Stephanie Laurens: All About Love

His guardian angel came into view. She was in her nightgown.

She halted six feet away, studying his face. One hand held the candlestick; the other rested between her breasts, anchoring her shawl. It was the first time he’d seen all of her; he didn’t try to stop himself looking, noting, assessing. Her face was as he recalled, wide eyes, tapered chin, and sleek dark hair giving an impression of intelligence and feminine resolve. She was of average height, slender but not thin. Her breasts were full and high, nipples just discernible beneath the shawl’s fringe. He couldn’t judge her waist under the nightgown, but her hips were neatly rounded, her thighs sleek.

Her feet were bare. His gaze locked on them, tantalizingly revealed, then concealed beneath her nightgown. Small, naked, intensely feminine feet. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up to her face.

While he’d studied her, she’d been studying him. Her dark eyes roamed his face, taking in, it seemed, every line. Then she turned away.

Lucifer bit back an urge to call to her. He wanted to thank her-she’d been a madonna of kindness and caring-but if he made a sound, he’d scare her out of her wits. He watched her stop by the sleeping woman; setting her candlestick down, she lifted a blanket, shook it out, then tucked it around the other woman. As she turned away, candle once more in hand, the soft light lit her smile.

She started for the door, but, as if she’d heard his silent plea, she halted before she passed the bed. She looked his way, then, hesitantly, drew nearer. And nearer.

Holding the candle aside so his face was screened by her body, she rested against the bed a foot away and studied his face anew. He fought to keep his lids steady; he could only just see her face. Her eyes were fathomless, her expression unreadable.

Then she released her grip on her shawl. Slowly, she reached out. With her fingertips she lightly traced his cheek.

Lucifer felt like he’d been branded-and he recognized the brand. He surged up on one elbow, seizing her wrist, transfixing her with a glare.

She gasped; the sound echoed through the room. The candlelight wavered wildly, then steadied. Eyes dilated, she stared at him.

He tightened his grip and held her gaze. “It was you.”

Phyllida stared into eyes so vibrant a dark blue they were nearly black. She’d seen them earlier, but they’d been hazed with pain, unfocused; they’d been startling enough then. Now, focused mercilessly on hers, clear and brilliant as a dark sapphire, they stole her breath away.

She felt like she’d been the one hit by the halberd.

“You were there.” His gaze held her trapped. “ You were the first to reach me after the murderer hit me. You touched my face, just as you did then.”

She kept her expression blank. Thoughts popped up, then sank, flotsam thrown up by her whirling mind. His fingers clamping about her wrist had shocked her; they’d locked before she could react. She twisted her arm, trying to ease from his hold; he tightened his grip enough for her to sense his strength and the futility of struggling.

She felt light-headed. She’d forgotten to breathe.

Dragging her gaze from his, she did. Staring at his lips, she wondered what to say. How could he know just from a touch? He had to be guessing.

Draped in shadow, his face was even more compelling than she recalled. The impact of him-his conscious physical presence-was potent; he appeared altogether more dangerous, and he’d appeared dangerous enough before. He was decently covered in one of her father’s nightshirts, but the collar was open, exposing a V of chest-dark hair curled invitingly in the gap.

The realization that she was standing by a gentleman’s bed staring at his chest, in the small hours, in her nightgown, slammed into her. Heat prickled across her skin. Gladys was near, but…

She glanced across the room. As if sensing her hope that Gladys wouldn’t wake and hear him, he eased onto his back, pulling her across him.

Phyllida bit back another gasp. “Be careful of your head,” she hissed.

His eyes gleamed. “I’ll be careful.”

His voice was deep; it almost purred. He kept extending his arm, the one shackling her wrist. She had to lean across him, balancing the candlestick in her other hand. Inexorably, he drew her on.

She swallowed as her breasts neared his chest. Heart thudding, she scrambled onto the bed.

He smiled in triumph. “Now you can tell me what you were doing so secretively in Horatio’s drawing room.”

The command was blatant. Phyllida lifted her chin. At twenty-four, she wasn’t about to be bullied. “I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to slide her wrist free, to no avail. Kneeling beside him on the bed, one hand locked in his, the candlestick in the other, was not a position of strength. She felt like a supplicant.

His expression hardened. “You were there. Tell me why.”

She looked down her nose at him. “I fear you’re still delirious.”

“I wasn’t delirious before.”

“You kept talking about the devil. Then, when we assured you you wouldn’t die, you asked for the archangel.”

His lips thinned. “My brother’s known as Gabriel, and my eldest cousin is Devil.”

She stared at him. Devil. Gabriel. What was his name? “Oh. Well, this idea you have is nonsense. I know nothing about Horatio’s murder.”

She met his gaze on the last, and fell into the blue. It was the most peculiar sensation; the nerves under her skin, all over her, tingled. Warmth spread through her. The sense of being held captive grew. The odd notion that her nightgown was transparent she dismissed as ridiculous.

“You weren’t in Horatio’s drawing room when I was lying on the floor?”

The words were soft, subtly challenging; an undercurrent of danger rippled beneath. Held trapped by his gaze, by his hold on her wrist, Phyllida pressed her lips tight and shook her head. She couldn’t tell him-not yet. Not until she’d spoken with Mary Anne and been released from her oath.

“So these fingers”-deftly, he altered his grip so his fingers wrapped around hers-“weren’t the ones that touched my cheek as I lay beside Horatio?”

He raised her hand, then looked at it; she looked, too. Long, tanned fingers surrounded hers. His hand swallowed hers in a warm clasp. That clasp firmed; slowly, he lifted her fingers to his face. “Like this.” He touched her fingertips to his cheek, then drew her hand down.

His stubble had grown, prickling against the pads of her fingers; the sensation only emphasized the fact that the sculpted lines were not rock but living flesh. Fascinated anew, Phyllida watched her fingers trace, drifting down, following her gaze to the tempting line of his lips… then she realized he’d slackened his grasp. Her fingers were tracing on their own.

She snatched her hand away, but he was quicker. His fingers shackled her wrist again.

“You were there.” His tone was grimly determined; conviction resonated through it.

Phyllida looked into his deep blue eyes; every instinct she possessed urged her to flee. She tugged. “Let me go.”

One black brow rose. He considered-heart thumping, she wondered what alternatives he was weighing. Then his lips eased; the intensity of his gaze didn’t. “Very well-for now.”

She tried to draw her hand free but he didn’t release it. Instead, he raised her fingers-this time, to his lips. His gaze remained locked on her face; she prayed her reaction-panic melded with insidious excitement-didn’t show.