Firelight Page 2

  The tip of the knife dug in a little farther as her soft voice rumbled at his ear. “I may do both yet.”

  He could only chuckle. “I am honored. You had this pig sticker in your boot, and you saved it for me.”

  “I hadn’t the opportunity to use it on those fools. Not with you blundering in my way. But make no mistake, I would have done so.”

  Brusque pats flanked his side. The touch was impersonal, and driving him mad all the same. His flesh tensed before each hit, waiting for the contact with taut anticipation.

  “They might have taken your point to heart had you pulled out the knife from the first.”

  He could feel her head shake. “Not those two.” A smile hid beneath the professional tone of her voice. “They would have leapt at the opening. They wanted the fight.”

  Archer had to agree.

  “Besides,” she said crisply as she ran a hand down his outstretched arm, before kneeling to check his boot. “I do not particularly like violence.”

  Ha! “I’d say you excel at it.”

  Her breath puffed warm against his thigh, making his quadriceps twitch. “Sweet talk won’t save you.”

  He affected a sigh. “My own folly for protecting a child.”

  “Child,” she scoffed. “I am nineteen years old. Older than most Mayfair debutantes offered up for sale. Hardly a child.”

  Ah, yes, and didn’t he know it.

  Cautiously, she felt along his right leg, before moving on to his left. Oddly, she didn’t pick his pockets. She left his money purse alone.

  “Pardon, madam.” He glanced down to watch the top of her head bobbing about like a copper globe by his upper thigh. Illicit thoughts flared hot at the sight. He struggled to keep his tone light. “Save when one has lived as long as I, nineteen years is little more than a flicker in time.”

  Amusement danced in her voice. “You’re an old lecher, are you?”

  He was thinking of becoming so. Should she, say, move her hand a few inches to the left… He cleared his throat. “Old enough.”

  She made a noise under her breath. “Liar.” She was at his left hip now. “Your form doesn’t feel elderly in the least.” If she only knew. “You’re musculature is quite—”

  He felt the precise moment when everything changed—the subtle increase in tension in her hand, a stutter in the efficient way she moved, the shift in her breathing from strong and determined to light and agitated. The answer in him was instant, painful arousal. For a moment, he couldn’t think. He hadn’t been noticed as a man in so long that his mind barely held the echo of such memories. But his flesh… his flesh remembered the pleasure of touch all too well.

  Slowly, her slim hand smoothed over the swell of his buttock, lingering there. A shocked laugh choked his throat, the sound muddled by a stifled groan that her intrigued touch elicited. The saucy little sneak thief was copping a feel. He felt inclined to turn around and let her get a handful. Christ, this was madness.

  Her breath came in hard rasps, audible and so like those of a woman being tupped that Archer’s head grew light, all available blood surging down to the throbbing pain in his cock. His forehead fell against the brick wall with a thud. Bits of mortar drifted like dust over his wrists as he clung to the wall like a buoy.

  Inquisitive fingers combed his inner thigh, testing its hardness, and surely feeling the trembling there. His cock swelled, drawing so tight and hot it quivered. Sweet Christ. This time he could not bite back the low groan that filled him. It broke whatever spell she was under. Her breath caught sharply, and she snatched her hand away as if scorched.

  He forced himself to turn, grateful for the protective cover of his cloak. She stood gaping at him as if she couldn’t quite understand what had happened. A lovely rose tinted her cheeks, her fiery hair swirling in the cold wind. Already she was fading away, stepping back into the moonlight. The heat in him cooled, leaving him with a familiar hollowness just under his breastbone. His throat closed in on him.

  “No weapons,” she whispered.

  “No.” He clenched his fist to keep from reaching out.

  “Well, thank you, then.” She backed up another step. “For speaking out. Unnecessary, but kind.”

  “Wait.”

  She halted.

  He stared blankly for a moment, not knowing what to do. When she looked as though she might move, he fumbled with his pockets. Give her something. Make her stay.

  “Here.” The coin in his hand flashed in the weak light as he held it out. “Take it.”

