Firelight

Emptiness pressed upon him as he made his way home. He wanted to collapse, crumple into a helpless ball against the pain of it. Murder tainted his skin and pounded through his veins like a drug, whispering for more; he was losing the battle.

Despite a firm resolve to keep his distance, Archer found himself standing before the glossy white door to Miranda’s room, his fist poised before it, caught in indecision. He was certain he had heard a soft sob break from behind her door as he crept past to his room.

His fingers curled tighter. Perhaps he had misheard. There was nothing now save the sound of the hall clock steadily ticking and the subtle creaks and groans of a house settling down for the night. He eased back to go and… there! Another muffled sound. Miranda crying. Into her pillow, if he had to guess. Swallowing past the thumping of his pulse, he braced himself and knocked. Immediately all was silent, stunted. And then…

“Yes?” Her voice came husky and afraid.

It sent a pulse of agitation through him. “Miranda,” he said. “Are you well?”

More thick silence greeted him. Archer pressed his palm against the cool wood, contemplating whether to leave or push his way in and assuage his worry.

“Come in,” said a wobbly voice.

Her room was warmer than the hall, the banked fire and her body giving off heat. And the scent of her permeated everything. Wild grass and something fresh and sweet, like spring peonies. Although it was utterly dark, he walked with ease, seeing as well as if it were day.

She sat up, her ruby-gold hair spilling around her shoulders, down her back. A prim white nightgown covered her from neck to wrists. Even so. He took a step, and his knees buckled. Sweet Lord, a woman should not look so appetizing swathed in innocence.

Miranda fumbled around, looking for her bag of matches.

“No,” he said, coming closer. “Don’t bother with the light.”

She hesitated, that lovely frown of hers wrinkling the smooth space between her brows, but she sat back against the pillows. “I didn’t want you to stumble.”

“It’s all right.” He came alongside the bed and she gave a start, realizing he was so near. “I know the layout.”

A weak smile touched her lips as she looked toward the direction of his voice, her gaze missing him by inches. Silver tracks of tears mapped her curving cheeks.

“Why are you crying?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Will you sit with me?”

He was no match against her wide eyes and the tremor that took her plump mouth. Carefully, he sat on the bed. It seemed a dangerous thing to do. Her sweet scent enveloped him, leaving him lightheaded, his heart pounding. He took a breath to calm himself. It was that or put his head on her lap and beg her to hold him.

“Archer?” she said in the silence. “Would you…?” She bit her lip again and shook her head violently. “Never mind.”

“Tell me,” he coaxed softly.

“Would you…” A lovely blush of rose touched her cheeks. “Stay with me?”

Her strangled request drove the air from his lungs. He struggled to find more, his heart a panicked rabbit in the cage of his ribs.

Hearing his disquiet, Miranda blushed deeper. “It is simply…” A shudder caught her with violent hands. “Oh, God… Never mind. It was ridiculous to—”

“Of course,” he said.

After a moment, she eased back against the pillows. Yet embarrassment kept its pink kiss upon her cheeks. Slowly, Archer removed his coat and boots, tripped up by the shaking of his hands. And then his gloves. He could not tolerate them a moment longer. Already his skin itched to distraction. He left the bandages covering his face. Though she could not see him, a storm brewed outside, and one bright bolt of lightning might reveal all.

A cold sweat broke out over him as he eased into the bed next to her. He did not trust himself to get under the covers. Hell, he barely trusted himself to lie beside her. And yet, it was heaven. The tight, jittery feeling in his gut unfurled as he lay back and felt the warmth of her body so close to his.

Miranda scooted over to give him more room and a free pillow. They lay stiff upon the soft bed and stared up at the ceiling. She was two feet away from him. It felt like two inches. His c**k took in that fact and began to stir. Archer willed it down. Begged, really. The little bastard would not listen.

“Now,” he whispered, not trusting his voice, “why were you crying?”

Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth. “I went to bed… upset. I had a nightmare.” She blinked rapidly as a tremor lit through her. “I dreamed of a tomb. And of you lying like ice upon the floor. You had died.”

