Firelight (17 page)

“Let me help you,” she said, taking his arm.

“Go to bed, Miranda.”

Her fingers dug into his elbow, and he winced again. A dark patch of blood stained his upper arm as well. She eased her grip but did not let go.

“Shall I make a scene?” She glanced pointedly at one of the footmen who stood at attention in the hall. “Or shall we adjourn to your rooms together?”

A myriad of emotions ran through his eyes, the prevalent one being supreme irritation. “I thought you would never ask,” he said through his teeth.

Archer’s room
. It was much like the library, paneled in mellow woods, with large, comfortable leather chairs and a long leather couch arranged before the hearth. She kept her eyes firmly away from the massive bed hung with silver velvet draping and followed Archer as he stomped over to a sideboard near the window and helped himself to a tumbler of brandy.

Her eyes went to the wide door connecting her room to his. So close. Every night so close, yet he remained the gentleman and kept his distance. That alone filled her with tender gratitude. The ache in her chest
was
gratitude, wasn’t it?

He eased off his coat and vest, staying in shirtsleeves and collar, then went to the full-length mirror in the corner. Gently, he pulled apart the torn, blood-soaked linen and inspected his wound.

“Shit.” The crisp expletive snapped through the air.

She came closer and pulled in a breath. The wound was a good six inches long and rather deep. Blue-black blood and meaty pink flesh gaped at her. The floor beneath her feet swayed.

“The muscle looks intact—” Archer’s head jerked up. “Sit down before you faint.”

She backed into a seat and watched as he pulled a stack of white linens from a drawer and pressed one to his side. The cloth bloomed crimson.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cloth. “This needs attending and I’ve no time to…” He swayed and caught himself with a hand to the sideboard.

She jumped up and pulled him none too gently to the couch by the fire. “Then let us proceed.”

“No!” His ashen mouth pinched.

She nudged his shoulder, and he fell easily back onto the couch.

“You talk of my stubbornness,” she snapped, hauling his heavy legs up so that he lay down. “You’re no better than a belligerent ox.” A lock of hair fell down over her brow, and she swatted it back.

“How,” she asked, glaring at him, “are you to attend a wound that you can’t even view without twisting your side and making it gape?”

He simply glared back, his expressive mouth set and firm.

“Well?”

“I don’t know!” he shouted, then winced.

“That is enough.” Her hands went to his shirtfront. “Let us proceed before you bleed to death.”

He caught her wrists in a surprisingly firm grip. “No.”

The childish resolve in him irked her to no end. “Is it worth your life?” she asked, still imprisoned by his hands.

Alarm flashed in his eyes, but it was ruthlessly suppressed by determination. “Yes.”

A shiver of real fear ran along her limbs. “And where does that leave me?” she asked softly.

His grip eased but the war clearly still raged inside him. She took pity and moved away.

“Here.” She took the soft woolen rug from the couch back. “We shall leave the shirt on and cover up your right side.”

He watched as she tucked the throw around him.

“I don’t deserve you, Miranda.”

The softness in his voice made her want to smile but she kept it repressed. “Yes, I know.” She straightened. “No matter, I shall soon have my revenge. Now tell me what to do.”

“Bring the lamp close. And I need more of the linen cloths.”

Miranda did as bidden, and he pressed a large bundle of linen firmly against his side.

“Can you sew?” he asked, looking a bit peaked.

“Yes, but…”

“Good. Go wash your hands. And bring back a bowl of soapy warm water. You’ll find a bowl in the cabinet by the washroom door.”

When she returned, he lay so still upon the couch that she worried he’d fainted, but his eyes found hers as soon as she drew near and set down the bowl of water.

“Go to the wardrobe over there.” He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “There is a black valise on the top shelf. Can you reach it?”

“Just.”

She set the things on the table and added the rolls of clean linen she’d found by the valise.

“Take out that length of black velvet—carefully—and the three larger bottles.” He rested his head upon the pillow. “Good. We’ll tend to the arm first.”