  She did not hesitate. One second it was between his fingers, the other it was gone. He watched as she inspected it, the red wings of her brows knitting together. “West Moon Club?”

  “It isn’t proper currency,” he said as the frown grew. “Just a silly trinket made by men who have nothing better to do with their time. I’ve no use for it any longer.” No, because they had cast him out. The emptiness in him became pain. He hated the coin and everything associated with it. Of all the things he could have reached for in his haste, why had it been that?

  One red brow rose as she glanced up at him, considering.

  “It is pure gold.” He was babbling like a maiden. Irritation flushed within him. He bit it back. “Melt it down and sell it when you have need.” The idea gave him a certain joy.

  Her fingers closed around the coin. “You think I’m too proud to take it?”

  His lips twitched. “On the contrary. I think you pragmatic enough to make good use of it.” He didn’t offer her the wad of bank notes he had in his pocket. A gift was one thing. Charity was another.

  Green eyes slanted up at him. “Silver-tongued devil. But you’re wrong. I don’t take gifts from strangers.”

  He opened his mouth to protest when she flicked her wrist. The knife in her hand hissed through the air, embedding itself with a thud into the wall next to him.

  “A trade, however.”

  Oh, he liked this girl. Keeping his eyes on her, he pulled out the knife with ease. The slim, black-enameled hilt was warm from her touch. That she trusted him with the knife left him oddly expectant, as if for once the next sunrise might be a welcome sight. “A trade it is,” he rasped.

  “Go on, then,” she said. “I’ll not leave until you’re well out of here.”

  Deliciously peremptory. His gut tightened and went hot.

  Come with me. He’d take her to a tavern, buy her ale and bread, tease her simply to hear her talk, to watch her all night and revel in the way she commanded those in orbit around her. Only then she’d see him. And run. The heaviness in his chest was a crushing thing.

  “As my lady wishes.”

  She gave a start. She hadn’t truly thought he’d obey, and it made him chuckle. God, he hadn’t smiled this much in years. The muscles along his chest ached from his recent laughter. When had he last laughed? He could not remember.

  Desperate yearning returned, for in her unflinching stare, the way she did not hesitate to speak to him, he saw the reflection of his own salvation. A man no longer cast out to the shadows, but seen. If there was a greater gift in this world he knew not of it. Archer was not fool enough to turn away from a gift.

  Hector Ellis’s daughter. So the man would have to live. Archer turned a new plan over in his mind. One Archer knew Ellis would agree to, for a man such as him would agree to anything to save his own skin. A little time was all that Archer required.

  Taking a deep breath, he made himself say the words he must. “Good night to you, fair Pan.”

  Chapter One

  Three years later. London, September 1881

  No, no, farther down… yes, that’s the one… there!” Satisfaction pulled at her lips. “Ah, how lovely.”

  The man at the counter flushed in pleasure. His gaze strayed to her smiling lips and held for a moment past propriety. “The loveliest I’ve seen, Miss.”

  His small boldness sent another wash of red over his fair skin. Miranda leaned farther into him. The glass countertop beneath her e
lbows gave a small groan, and the clerk swallowed hard, his gaze flittering between her mouth and the swells of her breasts that plumped over her bodice. His grip tightened on the ruby bracelet he held in his hands.

  So easy, really, to seduce a man with the simple act of arching one’s back. A woman ought to feel satisfaction in the sight. Miranda only felt as she always felt: dirty, wrong, empty.

  “Set it down,” she murmured before clearing her throat delicately. “Let me see it in the proper light.”

  Gently, he set the bracelet among the others, dozens of necklaces and bracelets strewn out over the small counter. Too many wares pulled out for display than was prudent or proper. So very accommodating. And a mistake only a befuddled clerk would make.

  Miranda set her chin upon her hand, the act bringing her arm against the side of her breast, lifting it further into view. The clerk smothered a noise, his eyes riveted to the sudden increase in displayed flesh. Her skin crawled. She did not flinch, only looked up at him with a small secret smile. You and I understand this forbidden desire between us, it said to him. Her free hand settled with the lightness of a feather upon the pearl necklace lying near her ribs.

