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of your senses, dear.”
    “So I understand. I do hope that, in my delirium, I said nothing to distress you.”
    “Of course not, dear—do set your mind at ease on that score. Gladys here and I have brothers , so you may be sure you surprised us not at all. Now, let me help you . . .”
    He struggled to sit up; Sweetie grasped his arm and tugged. Phyllida plumped his pillows, careful not to touch his shoulders. Once he was settled, Gladys deposited the tray on his knees.
    “Thank you.”
    The smile that went with that left both Gladys and Sweetie happily dazed; Phyllida mentally frowned. The man was past dangerous. His next words confirmed it.
    “This is excellent broth. Did you make it?”
    Gladys confessed; pink with pleasure, she excused herself to return to her duties, pausing at the last to assure him that, should he require anything further, he only had to ask.
    Phyllida inwardly sniffed. She stepped back from the bed, biding her time, letting him eat. He did so smoothly, steadily—she could detect not the smallest tremor in his hands. Strong, long-fingered, inherently graceful, they plied the spoon and broke the bread.
    “Good heavens!” Sweetie fluttered. “We forgot the butter. I’ll fetch some right away.” She rushed out the door.
    Phyllida found herself staring at the closing door before she had time to protest. Being alone with a gentleman in his bedchamber was unquestionably improper. Still, what harm could befall her? He was more or less tied to the bed. And she was quite capable of keeping him in his place, disturbing blue gaze or no. There wasn’t a man in the district she couldn’t manage, and despite his elegant facade, he was just a man. Folding her arms, she faced the bed. “I daresay you have a number of questions—”
    “Oh, I do.”
    She inclined her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll attempt to answer them while you eat. You need to build your strength.” He nodded in acquiescence; she continued. “You are presently at the Grange, my father’s house. It lies south of the village. You were found at the Manor, which as you probably recall lies on the village’s north boundary.”
    “That much I remember.”
    “My father is Sir Jasper Tallent—”
    “Is he the local magistrate?”
    She frowned. “Yes.”
    “Has he any idea who killed Horatio?”
    Phyllida pressed her lips together, then relented. “No.”
    “Do you?”
    She’d looked at him before she’d thought; his gaze locked with hers. Phyllida looked into eyes diabolically blue, took in the hard lines of his face, the unwavering determination, the hard mask that concealed his intention not at all. “No.”
    He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Perhaps not.”
    She almost sighed with relief.
    He looked down at his soup. “You do, however, know something.”
    His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air—there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, “I daresay you’re ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe—you’ll need time to recover full use of your faculties.”
    From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to force majeure . With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.
    “My faculties,” he murmured, “are returning in leaps and bounds.”
    Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.
    Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. “You’ll need to be careful.”
    She