Firelight (33 page)

She closed her eyes. The rough grain along his chin grazed her jaw, his hot breath drowning her senses. “You have one option left to you.” His voice dropped to a whisper as the arms about her squeezed tight, quashing her resistance. “That is to trust your lying ape of a husband to see you safe.”

It would be so easy to relent, to melt into him and be coddled. Part of her wanted to, with the desperation of a child. Yet where would that leave him? She wrenched her head back to glare at him. “You cannot expect me to—”

His lips crushed hers, a bruising force that pushed tender flesh against hard teeth. She whimpered as his hands clutched her head with unmoving strength, and his lips nipped and sucked for one sharp moment. Then she was free, stumbling back without an anchor to steady her.

Archer’s chest heaved as he glared in dark fury. “I cannot see you die!” he shouted. Startled crows scattered from the trees in a flurry of wings and wild caws.

He spun round with a flap of coattails and strode over the lawn, boot heels crunching upon the freezing soil. She flinched as his final words boomed out like cannon fire over the emptiness.

“I will not!”

Chapter Twenty-seven

M
y lord?”

Archer started with a sharp breath. He hadn’t heard Gilroy enter the library. The man stood slightly away from the desk, the silver mail tray in his hand.

“Mail, is it?” he asked, surprised at how weary his voice sounded as he took the letters.

The butler hesitated. His eyes were rheumy nowadays. Archer looked away from them. He did not think he could watch Gilroy fade as well.

“Is there something you wanted, Gilroy?”

Gilroy’s thin mouth compressed. Yes, there was something he wanted very badly to say. That was obvious. Only years of training prevented the man from speaking plainly. Gilroy drew himself up full.

“Lady Archer has declined dinner,” he said without a hint of reproach. Which only made Archer’s transgression more clear. “Shall I set up for one? Or perhaps bring a tray in here?”

The leaden weight in Archer’s stomach intensified. Miri no longer wanted to eat with him. He ached. In every muscle, in his heart, it hurt to breathe now. Yet she still inflamed him. Her honeyed scent, the way she lifted that one amber brow when he said something she did not agree with, made him
want
.

Archer scrubbed a hand over his jaw. Gilroy was still waiting for a reply.

“I find myself not entirely hungry either. Let the staff have it.”

“Very well, my lord.”

Archer did not look up from his desk as Gilroy left but slowly thumbed through his mail, if only for something to keep his hands occupied. A thin missive stopped him. Although it had been years, he knew that handwriting quite well.

His fingers were clumsy, tearing open the envelope in haste. Something inside him already knew what the note would say.

It can be done
.

–L

His eyes went to the lunar calendar lying on the desk. Two days left until the new moon met the winter solstice. This night and one day, really. All that he had left to spend with Miranda. He raised his head, listening intently. Miri. He could just hear the soft steady sound of her breathing, the faint rustle of her dress when she moved. Archer rose from his desk. It was cowardly and selfish, but he needed her like he needed air.

She was in the salon, sitting unseeing before the backgammon board. A pang grasped Archer’s heart at the sight. Candlelight highlighted the creamy curves of her cheeks, setting her rosy hair aglow. For one precious moment, he could not breathe. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard.

“Miri.”

She turned, stiffening at his unexpected appearance. “Yes, Archer?”

He swallowed past the thickness in his throat and nodded toward the board. “Play a game with me?”

He was letting her beat him, Miranda was sure. The man barely paid mind to the game but sat in silence, gray eyes glittering from behind the black silk mask, watching her every move.

She looked up from the game board to find him watching still.

“You’re staring,” she murmured and moved her piece along the board.

“Yes. You look beautiful.”

Heat rose in her cheeks. She could only be thankful for the mellowing glow of candlelight to hide it. “You told me you cared not for how I looked.”

Archer leaned slightly forward in his chair. “I am an ass, Miri. You well know it. A boorish, unpardonable ass.”

She had to smile. “So long as
you
know it.” Her voice did not work properly. She offered him the cup and dice but he did not take them. He moved an inch closer, and his large frame enveloped the small gaming table.

“I know that your beauty renders me senseless.” Archer’s well-formed mouth broke into a smile. “I look upon you, and pure stupidity flies from my mouth. The sight of you in that golden dress makes my toes numb. I want to send Monsieur Falle roses, I’m so grateful.”

She laughed, and he did too, a rich unguarded laugh that made her insides flip. “You see?” he said. “Pure, unmitigated stupidity.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth, and she laughed again. “Then I shall save you from yourself,” she said. “I am appeased. Speak no more of my beauty and spare yourself further humiliation.”

She touched his hand lightly. The smile on his lips wavered and fell. His eyes went to her hand on his, and a shuddering sigh passed over his long frame. Miranda drew back as though burned, but he continued to blink down at his hand resting upon the game board.

“Archer, what is it?” Her fingers curled closed. “Are you ill?” she whispered as the flat planes of his chest rose and fell.

“Ill?” he choked out with a sudden laugh. His gaze reached as far as her lips before he froze again, and his mouth trembled. He looked off into the fire. “Is need an illness?” he muttered as though to himself. “I suppose it is.”

“Archer,” she said sharply, for his strange attitude began to nettle her. Her insides fluttered, sensing the coming of a storm.