  “Any one of these jewels would do you credit, miss.”

  Her finger hooked over the row of pearls. Slowly. Slowly. Countless times she had done this, yet every time felt like the first. Every time filled her with terror. Never let it show.

  She mocked a wounded pout. “The jewels credit me, sir?”

  His thin mouth worked as he flushed. “You misunderstand. They pale against your beauty. Were I a ruby, I would despair at being noticed while in your presence.”

  A genuine smile tugged at her lips. Plain and bashful, he might be, but the young man had a romantic heart and the beginnings of a poetic tongue. It was his whey-face and quick blushes that had made her select this shop that rested at the edge of respectability. The little shop specialized in fine jewels pawned by aristocrats whose wealth was dying. A place new wealth bought baubles for their town-kept mistresses. A place where a young, unescorted woman might go, pretend to shop for jewels far past her means so that she might flirt with the young clerk she had her eye on.

  It was the role she played. Letting him see her walk by his window once a week. Making eye contact before turning away with a blush. And then working up her courage to finally enter. She dipped her head and blushed.

  “You are too kind, sir,” she murmured.

  He fairly glowed with pleasure, and her heart ached. Too good a boy to ruin. For he would be ruined when his master found out what he had let happen here. But she could not return empty-handed. It had been too long. On the inside she screamed. This is my life, and I hate it. I hate it. She returned his smile.

  The shop bell trilled, and the young man started as if caught with his hand in the biscuit bin. Two plump matrons entered, giving him a curt nod. Like Miranda’s, their gowns were slightly out of date and well-mended, but unlike with Miranda, the clerk took notice and did not jump to assist them.

  Miranda trailed a gloved finger down her neck.

  “W-would you like to try one of them on?” he asked.

  She licked her lower lip, a tiny flicker of pink tongue that kept him riveted. “I don’t think I should.” It took no effort to make her lips tremble. In truth, she felt like crying.

  “Merciful heavens!”

  The matron’s exclamation made them both turn. The older woman pressed her hand upon her ample chest and grabbed hold of her companion.

  “Oh, Jane, look who it is!”

  Her friend paled and made an attempt to support her friend. “Who, Margaret?”

  “The Dread Lord Archer! His coach is coming up the street!”

  “No!”

  Both women craned their wrinkled necks to peek between the gold lettering upon the shop window. Miranda stopped short of rolling her eyes. What a pair, these two. Her fingers tensed to take her prize but she held firm. Slowly. Slowly. Marks always felt it if one rushed. It was instinctive.

  “I’ve seen him,” hissed Margaret. “Late one night on the way home from the theater. He walked along Piccadilly as if he had every right to do so. I swear I nearly swooned from fright!”

  “You poor dear. What has the world come to when men such as he are permitted to roam the streets?”

  Miranda had never heard such censorious drivel.

  “My dear, he is aristocracy,” said Margaret, “and as rich as Croesus. Who would dare question him? I heard he has sent at least four men to hospital for simply looking at him in the wrong light.”

  The conveyance came flush with the shop window. Miranda caught a glimpse of the black top hat and cloak of a coachman, a black coach with a white shield upon its door.

  “Heavens, he looked at me…” Jane shuddered, and with a moan, her eyes rolled up in her head.

  “Jane!” Her friend tried to grab her as the woman began to topple.

  “Here! Here!” The clerk jumped up, running to catch the hare-brained woman.

  There was something to say for flighty females. Miranda acted, slipping the necklace into her skirt pocket as she rushed to aid, accidentally brushing several necklaces off the counter in her haste. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, frantically trying to gather the jewels and succeeding in making a muck of it. Ropes of gold and gems fell to the floor, a hopeless muddle.

  The clerk wavered between assisting her and struggling to help the matron on the floor. Perfect.

  “What a mess I have made!” Miranda pressed a shaking hand to her brow. “I am sorry. And you have your hands full!”

  She reached the door, her heart pounding. It pounded every time. Every time.