“How is it that you have all this,” she asked as she ripped the gaping hole on his sleeve a bit wider. The wound was superficial, a light slash across the large arc of his biceps. Firmly, she told herself that such a display of masculine strength was nothing to gape at like a blushing chit, and set her thoughts to the task at hand.

“I am a surgeon,” Archer replied, glancing at the wound. It had already stopped bleeding. “For all intents and purposes. Before… the accident I had completed medical school. I’ve taken examinations, attended lectures…” He made a sound of weariness. “Though I doubt anyone would let me practice upon them.” His wide mouth pulled wryly. “Even without the mask, a noble seeking to work in trade is unsettling to most. And to become a surgeon over a physician”—he
tsk
ed wryly—“it was quite boorish of me.”

Gently, she washed and bound the cut with a long length of thick linen cloth, following his precisely put instructions to the letter.

“Now the other wound.” His deep voice was rougher now. He took a restorative breath and eased the cloth away from his side. The cut welled but the bleeding had slowed.

He let her pull the shirt farther apart so that she might wash the skin around the wound. “Don’t let that water in; we’ll clean it with iodine in a moment.”

When his skin was reasonably clean, he gestured to the implements on the table. “Unroll that velvet bundle. And watch your fingers. There are knives within.”

The rolled velvet revealed its cache of sharp little blades, and three wicked-looking needles that might have been fishing hooks but she knew were not.

Her eyes went to Archer.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said patiently.

“I do.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What now?”

“The clear bottle is distilled alcohol, the red iodine, and the green laudanum.” The corner of his jaw twitched, and he paled a bit. “Hand me the laudanum and dab the wound with the tincture of iodine, in that order please.”

Archer uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a deep pull from it.

“Careful, you can easily overindulge!” The thought of him dying from laudanum poisoning tightened her chest.

A weak smile touched his lips, the drug already glazing his eyes. “I know the proper dosage for myself. I assure you, the effects wear off quickly with me.”

He settled back with a sigh and watched her with serpentine eyes as she doused a cloth with the iodine and pressed it to the gaping wound. Archer let out a roar, throwing his head back as his body went taut. “Christ’s blood!” he shouted and fell limp against the couch.

Miranda retrieved the dropped cloth with hands that trembled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling close to tears.

Still panting softly, he managed another smile. “It’s unavoidable,” he rasped. He took another cloth to hold it at his side, lest the blood flow again, then glanced at the row of knives and needles. “Select the smaller of the needles.” He licked his dry lips quickly. “There is a spool of black thread in the bag.”

Her stomach flipped over as she stared at him in horror.

He held her gaze. “You said you could sew.”

“I…” Her lips pursed. She could not very well tell him that she’d stupidly assumed he’d ask her to mend his shirt.

A sound of impatience tore from his throat. “Hand me the needle and thread before I bleed out here on this couch.” He reached out, and the wound gaped.

Miranda started. “No.” She caught hold of his arm and placed it over his head so that his side lay smooth. “I’ll do it. You are in no condition.”

He blinked back at her but let the arm stay. “The same could be said of you.”

Ignoring that, she set about her task. The sharp little needle curved like a sickle and had a small eye for threading on the blunt end.

“Do not make the thread overlong,” Archer instructed. “It might catch in the flesh and cause tearing.”

Her grip wobbled. She ground her teeth and cut the thread.

A small pair of tweezers with handles like those on scissors held the needle secure. From short, clear instructions, she learned she was to hold the edges of the wound close together with one hand while piercing his flesh and sewing it shut with the other. She listened intently, focusing on the wound instead of the man. But the needle froze in her hand, refusing to plunge in.

“Miranda…”

She blinked up upon hearing her quietly spoken name.

His skin was ashen. Beads of sweat covered his jaw and ran down from beneath his mask, but his eyes were steady. “It is only a simple handstitch.”

“But it is on you,” she said with a weak voice.

His hand fell over hers. “I promise not to cry.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, and her confidence returned with a rush. She bit back a smile and bent her head close to his side.

“Remember, ninety degree angle going in, a quarter of an inch depth. Hook through, then ninety degree out.” He took another long drink of the laudanum.

