Stephanie Laurens: All About Love

With the halberd finally angled to the side, she lowered it to the floor. Only then did she realize she’d been repeating a breathless litany: Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!

Wiping her palms on her breeches, sick to her stomach, she looked at her innocent victim. The sound of the halberd connecting with his skull echoed in her ears. It hadn’t helped that he’d chosen that precise moment to leap to his feet. He’d come up propelled like a spring, only to meet the halberd going down.

He’d hit the floor with a sickening thud, too. He hadn’t moved since.

Steeling herself, she stepped over the pole. “Oh, God- please don’t let me have killed him!” Horatio had been murdererd, and now she’d murdered a stranger. What was her world coming to?

Panic gnawing at her nerves, she sank to her knees; the gentleman lay slumped forward, facing Horatio…

Lucifer sensed a presence approaching. He couldn’t hear, he couldn’t see, but he knew when they knelt at his back. The murderer. He had to assume that. If only he could gather enough strength, even to lift his lids. He tried, but nothing happened. Unconsciousness welled, lapping about him-he refused to let go and sink under. There was a roaring in his head. Even through it he knew when the murderer reached out. The roaring in his head escalated-

Fingers- small fingers-touched his cheek gently, hesitantly.

The touch blazed across his brain.

Not the murderer . Relief swept through him, and relentlessly carried him into the black.

Phyllida traced the fallen man’s cheek, mesmerized by the stark beauty of his face. He looked like a fallen angel-such classically pure lines could not possibly be found on mortal men. His brow was wide, his nose patrician, his thick hair very dark, sable black. His eyes were large under arched black brows. His lids didn’t flicker; her stomach clenched tight. Then she saw his lips, lean and mobile, ease, softening as if he’d exhaled.

“Please, please, don’t die!”

Frantically, she searched for a pulse at his throat, ruining his cravat in the process. She nearly fainted with relief when she found the throbbing beat, steady and strong. “Thank God!” She sagged. Without thinking, she carefully rearranged his cravat, smoothing the folds-he was so beautiful and she hadn’t killed him.

Wheels crunched heavily on the gravel drive.

Phyllida jerked upright. Her eyes flew wide. The murderer?

Her panicky wits calmed enough for her to distinguish voices as the conveyance rolled on around the house. Not the murderer-the Manor staff. She looked at the unconscious stranger.

For the first time in her life, she found it difficult to think. Her heart was still racing; she felt light-headed. Dragging in a breath, she fought to concentrate. Horatio was dead; she couldn’t change that. Indeed, she knew nothing of any relevance. His friend was unconscious and would remain so for some time-she should make sure he was well tended. That was the least she should do.

But here she was in Horatio’s drawing room, in breeches, instead of being laid down on her bed at the Grange with a sick headache. And she couldn’t explain why, not without revealing her reason for being here-those misplaced personal belongings. Worse, they weren’t hers. She didn’t actually know why they were so important, why their revelation was to be avoided at all costs, which made it all the more incumbent on her not to reveal their existence. Aside from anything else, she’d been sworn to secrecy.

Damn! She was going to be discovered any minute. Mrs. Hemmings, the Manor housekeeper, would even now be entering the kitchen.

Think!

What if, instead of waiting here and landing herself in a morass of impossible explanations, she left, cut home through the wood, changed, and returned? She could easily think of an errand. She could be back in ten minutes. Then she could make sure Horatio’s body had been discovered, and oversee the tending of the stranger.

That was a sensible plan.

Phyllida clambered to her feet. Her legs wobbled; she still felt woozy. She was about to turn away when the hat on the table beyond Horatio’s body caught her eye.

Had the stranger carried a hat when he’d entered? She hadn’t noticed it, but he was so large, he could have reached forward and put it on the table without her seeing.

Gentlemen’s hats often had their owners’ names embroidered on the inside band. Stepping around Horatio’s body, Phyllida reached for the brown hat-

“I’ll just go up and check on the master. Keep an eye on that pot, will you?”

Phyllida forgot about the hat. She shot through the hall, out of the front door, then raced across the side lawn and dove into the shrubbery.

“Juggs, open this door.”

The words, uttered in a tone Lucifer usually associated with his mother, jerked him back to consciousness.

“Nah-can’t do that,” a heavy male voice answered. “Mightn’t be wise.”

“Wise?” The woman’s tone had risen. After a pause, during which Lucifer could almost hear her rein in her temper, she asked, “Has he regained consciousness at all since you picked him up from the Manor?”

So he was no longer at the Manor. Where the hell was he?

“Nah! Out like a light, he is.”

He wasn’t, but he might as well have been. Beyond hearing, his senses weren’t functioning well-he couldn’t feel much beyond the massive ache in his head. He was lying on his side on some very hard surface. The air was cool and held a hint of musty dust. He couldn’t lift his lids-even that much movement was still beyond him.

He was helpless.

“How do you know he’s still alive?” The woman’s imperious tone left little doubt she was a lady.

“Alive? ’Course he’s alive-why wouldn’t he be? Just swooned, that’s all.”

“ Swooned ? Juggs, you’re an innkeeper. For how long do swooned men stay swooned, especially if they’re jolted about in a cart in the fresh air?”

Juggs snorted. “He’s a swell-who knows how long they stay swooned for? Right liverish lot, they are.”

“They found him slumped by Mr. Welham’s body. What if he hasn’t swooned but sustained some injury?”

“How could he have sus-got any injury?”

“Maybe he fought with the murderer, trying to save Mr. Welham.”

“Nah! That way, we’d have his nibs here and someone else the murderer-that’d make two people coming in separate from outside in one day with no one seeing either of ’em, and that just plain doesn’t happen.”

The lady lost all patience. “Juggs- open this door ! What if the gentleman dies, all because you decided he’d swooned when that wasn’t so at all? We have to check.”

“He’s swooned , I tell you-not a mark on him that Thompson or I could see.”

Lucifer gathered every last shred of his strength. If he wanted help, he was going to have to assist the lady; he didn’t want her going away defeated, leaving him with the uncaring innkeeper. He lifted one hand-his arm shook… he forced the hand to his head. He heard a groan, then realized it was his.

“There! See? ” The lady sounded triumphant. “It’s his head that hurts-the back of his head. Why, if he’d simply swooned? Quickly, Juggs-open the door! There’s something very wrong here.”

Lucifer let his hand fall. If he could have, he would have roared at Juggs to open the damned door. Of course there was something wrong-the murderer had coshed him. What on earth did they think had happened?

“Maybe he hit his head when he fell,” Juggs grumbled.

Why the hell did they imagine he’d fallen? But the jingle of keys pushed the thought from Lucifer’s mind. The lady had won; she was coming to his aid. A lock clanked, then a heavy door scraped. Quick footsteps briskly crossed stone, heading his way.