  “Wait, Miss!” The clerk buckled, his hand outstretched as if he would pull her back.

  Hand twitching on the doorknob, she shot the clerk a regretful smile. “Good-bye. I am sorry.”

  His words were drowned out by the bell.

  Outside, the coach in question was gone, swallowed up by street traffic and drifting fog. Only now did the gaping pedestrians begin moving on. Unsettled murmurs rippled along the streets before being drowned out by the usual clatter and clang of hacks, omnibuses, and coaches rattling along the cobbled road. Miranda decided she did not want to know what the unfortunate Lord Archer looked like. She had experienced enough horrors in her meager lifetime.

  The slight weight in her pocket felt like a ton as she made her way home. Miranda’s steps stuttered to a stop as she saw the sleek, black double-brougham stretched out like a coffin in the front portico of the house. Thick whorls of yellow-green evening fog rose from the cobbled drive, ghosting over the coach’s large spoke wheels and coiling like snakes round the spindly legs of the matched black Friesians that stood placidly waiting.

  Dread plucked at her insides. Long gone were the days when their drive filled with endless lines of landaus, barouches, and phaetons as nobility and gentry alike called upon father to purchase his wares.

  With a jostle of rigging and the smart clip of hooves, the coach turned, and the crest upon the door flashed in the waning light. A white shield bisected by a heavy black cross bore the words Sola bona quae honesta upon it. Four sharp arrowheads slashed across the white planes of the shield. The hairs along her arm stood at attention, and she knew the source of her disquiet. The Dread Lord Archer.

  The coach drew near, and the form of a figure, no more than a broad black outline of shoulders and the glimpse of an arm, appeared behind the window glass. As the coach pulled away, a finger of ice slid along Miranda’s spine, for someone was staring back.

  “I shall not!”

  Her shout bounded off the bare stone walls of the dark, cramped kitchen. High and rather thready, nothing like Miranda’s normal voice. She struggled to tone it down.

  Her father moved around the battered wooden table that stood between them. His small brown eyes flashed. “You most certainly shall!” He slammed his fist to the table. “My word is law here!”

  “Bosh.” She slammed
her wooden spoon down as well, sending a splatter of mutton stew across the pudding. “Your control over me ended the day you sold Daisy off to the highest bidder.”

  The wrinkled mask of his face went pale as Irish linen. “You dare!” His hand rose to strike but held, hovering in the air and shaking, when she did not flinch.

  “Please try it,” she said quietly. Her eyes held his as the air about her began to coalesce, heating and stirring with an almost expectant agitation. “I beg of you.”

  Father’s hand quivered then slowly lowered. “I’m sure you do, daughter.” Spittle slicked the corners of his shaking lips. “See me writhe and burn.”

  Miranda shifted, heat and pain mingling within her belly, a surge that wanted out.

  “Always calling upon the fire to protect you.” He took a step closer, his eyes burning into her. “Never mind the price.”

  Like a flame in a draft, the heat snuffed, and with it, her father’s confidence seemed to swell.

  “The worst of it is that I do this for you,” he coaxed, leaning in. “You’re not a lass anymore. Not for years. Did you think to live here forever with me?”

  “No, I—” Her mouth snapped shut. She had not given the future much thought but simply lived from day to day. Surviving. No point exchanging the hell one knew for the hell one did not.

  “I think you must believe so. You’ve scared off every lad that’s come this way ever since that fool Martin…” He swallowed down his words aware, for once, that even he might have gone too far. But he rallied quickly, and his bushy brows formed a white V. “It cannot have escaped your notice that this is the finest meal we’ve had in months.” His weathered hand swept over the meager meal of mutton stew and simple brown bread pudding that Miranda was preparing. “Who do you think provided the money for this meal?”

  “I thought perhaps you’d sold the wool—”

  His dry cackle cut the air. “With the price of wool being as low as it is, and the debts I owe, we’d be lucky to dine on fish-head stew. My creditors will take the house before the year is out,” he said quietly. “And you will have no home to come to.”