night after night to spare those selfsame male egos. He looked ahead. The Grange shrubbery was just discernible through the gloom.

Crack!

He reacted instantly, grabbing Phyllida, hurling them both forward.

A long groan and the sounds of roots and earth tearing followed them down; the next instant, with a massive
crash!
a dead tree thumped down across the path where a few seconds before they had stood. One skeletal branch trapped Lucifer’s boots. Turning, glancing back at the tree, he kicked and the brittle twigs snapped.

He’d flung them against the rising bank that bordered the path at that point, Phyllida first, his body protectively over hers. They’d landed roughly horizontal, stretched full length on a narrow shelf in the bank. Lucifer slowly turned over, assessing their state. He slipped and slid down, ending on the path, flat on his back.

Phyllida, who’d been trying to push herself away from the bank, lost his support behind and beneath her. With a muffled shriek, she followed him down. She landed on top of him, her shoulder digging into his chest.

He winced. Gasping, she wriggled around; they ended literally nose to nose, lips and eyes mere inches apart.

They both froze, stilled . . . waiting . . . thinking . . .

He started to raise his arms to close them about her, then stopped. Percy had grabbed her only hours before and tried to force his attentions on her. He wanted to seize, to hold, to capture, but the last thing he wanted was to remind her of Percy.

His night vision was good. Her face was a pale oval, her expression not her usual serene mask but carefully blank. Eyes wide, she was staring at his face. Considering . . . wondering . . .

He knew what he’d like her to consider—what he wanted her to wonder. “I believe”—his voice had deepened—“that I deserve a reward for that.”

Phyllida stared at him and tried to marshal her wayward wits. His hands were at her waist, but not gripping. She lay fully upon him; he lay passive beneath her. She knew that he was infinitely more dangerous than Percy. Why, then, did she feel so much safer, all but in his arms, lying atop him, entirely alone in the dark wood late at night?

It was a conundrum, one she felt she should solve. But she couldn’t, not now, not with his dark gaze on her eyes, with the hard warmth of him beneath her, threatening, in the most tempting way, to surround her.

He did deserve a reward. If she’d been alone, she would have stopped and looked around, and probably have ended being hurt. Even killed. He deserved a reward, and she didn’t even have to think to know what it was he would like.

His wish was the glint in his eyes, the tension in the hard body beneath her—an almost discernible hum of desire. Of its own volition, her tongue came out; she licked her lips, leaving them slightly parted.

His gaze lowered; her lips throbbed. She waited . . .

His gaze rose to her eyes. He held her gaze, then slowly raised one brow.

You may be as bold as you like
. . .

His earlier words returned to her; their true meaning—the meaning his deep, purring, seductive voice had invested them with—rang crystal-clear. She hesitated no longer. Framing his face with her hands, she set her lips to his.

They felt as they had before, alive, firm, tempting; they made her lips tingle. She kissed him and he kissed her back, pressure for pressure but no more. She kissed him again and the same thing happened—she was in control. Some part of her mind tried frantically to remind her just how dangerous he was; the rest gloried in the unexpected possibilities. There were so many things she’d always wanted to know, sensations she’d wanted to experience.

She traced his lower lip with her tongue and he obediently parted his lips. She ventured in and was immediately lost in a carnival of delicious delights, slipping from one to the next and back again. Whatever she asked, he gave; wherever she ventured, he followed. The texture of his tongue against hers, the heated wetness of the kiss, were all still new to her. She reveled in each novel delight, then, confident and secure, explored further.

Lucifer lay there and let her have her way with him. He had to concentrate to maintain his passive state, given she was a mature twenty-four and every development in their kiss apparently necessitated a wriggle or a squirm. Luckily, she provided a distraction, too—her naivete coupled with her blatant curiosity left him wondering what the local gentlemen had been doing for the past six years. Asking for her help, apparently—certainly not kissing her. Especially not kissing her as she deserved to be kissed.

She was twenty-four—the warm swells that tantalizingly brushed his upper chest, the warm weight of her hips pressed to his waist, the long sweeps of her thighs riding down, over his hips— He abruptly cut off that train of thought and focused again on her hungry lips, on satisfying her and satisfying himself.

He felt they’d succeeded very nicely when she finally raised her head.

Phyllida looked down at him, and felt her heart thud. Her skin, all her nerves, had come alive; she was intensely aware of his body, and hers, of the masculine power he exuded yet controlled so effortlessly. It surrounded her, yet she didn’t feel trapped, didn’t feel like pulling away. She felt like plunging deeper in.

Temptation might well be his middle name.

She frowned, then struggled, just a little. “Let me up.”

His lips curved. “I’m not holding you.”

She stared at him; heat rose in her cheeks. His hands on either side of her waist might be burning her—they weren’t gripping her. She tried to push away, to roll off him. His fingers gripped lightly and he lifted her from him.

Scrambling upright, she brushed herself down, tugged her cap firmly on her head, then, with barely a glance to confirm he was on his feet, she strode on toward the house.

Lucifer followed, careful, even in the darkness, not to grin too triumphantly. Close behind her as they navigated the shrubbery, he felt more than victorious. He felt honored, curiously so, as if she’d bestowed something on him that was worth more than words could define. In one way, she had—she’d gifted him with a degree of trust she’d never given to any other man.

He’d invited it, true, but it wasn’t something he could have forced from her. Inordinately pleased with himself, and her, he stepped onto the back lawn.

She’d trusted him in one way—that augered well for his plan, a plan that was simplicity incarnate. She knew something about Horatio’s murder and she was a sensible, intelligent female; the only reason she hadn’t told him all was because she didn’t yet trust him that far. Once she’d learned more of him and convinced herself that he was an honorable man, then she would tell him her secret. Simple.

Grinning, he walked on by her side.

His next thought came out of nowhere, unheralded—unwanted. It destroyed his triumph, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Was he any better than the others who courted her, not out of real desire, but out of a desire for something she could give them?

The question clanged in his brain. The sensual memory of her body lying flush atop his washed over him.

Jaw setting, he willed both memory and question away.

The house rose before them, silent and still. Without words, they made their way inside, and parted for what was left of the night.