Firelight (6 page)

Eula turned to shuffle into Miranda’s room, leaving in her wake the smell of camphor and old sheets. “He’ll collect you himself come dinner,” she said over her shoulder. “And don’t think of leaving these rooms by yourself.”

“And why not?” Really, Miranda had no intention of wandering this night but Eula’s high-handedness riled her.

“The dark hides all manner of sins here. No telling what horrors you’ll encounter in some shadowed corner.”

Eula’s discordant cackle taunted Miranda as the woman disappeared down the hall. Heart thumping in her chest, Miranda sat heavily on a plush settee.
This was not a mistake. The evil woman only sought to scare her
. Miranda bit her lip as she stared at the empty doorway, for one thought bothered her above all others: She wished Lord Archer would come back.

Chapter Four

A
rcher nearly ran down the hall like a frightened schoolboy. Had he some blasted malady that prompted him to act the ass at the very worst instant? Surely he must, for he’d nearly lost her before even having her. He cursed and shoved open the servant’s door. A maid coming up the stairs squeaked in alarm, nearly dropping her pile of linens. Sally, was it? New maid. She’d learn.

He took the narrow stairs upward. The footman on the next landing stepped aside, well prepared for the sudden sight of the master on the backstairs. Archer took the stairs two at a time, tugging at his cravat as he got toward the top.

He burst through the door at the top of the stair and slammed it behind him, setting the panes of glass above his head shuddering. Solitude. Already he felt his disquiet ebb.

His green house. A little glass jewel hidden away on the roof of the house. The rain rattled hard upon the glass, streaking and pebbling, hiding the world from view. It was kinder here, warm and humid. Filled with potted fruit trees and velvet roses, their fresh scent as thick as the air.

The mask first. He tore it from his head, then the inner one, and allowed himself the first fresh breath he’d had in hours. The humid air collided with his sweat-soaked skin, and his nerves twitched. He raked his fingers hard through his flattened hair, scraping his scalp just to feel the blood flow beneath the surface. The rest of his clothes followed in rapid succession. Then he moved to the water tap set high in the wall and opened it.

God it was cold. Good. He needed as much. Being trapped in the dammed coach with her had been torture enough. Archer closed his eyes and let the water pour over his head, down his heated torso. And he was rewarded with the image of that blasted reverend looking at him in the church, waiting for him to kiss Miranda—of all things. Had the man any idea of just how badly Archer had wanted to?

And her voice. It no longer held that high, girlish pip, but was warm and soft—like honey in the sun. Archer shivered. That voice, haunting him for three years. He took a shuddering breath, closed the tap, and reached for a towel.

The rain petered out to a light mist as he walked to the long cot by one of the glass walls. He reclined on it with a sigh and blinked up at a cluster of peach roses in full, audacious bloom. This wasn’t how he’d imagined facing her, still trapped in a mask, snapping at her like an arrogant bastard solely because, for the first time in years, he’d felt true embarrassment over his appearance. What must she think of him?

His forearm fell over his eyes. Ah God, and that utter rot about wanting her for an heir. Right-ho, when he couldn’t even show her who he was.
What
he was. His mind had gone blank when she’d asked him for an explanation. The truth was ridiculous, and the height of selfishness. Because he wanted her, despite all logic, all caution. Though he could never fully be with her, he needed her near. And now? Being near her wasn’t nearly enough.

How could he hide what he was from her indefinitely? His desolate laugh sounded like a stranger’s. Impossible. What he wanted was impossible.

Not impossible. Only hopeful
.

Archer smiled tightly as he heard the voice in his head. “Ah, Elizabeth. If only it were you.”

It was a game he played with himself, talking to her as though she were here. Sometimes he wondered if talking with a memory was the final push into madness. Or the only thing that kept him sane.

You deserve happiness, Benjamin
.

It was what he wanted to hear. But was it true?

A teardrop of dew rolled along the velvet edge of a rose. It hung for a suspended moment, glimmering diamond bright, before falling on his temple to skim over his brow like the stroke of a fingertip. He couldn’t remember the last time human hands had willingly touched him.

Not true. Miranda had. She had touched him as if he were just a man. He had lived on those moments ever since, pulled them to the fore when loneliness threatened to suck him down and drown him. He hadn’t meant to be away from her for so long. What ought to have been a year had drifted into three.

He took a deep breath. The air around was still, wet, and thick. Past the sweetness of roses came the heady scents of exotic orchids, strange plants acquired on his trips down the Amazon. All in search of a cure. His gaze drifted to the cluster of fire-pink flowers resembling a feather duster. That one had turned his piss red for a week. The purple seeds from some dark pit in Brazil that would have killed a normal man had him hunched over begging for mercy for twenty-four hellish hours. So many experiments. Trips to forgotten places. Strange concoctions made by tribal medicine men. Failures all. But he had been close.

Daoud, his valet, his trusted ally, had found it. The man’s clear script burned bright in Archer’s memory.

My lord, our suspicions prove correct. Alexandria held the key. I have found the answer. To be conveyed in the agreed-upon venue
.

And so Archer’s hope and salvation was tucked into a lacquered box and sent out on his fastest vessel,
The Karina
, only to be set upon by Hector Ellis’s pirates and lost to the sea. Two days later, Daoud’s body was found, his throat slit, silenced forever. Archer’s return trip to Egypt to discover what Daoud might have found yielded nothing.

