Moonglow (44 page)

Ian eased back to look down at her in surprise. “One soul?”

“One soul, and one hundred years of service to the GIMs.”

One soul in place of hers, for she’d already given hers to Ian. One hundred years because the GIMs valued her connection to Ian and the lycans more than they needed souls. So she would work with the GIMs, collecting information, being their champion with the Ranulf court. A
strange thrill shot through her at the thought of being useful. Hers was a brave new world. If she had Ian in it, she could face anything.

His jaw worked in quiet fury. “It should have been me. I should have offered in your stead.”

On a sigh, she cupped his cheek. “It was my choice, my sacrifice. I’ve no regrets, Ian.”

His frown was slow to dissolve, and she gave him a little nudge upon his hard shoulder.

“You talk of thick skulls,” she said. “Haven’t
you
realized? You are life. You are the reason I want to wake each morning. The inspiration for my every breath. I took salvation, Ian. For I too would be a god with the power of your love. If I knew I had it.”

He touched her cheek softly, so softly. “That you do, Daisy-girl. Always.”

“Then”—she pulled him close—“I swear on my soul I won’t let your love go to waste. With everything I am, I give it back to you in return. I shall keep you and love you till my last breath.”

She saw the realization break over him, that she was like him now—immortal. No longer would he have to see her age as he stayed the same. For as long as they had each other, they would never be alone again.

His smile was the brilliance of the moon as he leaned down to kiss her. “Till my last breath.”

Ian and Daisy’s wedding was a rousing affair, filled with drinking, dancing, and the occasional Scot bursting into song—never mind the antics of the lycans. Indeed, the bride and groom were quite shameless in their open displays of affection. So much so that come time to depart, the groom simply tossed his bride over his shoulder and carried his woman off. The bride laughed the whole way out.

“Show-off,” muttered his best man, Archer. Though no one was fooled. Least of all his own wife, who gave him a secretive smile and tugged him home shortly thereafter.

As for Poppy, she returned to an empty house. For three months she had endured this painful, solo homecoming. Three months and it did not get any easier. She went through the motions of removing her hat, lighting the lamps. Things must be done, life must go on. Life would go on, even if every breath she took hurt, even if her joints ached when she moved. Sorrow and loneliness were an insidious evil, for they lived in the mind. One could not take a tonic and see them dissipate.

Minutes passed as she stood in the center of her abandoned home. She would not hear his footstep on the landing or smell the fragrance of his pipe when the sun set and the teakettle whistled. And she would not feel the warmth of his arms holding her when the rest of the world assumed she was too strong to need comfort. She
was
strong. Only, she was no longer whole.

M
iranda put the unpleasantness of murder out of her mind. She would enjoy herself with Archer, if not for her sake, then for his. And surprisingly, they did enjoy the day. The museum was enormous, its collection of wonders vast.

When the hour grew late and most patrons made for home, Archer slipped an obscene amount of money to the guard to allow them to stroll the upper floors uninterrupted. Miranda was glad for it. A day spent in public with her husband made her painfully aware of how life was for him. Her heart filled with tenderness when she realized what this day out cost him.

They stopped to study Greek sculptures in one of the upper galleries, and she turned to him, intent upon offering her gratitude.

“Why haven’t you left me?” Archer interrupted, scattering her thoughts.

“What do you mean?” But she knew. Her throat went dry and sore. How could she tell him, when she hadn’t truly admitted it to herself?

They stood alone in a small alcove facing an ancient frieze. He gestured toward the stairs where the sound of patrons leaving the museum drifted up. “All of them think I am a killer.”

He ran a finger along the balustrade at his side, watching the movement. “Morbid fascination compels society to tolerate me. But you…” Archer lifted his head, yet would not turn to face her. “Why haven’t you left? Why do you defend me? I… I cannot account for it.”

“You cannot account for a person coming to your defense when it is needed?”

“No. Never.”

His quiet conviction made her ache.

“I told you, Archer, I will not condemn you based on your appearance alone.”

His stillness seemed to affect the air around him, turning their world quiet. “Come now, Miranda. You heard all that Inspector Lane had to say.”

Caught, Miranda’s breath left in a sharp puff, but he went on.

“Sir Percival called my name moments before he was murdered. Another servant saw someone dressed like me leaving the grounds. All very damning. Why did you not leave then?”

Miranda’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. “How did you know I was there?”

He made a soft sound, perhaps a laugh, and fell silent. So then, he would not answer unless she answered first. So be it. She would say it. “It was you. That night. You are the man who saved me in the alleyway.”

Stillness consumed him, as if he’d frozen over. “Yes.”

She released a soft breath. “Why were you there?”

Archer studied her quietly, a man of stealth waiting to
see which direction she would bolt. “It was as you guessed those years ago. To kill your father.”

She knew it, but still the admission shocked her. “But why? What did he do to you?”

“Damage enough.”

She bit the inside of her lip to keep from cursing his reticence.

The silence between them stretched tight until Archer spoke, low and controlled and just a bit bemused. “I admit the desire to kill one man,
your
father. Yet you do not question that I might kill another?”

