Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  His breath left on a soundless gasp. Embarrassment burned so hot, it pained Miranda’s cheeks. Archer’s body grew tighter, his heartbeat a tangible rhythm against her back. And then his hand, trembling with fear or perhaps anticipation, slowly began to move. Down, the tips of his fingers feathered, burning a trail toward the slit in her drawers.

  Miranda’s teeth sank into her lip. Her corset became iron hands that would not let her breathe. His fingers brushed light as a kiss against her curls, and they both let out a pained gasp. Archer’s chest heaved against her, his breathing raw as if he’d run miles.

  “Open.” His voice was a hot rasp against her ear.

  Miranda swallowed hard. One step. Her knees buckled, and she clung to the wall, her eyes still shut tight.

  His breath hitched. The blunt tip of his finger touched her flesh, and her head went light. She clung to the wall as that finger moved back and forth, so slow she thought she might scream.

  “You’re wet.” Awe and desire darkened his voice to something almost unrecognizable. A faceless stranger touching her in the black night. “Wet for me.”

  A strangled cry broke from her lips. It was all she could do.

  He slipped deeper, stroking her, learning her. She pressed her aching breasts harder into the bricks, her fingers growing numb where she clutched tight. Unthinking, she moved her hips, rocking them against his touch. The forbidden act sent a fresh burst of heat over her skin.

  Archer trembled. His mouth found the exposed skin over her bodice. His tongue snaked out, tasted her. “Faster?”

  Miranda panted, tried to find the words. “Yes.”

  Feather strokes slipped over the wet, taunting. She ground her teeth, and thrust her hips back into him. His cock was a hard weight against her back. His free hand gasped her hips, held them still.

  “Harder?” he groaned against her skin before sucking it.

  “Yes.”

  Pleasure boiled within. Her lips parted on a cry. Frantic, she rocked against him, shivering despite the white heat rolling over her. Cruelly, he pressed himself against her, not letting her move as he worked her, faster, harder. Her body tightened like a bow and then she broke, coming apart with small, pained cries.

  Archer’s teeth sank into her neck. Holding her there as the world fell to pieces and then slowly came back together.

  She returned to herself on a shudder, his hand already slipping away to hold her hip gently. His lips brushed her bruised flesh once as if to soothe her. They were silent for a moment, both of them trembling, their chests lifting and falling in unison, then she felt the realization wash over him. He drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, letting her skirts fall as he went.

  Miranda sagged against the wall. She could not face him. Not yet. The ghost of her cries hung in the air between them. Her body still throbbed from what they had done. What he had done to her. Her cheeks suffused with fresh heat.

  She felt him watching. Regretting? His silence was a cold presence against her back.

  “Go on, then,” he whispered. A deep breath sounded in the dark, and his voice gathered strength. “I’ve done you a wrong. Turn me into cheese on toast.”

  She went utterly cold. Cheese on toast. She’d only used that threat once in her life. In an instant, she spun round. “You mock me?” she hissed at his retreating form.

  Archer straightened his ascot with false nonchalance; she saw the tremble in his hand. “Never.” He looked down at his bare hand as if he couldn’t quite place it. Miranda glanced away from those skilled, long fingers. The sight of them perplexed her as much as it did him.

  “I have thought about having you against a wall since the day we met,” he said without looking up.

  “Oh. I… Oh. Then…” To say any more would expose too much of herself. She turned to face the dark cavern of the alleyway. Goosebumps rose over her skin as she thought of flashing knives and Archer falling. “That man. It almost appeared as if you knew him. Did you know who it was?”

  “I rather thought it was our killer.”

  She opened her mouth to retort but stopped as she saw the sheen of sweat along his cheek. The moonlight cast his skin marble white. For a moment he looked almost ill. Catching the direction of her gaze, he turned abruptly and strode down the alley, leaving her to follow at a trot.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  A hack rattled before them, stopping at Archer’s command. Archer walked through the curling mist kicked up by the coach and opened the door before handling her up like a sack of grain. She landed hard on the leather seat as he swung his bulk inside. As soon as he sat, the coach lurched forward. Her thighs were damp, her flesh tender. The thought of what they had done licked over her like a flame. Well, she would throw reason over it like iced water. Don’t look at him. Speak of something else.

  Archer glanced at her and smirked. “I don’t suppose you will tell me just how you intended to turn those young men who attacked you that night into luncheon?”

  She sank back into the shadows, away from his keen stare. The weak lamp above their heads swung like a pendulum, moving Archer’s dark form in and out of shadow as the coach sped down Great Russell Street toward Piccadilly. “Perhaps when you have told me what Father had done to earn your wrath that night.”

  Cold and unhinged, she crossed her arms in front of her for warmth. Their cloaks were in the museum.

  “What does it matter?” He tried to shrug out of his suit coat but stopped with a marked wince.

  “Of course it matters. I—” The cab passed under a streetlight, and she saw the black glimmer of blood that darkened his silver brocade vest. “You’re hurt!”

  She moved in close, and he shifted as far away from her as he could, which wasn’t very, considering the size of the cab and the size of him.

  “It is nothing.” Despite his protest, he pulled the cravat from round his neck and pressed it hard to his side.

