Sir Jasper met her in the middle of the room. He took her hands in his. "Well, m'dear-a great relief, having this settled. Can't say I'm sorry Appleby's gone-a bad egg he was, no doubt of that."

"Indeed, Papa."

"Well, then." Sir Jasper stole a glance at Lucifer, waiting on the terrace looking out at the night. "I suppose, now there's no more danger, you'll be moving back, heh?"

His tone was neither insistent nor expectant; it was curious. He peered at her from under his shaggy brows, a light very like hope in his eyes.

"No, Papa." Smiling, Phyllida stretched up and placed a kiss on his cheek. "My place now is elsewhere."

"Oh?" Sir Jasper brightened; he all but grinned and rubbed his hands in delight. "Right, then-well, I daresay I'll see you tomorrow…?"

Phyllida chuckled and patted his arm. "I daresay. And now I'll bid you a good night."

Leaving her father, she walked to the French doors. Stepping outside, she slid a hand into Lucifer's arm. Just as he had been doing, she looked up at the sky, at the racing clouds streaming, fleeing before the thunderheads.

Lucifer glanced back, then she felt his gaze on her face. After a moment, she met his eyes. In the poor light, she couldn't see their expression, but possessiveness, protectiveness, fell about her like a cloak.

He closed his hand over hers. "Let's go home."

She let him lead her there, through the wood, now a-flurry with the storm. As the wind rose and the branches lashed more furiously, they walked faster and faster; eventually, he pulled her along at a run. She was laughing when he dragged her from the trees, down the drive, and around the house. She imagined he was heading for the front door, but once they gained the front of the house, she realized that wasn't his goal.

He tugged her across Horatio's garden-it was screened from the wind by the wood, the house, the village, and its own stand of trees. In the dark of the humid night, it was a paradise of evocative scents, of lush growth and mysterious shapes. Lucifer hurried her to the honeysuckle-draped, peony-backed arbor where they'd once before paused of an evening and discussed the realities of love.

Halting, he faced her. His dark hair was tousled, as if she'd already run her fingers through it; his face was hard-edged, his mobile lips straight. He studied her as she was studying him, then, her hands in his, he went down on one knee.

"Phyllida Tallent, will you marry me? Will you help me tend this garden over all the years to come?"

He'd pitched his voice above the roar of the wind, above the wild threshing of the leaves.

Phyllida looked down, into his face. He'd spun her world around, then steadied it; he'd taught her so much, answered so many questions. She had only one left. "This garden needs constant love to keep it blooming. Do you love me that much?"

He held her gaze. "More." He kissed the backs of her hands, first one, then the other. "I'll love you forever."

Phyllida pulled him to his feet. "Just as well, for I'll love you for even longer." She went into his arms, forever safe where she belonged. "I'll love you for longer than forever."

His arms closed around her. Their lips met, melded; their bodies eased against each other, seeking remembered delights.

Lucifer broke the kiss to ask, "When can we marry?"

Phyllida drew back. "It's Saturday. If we speak to Mr. Filing tonight, he could read the banns tomorrow. Then we could marry in just over two weeks."

They looked up the common at the Rectory. The small house lay in darkness. "I really don't think," Lucifer said, "that Filing will mind being woken-not for this."

He didn't; the curate was delighted when he heard their reason for hauling him from his bed. He assured them that the banns would be called in the morning. Declining his offer of a celebratory sherry on the grounds of the imminent downpour, they left the Rectory and raced down the common-anticipating a celebration of a different sort.

They reached the duck pond and the skies opened. They were soaked, dripping and bedraggled by the time they reached the Manor's front porch. The smell of rain-washed greenery and the ever-present perfume of the garden-their garden now-swept over them as they stood catching their breath while Lucifer hunted for his key.

He unlocked the door and swung it wide. Phyllida entered; Lucifer followed and reset the lock. Turning, he saw Phyllida standing just outside the open drawing room. He joined her as she stepped into the doorway. Slipping an arm around her waist, he held her back against him.

Phyllida crossed her arms over his and leaned back to whisper, "It's peaceful here now-can you sense it?"

He could. He rubbed his chin over the wet silk of her hair. "Horatio's gone to talk to Martha about her pansies."

Phyllida turned her head and smiled. Sliding around in his arms, she touched his cheek. "You're the most fanciful man."

He kissed her, then murmured, "I know what I fancy at the moment."

So did she. Her sigh was just a little skittery, just a touch breathless. "We'd better get upstairs."

"If you insist."

Phyllida led the way with him padding at her heels like some obedient jungle cat. She detoured via the linen press to fetch two large towels, then led him, not to her room, but to his. He made no demur but went past her to light the lamp that sat atop one tallboy.

It was pouring outside. Lightning still flickered and thunder rolled, but the storm front had already swept past. Rubbing her hair with the towel, Phyllida pushed the door shut, then turned-just as Lucifer adjusted the wick so the lamp shed a golden glow through the room.

"Great heavens!" She stared. "That's it!"

She walked toward Lucifer, her gaze fixed beyond him. He glanced around to see what had so excited her. "It, what?" Then the penny dropped and he stared, too.

"Don't tell me it's always been here." Phyllida reached up to lift the traveling writing desk from its perch on the corner of the tallboy.

"All right, I won't tell you," Lucifer replied. "But you didn't say traveling writing desk-I've been looking for something with four legs."

