Firelight (42 page)

A black cloak fell gently round Miri’s shoulders. She took no notice. He looked up. His dearest friend stood behind her. Leland. His face withered with age. His deep-set eyes wet. “Hello, Arch. Good to see you again.”

Suddenly dizzy, Archer closed his eyes tight. He could not look at Leland without thinking of blood, bones, Cheltenham… the others. Victoria’s mercury eyes boring into his, her dead lips opening his mouth, the smell of the grave in her kiss.
I knew you would come back to me, Archer. May you burn in hell, Victoria
. Gray light had filled him. Ice cold and final. He’d changed.

Panic grasped him with heavy hands. He surged upward, knocking Miri off balance.
Victoria. Where was she? He had to get Miri away
.

Miranda righted herself and shoved her arms into the cloak, pulling it closed. “She’s gone.”

He must have said the name aloud. He turned his head to his wife. Her eyes were flat. “She is destroyed.”

Impossible. He blinked in a daze and then saw… his legs, the long golden skin and curling black hairs dusted over them. His breath came out in a pant, his eyes traveling upward. His ruddy penis lay against his thigh, the dark sac of his balls nestled against black hairs.
Christ. Unchanged
. Whole again.

Miri’s warm hand curled over his shoulder. He whipped around. Her beautiful lips trembled, her glorious green eyes shining. “Archer.” It was a breath. “The curse is gone.”

He moved, catching her up and crushing her slim body to him. All at once, she began to sob again, great wrenching cries that showed the depth of her anguish. His name left her lips as though a plea. He sank his fingers into the cool silk of her hair.
More than my life
. Gratitude washed over him like a benediction.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her rose-scented hair. Here was home. He brought her closer. “I have you.”

And he was never letting go. Not for a lifetime.

Epilogue

The miraculous recovery of Lord Benjamin Archer, Fifth Baron Archer of Umberslade would be remarked upon for months, if not years. Indeed many a lady and gentleman could not account for it. The man had remained hidden behind a mask for as long as anyone could remember only to arrive at Lord Leland’s exclusive dance party and stroll directly out on the ballroom floor with his lovely wife, Lady Miranda Archer.

A hush of amazement ensued as guests realized the identity of the handsome man waltzing with Lady Archer. Some speculated, rather spitefully, that Lord Archer had never been disfigured, that he’d worn the mask simply to gain attention, a rather sad tactic indeed. But this theory was soon deemed illogical. A man as remarkably handsome and dashing as Lord Archer would not willingly hide such a countenance away for years. No. His recovery was nothing short of miraculous. And one could not help but smile at his good fortune upon watching him glide his wife about the dance floor as if in a dream. It was decided at that moment by many a lady of the ton, that
theirs
would be the first invitation Lord and Lady Archer received the next morning.

As for the couple in question, they realized in an abstract sort of way the stir they created, but it did not truly touch them.

“People are staring,” Miranda said, unable to hide her satisfied smile.

His gray eyes did not stray from hers, but merely crinkled at the corners. “Only because I am so handsome.” He pulled her a hair’s breadth closer. “And they are wondering how you tricked me into to marrying you.”

She chuckled, breathless as he spun her with effortless grace. “Undoubtedly. I suspect they are also put out that I have taken the best dancer in the room. I knew you’d be the very devil at dancing.” She glared but not very properly, for she was still smiling.

Soft lips brushed her ear as his hand slipped to her lower back, urging her closer. “Yes, but it takes two to waltz, my dear.” Her breasts brushed his starched linen, eliciting a soft ripple of shock through the crowded hall. “I should not waltz so well if it wasn’t for you in my arms.”

She let two fingers of her gloved hand slip past the silken barrier of his wide lapels—propriety be dammed—and he grinned in response. “Then I shall have to stay put,” she murmured. “Lest you suffer any embarrassment.”

All in all a good plan. And their happiness was a contagion, causing many a couple to dance a hair’s breadth too close for propriety’s sake. As the night wore on, all wished them well. All save one who stood in a far-off corner watching the couple with a pain-filled heart.
His
dream had not come true, and he wondered if he would ever find contentment. Bone weary, he turned from the room. There was nothing left for him here.

When her repressive marriage ends, Daisy Craigmore is more than ready for adventure. What she finds instead is terror on the streets of London… and an irresistible lone wolf.

Moonglow

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Moonglow

London, April 1883

M
en were already spilling into the alley as Ian charged headlong into the fray. Someone shouted in shock. A woman fainted. A ripple of terror went through the throng of onlookers, heightening the sharp smell of fear. Men both retreated in horror and shoved forward in fascination. Women were quickly ushered away.

Ian shouldered a rotund man aside. The scent of wolf overpowered his senses. Wolf and blood.
Jesus
.

