Woodenly, she nodded.
“Then listen to what I am saying, and hang my motives. I thought I had convinced Da to return to Scotland and let sleeping dogs lie, but he maintains a single-minded determination.” They spun past less graceful dancers. “My father is not well. He possesses a volatile nature.”
She slowed. “Are you suggesting that he would resort to violence?”
Lord Rossberry was an elderly gentleman but he was of the height and build of the villain. And she could not discount anyone. Had Mckinnon known the truth all along and now suffered some delayed conscience?
“I am saying that the clan Ranulf has a long history of eradicating those they view as threats.”
Ice slid down her spine. She stepped out of his embrace as the last notes faded. “Then perhaps you should warn my husband.”
Something flashed in his eyes—reluctance, hesitation—she couldn’t be sure. He pushed it away with a forced, flirtatious smile. “I prefer dancing with you.”
“The dance is over.” She turned, leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor as she collided with Marie Antoinette.
Silver eyes flashed behind a lace mask. “A thousand pardons.”
The scent of lemons and flowers touched Miranda’s noise so faint that she might have dreamt it. She gave a start. Victoria? The woman slid through the crowd. Miranda tried to follow, only to be swept into the fold. The Blackwoods must have invited every family of quality in London. A miasma of smoke coming from the gas lamps and candles thickened the air, the laughter buzzing around her causing her head to spin. She could not tell which way was which, surrounded as she was by leering masks and deceased persons of notoriety. She was headed toward the rear of the main hall when a hand grabbed her arm and whirled her around like a top. Her shoulder hit the wall as the twisted veneer of Lord Alasdair Rossberry loomed before her.
She stared down at the hand that held her, then up to his face, still unable to believe he’d physically accosted her.
“Lord Rossberry! What is the meaning—”
He wrenched her arm hard and slammed her into the nearby wall with enough force to rattle her bones and send a large section of her hair tumbling down. “What did my son say to you?”
Her senses settled, and she pulled up straight. “Take your hand off me, sir, or lose it.”
Old though he may be, the man was strong as an ox and would not let go. He yanked her closer. Blue eyes blazed from reddened slits of skin. “Heartless wench, bewitching hapless men with your wicked beauty. You’ll no’ snare young Ian as well.”
She tore free, most likely bruising herself in the process. “Have care, sir.” The terrible burning within her pushed to get out. “We are in a room full of observers, and I should not like to think of what would occur should Lord Archer see you manhandling me.”
“Oh, I can well guess, ye besom. Why not find out now?” He made to grab her again but stopped as the air between them flared hot like the blast from a bake oven. Rossberry felt the change and stepped back a pace, a shadow of fear clouding his eyes.
“I would not advise it,” she said in even tones that she did not feel.
They stood silently taking each other’s measure, when a soft voice caught her attention.
“Lady Archer?” Lady Blackwood, dressed as a regal Queen Elizabeth, glided up to them, concern marring her smooth brow.
Rossberry flinched as though yanked from a trance.
“Is everything all right?” A touch of warning deepened Lady Blackwood’s soft voice as she looked pointedly at the elderly earl.
Rossberry’s twisted lips were wet and trembling as if he might start shouting. Finally, he snarled in irritation and stepped back.
“You are a fool to cast your lot with that man,” he hissed, pointing a clawed finger at Miranda. “And now you’ll pay for it, just like the others have.” Spinning around, he stalked off, leaving her alone with an equally stunned Lady Blackwood.
“I must apologize for my uncle,” she said with a flush. “He is a cantankerous, paranoid man. Though quite kind to his kin.”
“Your uncle?” The serene woman before her seemed a world apart from Rossberry.
Her lips lifted wryly. “Great uncle, actually. He gave my husband and me this house as a wedding gift.”
“How generous.” What more could she say? That he should be in Bedlam seemed indelicate.
Lady Blackwood shook her head slowly, rustling the large Elizabethan-style ruff around her slender throat. “I fear he has been holed up in the wilds of Scotland for too long.” Lady Blackwood’s small hand touched Miranda’s elbow. “Really, he is quite harmless.”
To whom, Miranda wanted to ask, but held her tongue. Lady Blackwood’s blue eyes were wide and pleading for understanding.
“It is quite all right,” Miranda said. “There is a mad aunt lurking in my family closet. We let her out, of course. But only at Christmastime.”
They both smiled. The pained smile of repressing ugliness for the sake of propriety.
“I shall think no more of it,” Miranda said with false lightness. “Nor shall I mention it to Lord Archer.”
Lady Blackwood eased visibly, but then eyed Miranda’s hair. “Oh, dear. Your coiffure has fallen.” Her cheeks pinked. “I really do apologize for the incident. Let me have a maid see to your hair. Shall I escort you to the lady’s retiring room?”
Miranda hesitated. The unruly state of her hair would surely cause gossip and speculation as a lady’s hair did not come undone without a struggle. While she’d like to think the catty gossips wouldn’t assume Archer was the brute who accosted her, Miranda knew that’s exactly the conclusion they would settle on.