  “Good God, you’re bleeding like a skinned cat.”

  “Really, Miranda, you are the most colorful speaker at times.” A smile ghosted over his lips. Sparring with her apparently restored his good humor. Or perhaps it was easier for him to brush away what they had done, she thought with a flush. But when she reached for him, he swatted her hand.

  She tucked the offending hand beneath her skirts. “This is unfair. You can save my life, assault me in an alleyway—”

  “Assault, was it?”

  “Just look at you! It’s a wonder you are even sitting upright.”

  “How odd. My definition of ‘assault’ must be in error.”

  “You are not made of iron, you know. You should have alerted me of your injury at once. You could have bled to death! What were you thinking?”

  His mouth twitched. “I’m going to assume that was a rhetorical question.”

  Heat burned her cheeks. “After all we have been through,” she continued before he could volley any more witticisms, “I cannot tend to your wound?”

  He fell silent.

  “Don’t worry, it is on your good side,” she sneered. “I won’t see anything.”

  Serpentine slits of silver eyed her with irritation. “You cannot ‘tend to my wound’ in the coach.”

  She returned his look with full measure. “Fine. Then I shall attend to it at home.”

  His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth, and she sat back affecting satisfaction, when really she wanted to hit his stubborn head. They rode in silence for a time, the lights of London moving by in a hazy blur.

  Despite her resolve, she found herself looking down at his exposed hand lying limp against his thigh, his skin shifting from gold to silver in the wavering lamplight. He had touched her with those long fingers, made her break apart inside and out. A shiver ran along her thighs. Such intimate things he had done to her. Rather, he had touched her in an intimate place. In truth, he could have been anyone there in the dark for what little of himself he gave to her. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Archer, h
er avenging angel. Always.

  Warmth filled her breast. She pulled her attention upward, to meet his eyes. Unfortunately, her gaze faltered at his mouth. An enticing mouth, curved and firm. Would it be soft? A kiss would tell her. A kiss. That was true intimacy, the conversation of lovers. She had tasted him. Heady flickers of tongue against tongue, but he had yet to truly kiss her. And she found herself craving one. Miranda bit her lip. Speaking was preferable to silence.

  “So you came to my home to kill Father,” she said conversationally. “On that we can agree.”

  Archer grunted and continued to look out his window.

  “And yet you did not. Why? Was it pity?” She tapped her lip thoughtfully, rather enjoying taunting him. “Exhaustion? I scared you away?” That earned her a snort. “What then? What was the reason?”

  He turned to face her with a glare. “Logic compels you to deduce,” he said roughly, “that it was I who singled your father out and ruined him, because it was I who wanted more than anything in life to marry you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cagy, rotten blighter. On the inside, Miranda seethed. She knew Archer well enough now to understand that he sought to divert her when he made ridiculous statements or scathing declarations. Moreover, she knew he was lying. Thus, she said nothing in return but let him stew in the knowledge that his plan to unnerve her had failed. She appeared perfectly at ease, as if she did not feel the ghost of his touch upon her skin, did not feel the slickness between her legs with every step. Ignored him when he sent her wary looks. Good, let him squirm. She was not without her own methods of manipulation.

  Her theory proved true as he strode into the front hall and headed for the stairs, clearly thinking she’d run for her rooms like a frightened mouse. The man was mad if he thought she’d let him wander off and bleed all over the house before telling her the truth. She followed, lifting her skirts a bit to keep up with his long stride. But when he began to alight the stairs, a small grunt escaped his compressed lips, and his step faltered. She was at his side in a moment.

  “Let me help you,” she said, taking his arm.

  “Go to bed, Miranda.”

  Her fingers dug into his elbow, and he winced again. A dark patch of blood stained his upper arm as well. She eased her grip but did not let go.

  “Shall I make a scene?” She glanced pointedly at one of the footmen who stood at attention in the hall. “Or shall we adjourn to your rooms together?”

  A myriad of emotions ran through his eyes, the prevalent one being supreme irritation. “I thought you would never ask,” he said through his teeth.

  Archer’s room. It was much like the library, paneled in mellow woods, with large, comfortable leather chairs and a long leather couch arranged before the hearth. She kept her eyes firmly away from the massive bed hung with silver velvet draping and followed Archer as he stomped over to a sideboard near the window and helped himself to a tumbler of brandy.

  Her eyes went to the wide door connecting her room to his. So close. Every night so close, yet he remained the gentleman and kept his distance. That alone filled her with tender gratitude. The ache in her chest was gratitude, wasn’t it?

  He eased off his coat and vest, staying in shirtsleeves and collar, then went to the full-length mirror in the corner. Gently, he pulled apart the torn, blood-soaked linen and inspected his wound.

  “Shit.” The crisp expletive snapped through the air.

  She came closer and pulled in a breath. The wound was a good six inches long and rather deep. Blue-black blood and meaty pink flesh gaped at her. The floor beneath her feet swayed.

  “The muscle looks intact—” Archer’s head jerked up. “Sit down before you faint.”