When yet another gentleman stepped in his way, he found his voice. “Move aside! I’m a doctor.” Though from the overwhelming amount of blood he smelled, he rather thought his services would not be needed.

The crowd parted, and Ian took in the scene. Bile surged up his throat. Blood was everywhere, coating the walls of the town house, pooling upon the ground, and running along the cracks between the cobbles. A man—what was left of him—lay in a tangled heap pushed up against the wall, his face an unrecognizable hash of claw marks, his torso eviscerated. Just beyond, a woman had suffered the same fate, though her face was unmarred. She’d died first. He’d bet his best walking stick on it. Already the stench of decay crept over her. The body was stiff and white in the moon’s glow.

Ian crouched low and inhaled. Scents assaulted him. He let them come and sorted through the miasma. Beneath the rot, terror, and blood was the rangy scent of wolf, a city wolf—for it missed the essential freshness of country air—yet a wolf tinged with something off, bittersweet. Sickness. What sort, he couldn’t tell.

“He’s past help,” said the man beside him. Ian held up a staying hand and inhaled deeper.

Beyond the filth came a fainter scent—rose, jasmine, rosemary, and sunshine. Those notes held him for one tense moment, pulling the muscles in his solar plexus tight and filling them with odd warmth. It was a fresh, ephemeral scent that made the beast inside him stir, sit up, and take note.

A small groan broke the spell. Someone shouted in alarm. The dead man moved, rolling a bit, and the crowd jumped back as if one. Ian’s pulse kicked before he noticed the soft drape of blue silk between the man’s twisted legs.

“Bloody hell.” He wrenched the body aside. It pitched over with a thud to reveal the crumpled form of a woman covered in blood.

“Step back,” he said sharply as one wayward man tromped forward.

“Lud! Is she alive?”

Ian ignored the query. His hands were gentle as he touched the woman’s wrist to check her pulse. Slow, steady, and strong. It was from her that the scent of flowers arose. Her fine brow pinched, her features lost under a macabre mask of crimson blood. Ian cursed beneath his breath and drew her near as his hands moved over her form in search of injuries. Despite the blood, she was untouched. The man’s blood, not hers. She’d seen it all, however. Of that, he was sure. She’d been the one to scream. Then the man.

He glanced about the alley. This couple had seen the first victim. They shouted, and then they were attacked. Ian brought his attention back to the woman.

She was a handful, lush curves, small waist. He gathered her up in his arms, ignoring the protests of those around. Her head lolled against his shoulder, releasing another faint puff of sweet scent. A curling lock of hair, red with blood, fell over his chest as he hefted her higher and stood.

“She needs medical attention.” He moved to go when a gentleman stepped in his way.

“Here now.” The gentleman’s waxed mustache twitched. “You don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen.”

The crowd of men stirred, apparently taking in Ian’s odd attire for the first time.

Ian tightened his grip on the female, and she gave a little moan of distress. The sound went straight to his core. Women were to be protected and cherished. Always. He stared down the gathering crowd. “Nor a marquis, I gather. However, I am both.” He took a step, shouldering aside the man with ease. “I am Northrup. And it would do you well to get out of my way.”

Another murmur rippled among the men. But they eased away; not many wanted to risk tangling with Lord Ian Ranulf, Marquis of Northrup. Those who weren’t as convinced, he pushed past. He’d fight them all if he had to. This woman wasn’t getting out of his sight. Not until he’d questioned her. And he certainly wasn’t letting her tell the whole of London that she’d just survived an attack by a werewolf.

THE DISH

Where authors give you the inside scoop!

From the desk of Sherrill Bodine

Dear Reader,

One of my favorite things about writing is taking real people and mixing and matching their body parts and personalities to create characters who are captivating and entirely unique. And of course, I always set my books in my beloved Chicago, sharing with all of you the behind-the-scenes worlds and places I adore most.

But in ALL I WANT IS YOU, I couldn’t resist sharing one of my other passions: vintage jewelry.

Thanks to a dear friend I was able to haunt antique stores and flea markets all over the city, rescuing broken, discarded pieces of fine vintage couture costume jewelry and watching her repair, restore, and redesign them. She gave these pieces new life, transforming them into necklaces, bracelets, and brooches of her own unique creation, and it was an amazing thing to see.

I just knew my heroine, Venus Smith, had to do the very same thing, and thus her jewelry line, A Touch of Venus, was born.

And of course it seemed only fitting that Venus’s designs end up in Clayworth’s department store, the store I created in my previous book,
A Black Tie Affair
, which is a thinly veiled Marshall Fields, Chicago’s late great iconic retailer. Of course, the most delicious part is that Clayworth’s is run by Venus’s archenemy, Connor Clayworth O’Flynn, the man who betrayed her father and ruined his reputation. And yes, you guessed it—sparks fly between them, igniting into a fiery passion.