He wanted to kiss her cheek for letting him in, yet her words were an icy draft that made his gut clench with foreboding. He turned to face her. “You and I are haunted by the same dreams.”

She turned too, her slender hand a pale shadow resting on the bed between them. “I would not like it if you died, Archer.”

His heart stopped, his throat closing tight. Slowly, he reached out. She made a little sound of shock when his bare fingers touched hers. He didn’t care. His fingers laced with hers as he clasped her hand. Something within him settled as if holding her hand had somehow anchored him. The rightness of it was a sigh from his soul.

“I would not it like either.” He meant to speak lightly, only it came as a rasp.

Her pulse thrummed against his wrist as they held onto each other in the dark. Unable to resist, he caressed the silken skin along the backs of her fingers with his thumb. The faint smell of smoke drifted from her like a match just snuffed. Perhaps she had stoked the fire earlier. She shifted, and the scent faded, leaving only the natural fresh sweetness of her. The heat of her breath touched his cold skin. Mirroring his movements, she let her thumb drift over the back of his hand. Archer felt the touch along the whole of his body. He held himself still, breathing light and fast from the effort.

“Your hand,” she whispered.

He knew what she meant and smiled. “Don’t get excited. It is my left hand.” His smile grew when he saw her frown of disappointment. His Miranda Fair loved a good mystery. That she had a little puzzle piece snatched away irked her, undoubtedly.

“You’re an awful tease, Archer,” she murmured.

He chuckled. God, but it felt good to be with her. The horrors of the night melted away, receding to some shadowed place, remembered but no longer as real. “Yes,” he whispered. “But you like that about me.”

The heavy fan of her lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks. “Mmm…” Her mouth curled. “Just don’t hold it against me in the morning.”

“Never,” he promised. Warmth spread through him, contentment tempered by a sweet ache that made him yearn to hold her close against him. He swallowed thickly. With his free hand, he touched her hair and tucked an errant lock behind her ear. The movement was quick and light, not enough for her to truly feel the skin on his right hand. His need to kiss her made him tremble. But he would not. One kiss and he would be making love to her. He could do that. Here in the darkness she wouldn’t see. Only his Miranda would not be content with just that. She would want to know what he hid. He would not be able to bear it.

Unbidden, he thought of another woman. Marissa, Archer’s former fiancée. Theirs was an arranged match. Yet she had been a lifelong friend and a confidante. Until he had told her of what he’d done, and shown her his hand, which had begun to change. Her look of disgust and horror, the resentful anger over his “depraved and utter foolishness” burned through him still. “You’ve become the stuff of nightmares, Benjamin.” She’d left him without a backward glance. And now she was dead and gone. Like so many others.

Miranda’s lids lifted, and she looked at him with tender concern. “You’re shivering, Archer. Get under the covers.”

He closed his eyes against temptation. “I’m getting warmed by the minute. I promise.” Still holding onto her hand, he drew it a little closer, next to his heart. “Sleep now. I’m here.”

She closed her eyes on a sigh, her hand relaxing in his. The sounds of the night flowed around him for a moment before her low voice broke over it. “I was a thief.”

Archer tensed in surprise. She had told him. He knew what she had been, of course. It had enraged him when his man of business relayed how Ellis, having squandered the money Archer gave him, had forced Miranda to steal. How Ellis had hidden his misdeeds from him for so long Archer could only marvel, but the news had firmed Archer’s resolve to claim his bride upon returning to London.

“Father taught me. He’s from the streets originally, the Seven Dials. Taught me to talk like one of them, how to act, blend.” She let out a short laugh. “A lifetime of Mother trying to make me a lady destroyed in a fortnight.” He tightened his grip, and her answering smile wobbled. “I started out as a dipper, picking nobs’ pockets while giving them a pretty smile.” Her accent changed when she spoke the language she’d learned to survive. The warmth in her voice turned thicker, yet harder. “Then as a bouncer marking ignorant clerks in jewel shops.” She swallowed hard. “They never thought to look below my bosom to see how busy my hands were.”