Frustration made him want to crawl out of his skin. “Damn it all,” he hissed.

Elizabeth’s voice filled his mind.
You have her now. All will be well
.

“Now who sounds hopeful?” he said, blinking up at the glass roof. But there was hope. His sources told him his box might not have sunk to the bottom of the sea, but made it to England. Thus he had returned, and had been unable to keep from claiming his bride.

Sunlight broke through the gray clouds. Shafts of light hit the glass house and filled it up. And when the first rays touched him, a familiar tingling shivered over his skin. He inhaled sharply, at once feeling the surge, the heat—and the bitter failure—for he had not been able to stay away from the light. His body hummed, the light pouring through him. God help him, he was weak. He thought of Miranda, and his fist curled tight. He needed to be stronger. For her.

Then get back down there and be with her, coward
.

For a moment he thought he heard gentle laughter. Then it was silent.

Chapter Five

S
ir Percival Andrew, Second Baronet of Doddington, old as he was, had certain rituals preceding his afternoon nap. First, a kiss from his wife, Beatrice, who then drew the heavy brocade drapes closed and helped him don a dressing gown before retiring for a nap of her own. Marks, his valet, might have attended him but, as Bea often teased,
his
kiss was not half as sweet.

The second, a glass of port to be imbibed while sitting in his favorite chair before the fire. Today was no different. He settled down with a satisfied sigh, his old bones aching yet comforted by the warm hearth, and picked up the morning edition of the
Times
. The fire popped, and the paper rattled in the quiet. A peaceful moment shattered as a shout of pure incredulity broke from his lips upon reading the wedding announcement of Lord Benjamin Aldo Fitzwilliam Wallace Archer, Fifth Baron Archer of Umberslade, to Miss Miranda Rose Ellis.

“Son of a bitch!” He slammed the paper down in a rare display of temper. That bastard. Returning to England when he had promised to stay away. After all the work Percival had done to hush things up, the countless times he had covered Archer’s tracks, for the sake of all their reputations. Now in jeopardy because Archer had a twitch in his cock. Impertinent lot, the Archers. One and all. By God, it was not to be borne. The impudent whelp would have to be spoken to, firmly.

A cold wind touched his back, an icy caress from an open window. The oddity of it barely touched his mind before an arm slammed around his chest, pinning him to the chair. Heart in his mouth, he caught the sight of a black mask at the corner of his eye.

“Archer?” he rasped. Blood thundered through his ears. His bladder had let loose, the thick briny smell cutting through the cold air as the warmth seeped over his skin.

“Forgive me,” said a familiar voice that caused Percival to convulse against the chair. “But I need you to send a message.”

Steel flashed white in the soft light. A sharp burn shot across Percival’s throat. He gagged, hot blood splashing his shaking hands, splattering across the white marble mantle and the faded daguerreotype of Bea on her fortieth birthday. He took a rattling breath, tasted salt and blood upon his tongue.
Bea
.

“Are you well settled?” Lord Archer led Miranda to a table long enough to seat twenty, with silver candelabrums running down its long center. The mirror-paneled table was laden with food enough for a party. The sight of numerous silver-domed serving dishes perplexed her as the table was set for one. A single, lonely place setting next to the head of the table.

He held out the chair in front of the setting and bid her to sit.

“Yes, thank you.” She eyed the food with amazement as he proceeded to lift the lids himself. Wafts of steam rose from the dishes and, with it, the scent of rich warm food, too much to distinguish any one component but rather a miasma of such delectability that her mouth watered. “You are not eating?”

“Alas, I cannot dine with you,” he said with a touch of asperity, for the reason was obvious. “I dined earlier.”

She glanced away from the mask, wondering with chagrin if they were ever to dine together. “Then all of this bounty is for my benefit?”

“As I understand, you have forgone the pleasure of eating such foods for some time.” He reached for her soup bowl. “Oyster stew or chicken soup?”

“Oyster, please.” A happy smile pulled her lips. She hadn’t had oyster stew in years.

Lord Archer ladled the fragrant white broth into the bowl and set it down. “Whereas I have been blessed with endless bounty, yet no one with whom to share it,” he finished, handing her a small silver bowl filled with oyster crackers.

“But I could not eat all of this.”

“Well, I certainly hope you shall try a little. Careful consideration has gone into the planning of this meal,” he said lightly. “I shall be thoroughly put out should you waste away from lack of effort.”

“Wish to fatten me up, do you?”

“Mmm.” Gray eyes skimmed over her form. “How does the fairy tale go?” He rested an elbow on his chair arm. “Ah yes, I have lured you into my luscious house of candy and gingerbread to tempt you with sugared delights. And when you are nice and plump, I shall gobble you up.”

A flush of tangible heat washed like the tide over her skin. There was only light laughter in his tone yet the force of his gaze made her turn away. Stomach fluttering, she tried to look stern. “I suppose you have forgotten that Gretel outwitted the old witch in the end and roasted her alive.”

He chuckled, a deep rumbling of thunder before a storm. “How very gruesome.”

“Yes, quite,” Miranda agreed with a smile. Ah, but he was charming. Unexpected, but decidedly so. “Very well, I shall do my part. Only what of the rest?”