As though breaking from a tether, his head snapped up, and the breath left her body as she saw what was laid bare in his eyes.

“Miri.”

One word, only her name, and yet it told her all she need know, of his pain, his desire. Of what he was asking. She pushed away from the table, not knowing where she was going, only that she needed to move.

“We’ve both done so well at keeping our distance, haven’t we?” she said as he stood and stalked her. But she wanted him, so much so that her arms shook with the need to hold him.

He tried to touch her cheek, and she shifted away. “And are you happy?” he asked softly.

Happy? Perhaps. Satisfied? No. Tears burned behind her eyes, and she took an unsteady breath. “Why
now
, Archer?”

Need tightened his mouth and left his expression raw. “Because today I truly realized that I could lose you in an instant.” He took a small step toward her. “That life was not a long road that stretched before me, but here and now. And the thought of spending one more day, one more breath without knowing the feel of you in my arms has become too much to bear.”

Suddenly his hand was cupping the back of her neck, pulling her to him, his mouth soft and warm upon hers. She nearly groaned from the pleasure of it.

“I want you, Miri,” he whispered into her mouth. He pushed her against the door, the starched linen of his shirt crushing into her bodice as his tongue delved between her lips.

She moaned and clutched his lapels as he kissed her with deep, slow kisses that made her knees weaken.

“Beyond reason, I want you…” His free hand skimmed her waist, easing down to her hip. “You want me too.”

“Yes.”
Beyond reason
.

Again he stroked her, softening his kiss, and she sighed and tugged at his jacket to feel the hard muscles shifting beneath.

He pulled away a fraction. “The lights.”

Miranda broke the kiss, and he looked back, pleading for understanding. A spark of anger ignited in her breast. “You want me,” she whispered, a lump rising in her throat. “Yet you will not reveal yourself to me.”

He flinched and averted his eyes. “No.”

“No,” she repeated. She moved to go.

He grabbed hold of her shoulder and pressed his forehead to hers. They were still for a moment, his breath fanning her face. “Please, Miri. I’ve lived a lifetime of regrets. If I could have this any other way… I need you.” As if unable to stop himself, he kissed her again, tender kisses that melted her defenses. “Miri…”

His kisses consumed her. She tore her mouth away to clear her head, and Archer went still.

Each tick of the mantel clock sounded like a gong within her ears. The desolation in his expression cut into her. In truth, she needed him too. She was damned tired of denying her wants. But there were other things to consider. Fire, destruction, loss. “I’m afraid.”

The corners of his eyes tightened. “Of me.”

“No!” Miranda’s fingers curled over his lapels to keep him close. “Of myself. Of losing control.” It hurt to say, hurt to meet his eyes. She found only tenderness lingering in their gray depths.

“And I’m afraid of wasting my life always being in control,” he whispered. “But no matter what direction I take, all roads lead to you.” Gently, he rested his forehead to hers once more. “Let me come home, Miri. If only for one night.”

Home. She’d been searching for it the whole of her life. And found it in a man more elusive than shadows. “Home is not where one visits. It is where one returns to at the end of each day.”

A sigh whispered over him, and he cupped her cheek. “For all my days, Miri.”

She closed his eyes briefly then whisked open the door. “Come to me at midnight.”

“Leave the lights off,” he said as she walked from the room.

Chapter Twenty-eight

A
tomb. It was a fitting description. Miranda shifted irritably beneath the heavy weight of her bedding. The darkness was complete. She blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to some light, but there was none. Archer had chosen a cloud-filled night to voice his request.

The reason for such utter darkness started mad thoughts racing. He’d called himself a horror. She shuddered, despite the warmth of the covers. What was beneath the mask? Was he scarred? Worse? She couldn’t imagine worse.

She turned to lie flat on her back, and the skirts of her peignoir slid over her thighs. The sound of her breathing and heartbeat grew overly loud in the silence. In truth, she could not dissect Archer into parts. She saw him as a whole. She thought of Archer not in pictures but with feeling. Archer was warmth, laughter, kindness, and excitement. Her eyes prickled with unshed tears. She wanted him to come to her. She wanted to hold him, ease his pain. Above all, she wanted him to show her what it was that caused him such agony.

Something in the room changed. Miranda realized with a start that he was here. The soft sound of his tread upon the carpet filled the silence. Without sight, she could only hear, and wait. The idea suddenly terrified her.

There was a pause. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength. The covers lifted gently, and her breath hitched. The featherbed dipped as he eased down onto it.

She turned her head and tried to make out his form. There was nothing to see. Nothing but the scent of the silk dressing gown he wore, and beneath it, the delicious yet ephemeral smell of
him
. He might have been a ghost.

His breath fanned her face in soft bursts and she knew he was unsettled. “I will not harm you,” he finally whispered in a voice raw with both fear and anticipation. “Never.”

No, Archer would never harm her. But what was to stop her from accidentally harming him? He had only to touch her, and she wanted to ignite. Unable to speak, she nodded even though he could not see. The bed dipped further as he leaned into her, and the faint warmth of his body caressed her. She inhaled in a rush. The brush of his lips upon her jaw set her pulse pounding, loud enough for him to surely hear it.