She met his gaze without falter. “Capable, yes. But you did not. Just as you did not kill my father when you had the chance.”

He blinked. Surprise? Or guilt? For an endless moment, she waited.

“You have given me your word, Archer, and I will believe it.” It was a true answer. But not the whole truth. “I will not run from you.”

The wool of his frock coat whispered against marble as he turned to fully face her. She stared back, unguarded for a pained moment. Warmth filled his eyes. He understood. He took a quick breath, and his voice dropped. “You’ve no notion of the effect you have on me.”

The words gave a hard tug to her belly. She closed her eyes and swallowed. “If by effect, you mean finding yourself in uncharted waters, wondering whether you are coming or going…” She stared at his shirt, watching his breath hitch. “Then I fear you have the same effect on me, my lord.”

Cool quiet surrounded them, highlighting the soft rush of their mingled breathing. Slow as Sunday, his hand lifted, and a wash of heat flowed over her. But his hand moved to the hard mask at his face. The mask came off
with a small creak and a burst of Archer’s freed breath. Light hit his features, and Miranda froze.

“Has my face gone blue?” he asked softly when she stood with her mouth hanging open like a haddock.

His lips curled as he enjoyed his joke.

Lips. She stared at them in shock. She could see his lips. Behind the carnival mask, he wore a black half-mask of smooth silk. It molded to his face like a second skin, revealing the lines of a high forehead, a strong nose, and a sharply squared-off jaw. The mask covered almost all of his right side, down along his jaw to wrap fully around his neck. But the left side… The tip of his nose, his left cheek, jaw, chin, and lips were fully exposed.

The shock of seeing all-too-human skin upon his face rendered her nearly senseless. His complexion was olive toned, showing some Mediterranean origin in his background. How on earth the man could have sun-bronzed skin was a mystery to her. He must have shaved before they left, for his cheek was smooth. Grooming his face for a world that would never see it. A pity.

A small cleft divided his square chin. But his lips called her attention once more. They were firmly sculpted; a sturdy bottom lip that almost begged to be bitten. The upper lip was wider than the bottom and flared gently in perpetual humor. Roman lips. She hadn’t thought…

“You keep gaping like that, and the flies will come in.”

She watched in fascination as the lips moved, amazed to hear his familiar rich voice coming from them. One corner lifted. “Are you going to stare all day? Should I have a self-portrait done for your contemplation?”

She looked up into his eyes, heavily lidded and deeply set, though covered with some sort of black cosmetic, kohl perhaps. Not an inch of his true skin color showed
around his eyes. Even so, there was kindness in those endless gray depths. His eyes drew a person in and kept one wondering.

“Yes,” she said.

Archer’s jaw twitched. “ ‘Yes,’ you are going to stare? Or ‘yes,’ you would like a portrait?”

Despite his teasing, he was uncommonly still, poised as though she might bite.

“Yes, I am going to stare,” she said crisply.

“Why are you cross? You said you didn’t like my other masks. I offer you a different view.”

“You walked around wearing those terrible masks, filling my head with all sorts of horrible visions and… and…” Her hand flailed in front of his face. “And all along, you could have worn this.”

His lips compressed, but they couldn’t thin entirely. “What makes you think that there isn’t a horror lurking still behind this mask?”

“It isn’t the horror,” she retorted. “It is the subterfuge.” The line of his brows rose beneath the mask. “Those carnival masks must not be comfortable in the least. Blast it, you can’t even eat or drink wearing them!”

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.

“Why, Archer? Why shut the world out?”

For a moment, she thought he might not answer.

“I don’t want pity.” He glared at the stern visage of the Greek centaur before them. “I’d rather have fear.”

His voice was a phantom, haunted and alone. Miranda’s fingers curled into fists to keep from reaching for him. But she understood him. Deep down, she knew she would rather the world see her beauty and overlook the pain. It had stung when he had called her a false front, because he was right.

“And me, Archer?” she whispered. “Would you have me fear you as well?”

“No!” He stopped and stiffened. “I’d rather have you imagine all sorts of horrors than study my face and believe that there is a chance a normal man might be hiding underneath.”

She flushed hotly. It was the very thing she’d started to imagine.

Light from a flickering gas lamp caressed the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheek as he lifted his chin. “Because there is not. I am not so twisted as to wear this thing if I were whole and untouched.”

He glanced at the stairwell as though he’d like nothing more than to flee. “Perhaps we should go. It is getting late.”

He moved to put on the mask once more, and her hand flew to clutch his arm.

“Don’t,” she said gently. The muscles beneath her hand hardened like granite yet he did not pull away. He loomed over her, his newly revealed features inscrutable, all the more because she did not yet know the subtleties of them. Without the warm rumble of his voice, he seemed almost a stranger to her for a moment, but for the scent of him and the familiar lines of his form.

“You startled me, Archer. That is all. I had no right to rail at you.” Absently, her thumb caressed the fabric of his coat. She forced it still. “Thank you. It is a gift you gave me, and I am the richer for it.”

Flushing and unable to meet his eyes another moment, she let him go. His silence was almost unbearable, but she could not turn from him. She had promised to stay. She gripped the cool balustrade and hoped it might keep her in place.