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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.
    His lips brushed her knuckles—she lost her breath. His lips were cool yet her skin burned where they’d touched. Eyes wide, she felt her senses sway. Before she could drag in a steadying breath, he turned her hand and pressed a burning kiss into her palm.
    She snatched her hand back—he let her go, but reluctantly. Backing off the bed, she stood; her gown fell to decently cover her legs. From not breathing at all, she was now breathing too rapidly.
    Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes.
    Lifting her head, she gathered her shawl, hesitated, then haughtily nodded. “I’ll check on you later in the morning.”
    She turned to the door. A wave of peculiar heat washed over her. Without risking a backward glance, she escaped.
    Lucifer watched the door close. He’d let her go. That hadn’t been what he’d wanted to do. But there was no need to rush, and matters might have rushed rather more than was wise if he’d kept her kneeling on his bed.
    He inhaled deeply and could smell her still, sweet feminine flesh warm from her bed. Her nightgown had been totally opaque,