With the polished wooden box in her hands, Phyllida turned. "I must have said…" She caught his eye and grimaced. "Well, maybe I didn't. But I meant a traveling writing desk-I knew what I was looking for."

"Anyway, I thought you'd searched the whole house."

"I didn't search in here. I didn't imagine you'd miss a traveling writing desk if it was sitting in your room. The only other time I've been in here was at night in the dark."

"I didn't miss it-I knew it was there. It just never occurred to me that that's the sort of desk you meant." He studied the box. "Where's this secret drawer? It doesn't look big enough to have one."

"That's why it's such a good hiding place." Phyllida sat on the bed and placed the desk on her thighs; Lucifer sat beside her. "It's here-see?" Running her fingers along one of the back side panels, she found the catch and pressed it. The panel swung outward. Sliding her fingers in, she felt around, then gripped and pulled a sheaf of papers into the light.

She stared at them. "Good Lord!" She dropped the bundle between them on the bedspread.

They both sat, transfixed, not by the bundle of letters predictably tied with a pink ribbon, but by the small rolled canvas that had been tucked in with them.

It had unrolled just a little. Just enough to show the deep browns and rich reds of oils, and part of a hand.

Lucifer recovered first. "Careful-we're both dripping."

Phyllida wriggled off the bed. Lucifer stood and grabbed the second towel. While he rubbed at his hair and mopped his face, Phyllida shut the secret drawer and put the writing desk back on the tallboy. Returning to the bed, she swiped up her towel and dried her hands and reblotted her face, then twisted her hair up in the towel. Then she gingerly picked up Mary Anne's and Robert's letters and deposited them beside the writing desk. "Don't want to get them wet and have the ink run, not after all this."

Lucifer humphed. He joined her as she went back to the bed.

Phyllida eyed the rolled painting, then gestured. "You do it."

Lucifer picked up the canvas; touching only the unpainted edges, he unrolled it.

Even in the lamplight, the jeweled tones glowed. A woman-a lady by the richness of her dress-sat smiling at the painter. Her gown of wine-dark velvet had a square, heavily embroidered neckline; her headdress was a form of wimple, artfully folded. Her forehead was high, plucked, as had been the fashion centuries before.

Phyllida drew in a breath. "This is what was in Aesop's Fables, isn't it? This is the item Horatio invited you down here to appraise. The miniature-the old masterpiece-that Appleby killed three men for."

Lucifer nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't the first to have killed for this lady."

Phyllida looked from the miniature to his face, then back again. "It's genuine?"

"It's too perfect not to be. Too much like his other works."

"Whose work? Who painted it?"

"Holbein the Younger, court-portraitist for Henry the Eighth."

They spent the next hour talking, speculating, deciding that the miniature belonged in a museum. That resolved, Lucifer returned the painting to the secret drawer, then fetched the lamp and placed it on the table beside the bed.

He'd pulled off his wet boots and stripped off his coat and shirt long before; Phyllida was still in her damp shirt and breeches. She regarded him speculatively, fascinated by the way the flickering lamplight played over the muscles of his chest. She let her gaze drift downward, to where the wet fabric of his breeches molded lovingly to his form, then languidly brought her gaze back to his face-to his eyes, smoldering blue.

She raised a haughty brow.

He smiled. Intently. His fingers closed on the buttons on his waistband. He held her gaze as if daring her to watch as he peeled the wet breeches from him. Phyllida raised her brow higher-and did. His breeches hit the floor with a splat. He came onto the bed in a prowling crawl. With an ease that still shocked her-tantalized her and left her breath stuck in her throat-he picked her up and rearranged her so she was kneeling, sitting back on her ankles, her back to him as he knelt behind her, his naked thighs outside hers. She was facing the end of the four-poster bed. With the curtains tied back, she looked out at her reflection in the long, wide mirror hanging on the opposite wall.

The sight was mesmerizing. His shoulders showed above and beyond hers; she looked fragile and vulnerable all but surrounded by him. Female and male, one dressed, one naked; the contrasts were dramatic. His hands looked very large clamped about her waist. He checked the vision he was creating, then glanced down. Phyllida watched as his hands rose and his fingers busied themselves with the buttons of her shirt. At least, this time she wouldn't have to sew them back on.

"I'm going to strip these wet clothes from you, then I'm going to dry you, then warm you up-we wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

Phyllida had no wish to argue. She leaned her turbaned head back on his shoulder and, watching from under half closed lids, let him get on with it.

Let him peel the wet shirt from her, then unwind her sodden bands. Watched him grab a towel and apply it to her breasts in a slow, circular motion. When her breasts were not only dry but swollen and warm, peaked and firm, he dropped the towel and started on her breeches. Removing them required a little more cooperation; giggling at the curses and inventive suggestions he murmured between laying kisses along the back of her bare shoulders and licking errant drops from her skin, she helped him ease the cold, clinging fabric from her hips and down her thighs.

Without warning, he lifted her, whisking the wet garment over her knees and calves; it went flying to join the pile on the floor. He picked up the towel as he set her down before him, still on her knees, still facing the mirror. Fragile, vulnerable, and naked, surrounded by his strength.

He wielded the towel to telling effect, using the lightly abrasive pile to tease and tantalize until all of her body was flushed and heated, until every inch of her skin was sensitized and aching, until she was awash with a wanton desire that only he could slake.