Slowly the pad of her thumb ran over his knuckles, and his attention divided between her words and the wonder of her touch. One might think years of wearing gloves would have dampened his nerves to sensation. It only served to awaken those receptors, making every caress, every fleeting pass pure torture. He felt the very moment she tensed, but she only clung tighter as if finding his hand a lifeline.

“In the beginning, I reveled in it,” she said. “Because they were stupid enough to fall victim, not see past a pretty face.” Her brows drew tight. “I hated them as much as I hated myself.”

“If you are asking me to hate you as well, I fear I cannot comply.”

A reluctant smile touched her lips. “No?”

He squeezed her hand. “Never.”

Her smile faded. “That is twice now that I have told you a shameful story of my past. And twice you have reacted without the censure I expected.”

His thumb played along the soft crease of skin between her thumb and forefinger. “And why should I judge you,” he said quietly, “when I have surely done worse.”

“Have you?” she asked in the same tone.

Her eyes were gleaming rounds in the shadows as he spoke. “I have broken just about every commandment, save… five and nine, if memory serves. I’ve always honored my father and mother,” he said with mock solemnity. “And I don’t recall bearing false witness against anyone.”

A smile touched her lips before slipping away. “And murder?”

Settled and quiet on a soft bed with his wife, he saw with cold clarity the faces of the men he had killed. A chill touched his heart. Despite his vocal temper, he had never been a violent man. His parents had taught him the value of life. But that had been before. Victoria’s voice filled his head. Only I know what you truly are. He swallowed, feeling ill. God save him.

“Yes.” And what right did he have being near Miranda? His conscience bid him to flee; his heart held him still. “Though I can say that each time was in self-defense, it does not lessen the fact that I have stolen lives.”

Pearly white teeth gripped the plump swell of her lip as a shiver lit through her. Thunder drummed in the distance, low and rumbling. An age-old, childish fear ran down his spine, tempting him to huddle beneath the covers, and he tried to draw away, but she would not let him.

“That an innate sense of self-preservation bid you to act does not lessen the guilt, does it.” She spoke with a confidence borne of experience. He vowed then she would never know that guilt again. Never have to steal or fear. Even if he was no longer living, his money would keep her secure.

He forced himself to speak. “No, it doesn’t.”

She nodded, her silken hair a red spill over her pillow. The rain came tapping upon the window and then a violent gust of wind rattled and demanded entrance.

“I have never told anyone that story,” she said after a moment.

The pillow beneath his head rustled as he lay watching her. “Why did you tell me?”

Her small hand clasped his tighter, drawing him near. “The whole of my life I have relied on beauty first, brains second. It was expected, even requested. But you saw right through me from the start. You are the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my face and wanted to know me for me. And I find myself wanting you to know the whole of me.”

I love you. For one agonized moment, he feared he had said it aloud. His soul fairly shouted it. Three long years and not a day had passed when he hadn’t thought about her. She’d filled his mind until she’d become the quintessence of womanly perfection, so much so that when he had come for her, he feared she might not live up to his impossible expectations. And she didn’t. Yes, the real Miranda was brave, loyal, and pragmatic. She was also meddling, quarrelsome, and opinionated. The real Miranda was human, and by God, she took his breath away. He knew he would love her until the end of time. What was he to do?

Thunder rumbled over the house as their breath mingled. “And you?” he managed past the tightness in his throat. “Have you not given me the same gift? Not in all the years since I’ve donned this miserable mask has anyone dared bother.”

The air between them grew heavy, languid. He would not kiss her. He would not. His heart thumped a wild rhythm against his ribs. But he could hold her. Only that. Slowly, as a man approaching a skittish colt, he reached out. She lowered her lids as his hand curled around her tiny waist. The feel of her body melting against his left him breathless for one dizzy moment. Gently, he tucked her head beneath his chin. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in, linger there for days just holding her. Did the rest of the world not realize what excruciating pleasure simply holding a woman could inflict upon a man?