  She backed into a seat and watched as he pulled a stack of white linens from a drawer and pressed one to his side. The cloth bloomed crimson.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cloth. “This needs attending and I’ve no time to…” He swayed and caught himself with a hand to the sideboard.

  She jumped up and pulled him none too gently to the couch by the fire. “Then let us proceed.”

  “No!” His ashen mouth pinched.

  She nudged his shoulder, and he fell easily back onto the couch.

  “You talk of my stubbornness,” she snapped, hauling his heavy legs up so that he lay down. “You’re no better than a belligerent ox.” A lock of hair fell down over her brow, and she swatted it back.

  “How,” she asked, glaring at him, “are you to attend a wound that you can’t even view without twisting your side and making it gape?”

  He simply glared back, his expressive mouth set and firm.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted, then winced.

  “That is enough.” Her hands went to his shirtfront. “Let us proceed before you bleed to death.”

  He caught her wrists in a surprisingly firm grip. “No.”

  The childish resolve in him irked her to no end. “Is it worth your life?” she asked, still imprisoned by his hands.

  Alarm flashed in his eyes, but it was ruthlessly suppressed by determination. “Yes.”

  A shiver of real fear ran along her limbs. “And where does that leave me?” she asked softly.

  His grip eased but the war clearly still raged inside him. She took pity and moved away.

  “Here.” She took the soft woolen rug from the couch back. “We shall leave the shirt on and cover up your right side.”

  He watched as she tucked the throw around him.

  “I don’t deserve you, Miranda.”

  The softness in his voice made her want to smile but she kept it repressed. “Yes, I know.” She straightened. “No matter, I shall soon have my revenge. Now tell me what to do.”

  “Bring the lamp close. And I need more of the linen cloths.”

  Miranda did as bidden, and he pressed a large bundle of linen firmly against his side.

  “Can you sew?” he asked, looking a bit peaked.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Good. Go wash your hands. And bring back a bowl of soapy warm water. You’ll find a bowl in the cabinet by the washroom door.”

  When she returned, he lay so still upon the couch that she worried he’d fainted, but his eyes found hers as soon as she drew near and set down the bowl of water.

  “Go to the wardrobe over there.” He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “There is a black valise on the top shelf. Can you reach it?”

  “Just.”

  She set the things on the table and added the rolls of clean linen she’d found by the valise.

  “Take out that length of black velvet—carefully—and the three larger bottles.” He rested his head upon the pillow. “Good. We’ll tend to the arm first.”

  “How is it that you have all this,” she asked as she ripped the gaping hole on his sleeve a bit wider. The wound was superficial, a light slash across the large arc of his biceps. Firmly, she told herself that such a display of masculine strength was nothing to gape at like a blushing chit, and set her thoughts to the task at hand.

  “I am a surgeon,” Archer replied, glancing at the wound. It had already stopped bleeding. “For all intents and purposes. Before… the accident I had completed medical school. I’ve taken examinations, attended lectures…” He made a sound of weariness. “Though I doubt anyone would let me practice upon them.” His wide mouth pulled wryly. “Even without the mask, a noble seeking to work in trade is unsettling to most. And to become a surgeon over a physician”—he tsked wryly—“it was quite boorish of me.”

  Gently, she washed and bound the cut with a long length of thick linen cloth, following his precisely put instructions to the letter.

  “Now the other wound.” His deep voice was rougher now. He took a restorative breath and eased the cloth away from his side. The cut welled but the bleeding had slowed.

  He let her pull the shirt farther apart so that she might wash the skin around the wound. “Don’t let that
water in; we’ll clean it with iodine in a moment.”

  When his skin was reasonably clean, he gestured to the implements on the table. “Unroll that velvet bundle. And watch your fingers. There are knives within.”

  The rolled velvet revealed its cache of sharp little blades, and three wicked-looking needles that might have been fishing hooks but she knew were not.

  Her eyes went to Archer.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said patiently.

  “I do.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What now?”

  “The clear bottle is distilled alcohol, the red iodine, and the green laudanum.” The corner of his jaw twitched, and he paled a bit. “Hand me the laudanum and dab the wound with the tincture of iodine, in that order please.”

  Archer uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a deep pull from it.

  “Careful, you can easily overindulge!” The thought of him dying from laudanum poisoning tightened her chest.

  A weak smile touched his lips, the drug already glazing his eyes. “I know the proper dosage for myself. I assure you, the effects wear off quickly with me.”

  He settled back with a sigh and watched her with serpentine eyes as she doused a cloth with the iodine and pressed it to the gaping wound. Archer let out a roar, throwing his head back as his body went taut. “Christ’s blood!” he shouted and fell limp against the couch.

  Miranda retrieved the dropped cloth with hands that trembled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling close to tears.

  Still panting softly, he managed another smile. “It’s unavoidable,” he rasped. He took another cloth to hold it at his side, lest the blood flow again, then glanced at the row of knives and needles. “Select the smaller of the needles.” He licked his dry lips quickly. “There is a spool of black thread in the bag.”

  Her stomach flipped over as she stared at him in horror.

  He held her gaze. “You said you could sew.”

  “I…” Her lips pursed. She could not very well tell him that she’d stupidly assumed he’d ask her to mend his shirt.