His flesh resisted and then gave with a silent pop. Archer went rigid but made no sound as she set to work. Once the first stitch was made, her hand grew steadier, the stitch more sure. The sound of Archer’s light breathing filled her ears.

“Do you really believe that you ruined my father?” she asked, pulling the thread gently through his flesh. His side twitched then stilled.

“No,” he admitted in a low voice. “That is one sin that I do not carry on my conscience.”

She adjusted her hold, taking care not to push the flesh too tight or slack. Gentle firmness was needed. “No,” she averred. “That sin is mine.”

Archer was silent but Miranda could feel his eyes upon her. “I thought,” he said after a moment, “Ellis’s fortune was lost at sea.”

“Mmm…” The needle pierced through the red, weeping flesh and then out again. “But had he not already lost more than half his fortune in a warehouse fire, he would have been able to recover from that setback.”

The muscles along her neck and shoulders ached. Archer’s stare did not help matters.

“It happened when I was ten,” she said. The wound was almost closed, just a few stitches more. “I often stole into the warehouse. I called it my treasure chest.” The final stitch pulled through. She tied it with a small knot and then took the iodine-laced cloth and dabbed the length entirely.

“I… I was showing a trick I’d learned to my friend…”—
like an utter pompous fool
—“I didn’t mean to start a fire.”
Rather, she hadn’t meant for it to get out of control
. Her hands fell to her lap where they lay like leaden weights. She dared a glance at Archer and found his gaze inscrutable.

“You were only ten,” he said, reading her as usual.

“I know that now.”

He held her eyes with his. “Good.”

It was that simple. One small word and a weight lifted from deep within her breast. She surveyed her handiwork. It looked awful, lumpy and red, with ugly black stitches marring the flesh.

Archer lifted his head and looked down the length of his nose to see the wound. One corner of his lips lifted. “Good,” he said, surprise mixing with admiration. He glanced up and his smile deepened. “Very good, Miranda Fair.”

She made a small face. “It looks horrid.”

Archer rested his head again as she packed up the materials. “It always does in the beginning. The swelling will ease. Clean the needle with alcohol,” he added with a glance at her progress.

A comfortable silence settled warmly over them as she cared for his instruments.

“You remind me of her, you know.”

Archer’s sudden yet detached observation gave her pause. She looked up to find him frowning as though he hadn’t meant to speak those words.

“Of whom?” she asked in a low voice. The stillness in him made her wary, as if she ought to whisper.

His lips curled in a sad smile. “One of my sisters. I had four of them. Beautiful girls with shining black hair, soft gray eyes. Claire was the baby, nearly ten, then Karina, who was eighteen and preparing to come out to society, Rachel, who had her first season the year before and was a beautiful nineteen-year-old fighting off ardent suitors at every turn.” He smiled thinly. “I had a devil of a time with her. She liked attention and received more than her share.

“I loved them all. I was twenty-six when my father died. The running of the family fell to me. I took to the task without resentment. It was the role I had been born to play. Until that spring.

“There was a duel, fought in Rachel’s honor. A young fortune hunter had thought to ruin her reputation by stealing a kiss during a spring fete. I did not kill him, but my mother thought it best I stay out of town for a bit. She sent me to Italy.” He sighed lightly. “Mother always knows best, hmm? I loved it there. I might have stayed indefinitely.”

He blinked up at the ceiling. “Three years later, influenza hit London. Mama, the girls, they fell ill.” The thick column of his throat worked. “I came as soon as I heard. It was too late for Mama, Claire… They were gone and buried by the time I arrived. Rachel soon after.”

Only the flutter of his lashes betrayed any movement. Miranda felt his pain in her own heart. A thought occurred to her. “You said you had four sisters, save you named only three…” She trailed off as his eyes lifted, and the anguish in them drove the breath from her body.

“Elizabeth…” It was a dry husk of an answer. “My twin.” Archer closed his eyes. “Her mind was my mind. We never needed to use words between us. I knew her thoughts as my own. Mother said we used to turn at the precise moment when sleeping in our cots, though we did not share one. She was… I could not…” He broke off with a choked sound and then stared listlessly into the distance.