“It is an easy fix, Lady Blackwood,” Miranda said. “One that I can see to myself. If there is a room I could use to freshen up, I would be most grateful.”
Thankfully, Lady Blackwood seemed to understand the implications of Miranda’s dishevelment as well. Further, Miranda did not think the lady wanted it to get out that her mad uncle had accosted a guest. “At the top of the stairs there is a small guest room,” Lady Blackwood said. “Feel free to use it for as long as you wish.”
As Miranda climbed the stairs to the guest room, she resolved to push the incident with Rossberry out of her mind. Unfortunately, it did not stop her from feeling like the fox in the wood.
Miranda had called him something foul when he’d left. An expletive so low and quick, Archer wondered if she was aware that it had escaped her lips. The word was quite apropos—he felt more like one at this moment than she would ever know. Normally, he enjoyed sparring with her, waiting to see what she’d throw back at him. But he could see that he’d disappointed her with his rejection. In truth, he had wanted to dance with her, badly. But feared if he’d taken her in his arms, he’d never let her go. He had to smile at her foul little mouth, however. It made her all the more delectable. Perhaps it was the Italian in him but every “damn” that sprung from her plump lips, every “bloody hell” uttered with her smoke-and-honey voice sent a lick of fire over his cock. Every time.
The polka moved into a waltz as he wove through the crowd while trying to keep from spilling the glass of champagne he held. It was too hot in this crush of people. His mask itched; sweat trickled down the side of his face with no hope of wiping it away. Each day it felt more like a prison. It was becoming harder to keep the world out altogether. Because of her. Miranda.
Archer’s head jerked up with a snap. That voice. He knew that voice. His chest tightened so quickly the breath left him. He sought the voice out over the buzzing of laughter and music.
“Miranda…”
Archer’s vision clouded with a red haze. The tightness in his chest turned to pain. God damned bloody hell. His knees buckled as rage flooded through him. The glass fell to the floor and splintered into a thousand shards. He was halfway to the stairs before he realized he’d taken a step.
Someone cried out as he shoved a hapless man out of his way. He quickened
his pace. Miranda’s perfume lingered in the stairwell from when she’d ascended it earlier. Archer heard that foul laugh, deepened now to a low chuckle, and then the sound of Miranda’s voice calling out. Archer convulsed. Miranda was up there, meant to hear just as he had been. She was up there, walking into that thing’s trap. Fear for Miri nearly crippled him for one awful moment, then he raced up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-three
With her hair properly pinned, Miranda emerged from the guest room feeling refreshed and more than a little foolish for letting Rossberry get the better of her. Her confidence faded, however, as she faced the gloomy darkness of the hall and realized that all of the lights had been snuffed out.
“Miranda.”
Startled, Miranda braced a hand against the wall. The voice had no direction, only intent.
“Miranda.”
“Hello?” she called.
No one responded. Logic cried out to run. But she could not. And when the door at the end of the hall creaked slowly open, she could only stare, the panting of her breath like thunder in the resounding silence.
Icy drafts of night air flowed over her heated cheeks as the door swayed back and forth. Only the wind. The French windows fronting the drive were open, the white lace curtains floating and swirling. Blue moonlight ghosted over the parquet toward the rug. She wrenched off her mask and moved forward as though entranced. Something was waiting for her.
She was going to scream. She felt it rise in her throat, trapped only by the fear that tightened all her muscles. Miranda took a step closer. And suddenly a presence was rushing up behind her. Intent upon claiming her.
She turned in mindless terror, colliding bodily with something large and dark. The thing caught her by the arms, and her scream broke free. She lashed out only to be drawn against it.
Her body knew him before her mind did. Archer. Her hands clawed at his lapels as Archer’s arms wrapped around her.
“Archer.” When she could breathe, she gave his chest an unsteady thump with her fist. “Good Lord, you gave me a fright.” But when she tried to pull away, he held her tight, his big hand cupping the back of her head.
“I apologize,” he said. It was then she felt the rapid tattoo of his heart against her cheek. “I thought I heard…” He eased back to glance at her, but his body stayed tense, alert to any threat. “Something here is amiss. I can feel it.”
She glanced at the open door, and a chill crawled down her spine. “I do, too,” she whispered.
“We are leaving,” Archer said. “Now.” He did not give her a chance to protest but tugged her down the stairs. Miranda was more than willing to go. With each step, she felt the burn of unseen eyes upon her back.
He took her down the back door and out the service entrance. Their four-in-hand landau waited in the drive with the hood up, the dark bays gleaming blue in the bright moonlight. Archer offered her a hand up to the coach. A sable rug and hot water bottle lay in wait upon the seat, and she tucked herself in, glad for the warmth. Archer was just about to follow when a loud crash echoed through the courtyard. They jumped, but a nearby footman was quickest to recover.
“That would be Henrietta,” the footman said with a glance at a small woman bent over a fallen crate of glasses near the kitchen door. “One of the maids. She’s a bit soft in the head.”
Muffled sobs reached Miranda’s ears as the poor woman tried to adjust her heavy load.
Archer jumped down from the coach step. “I’ll be just a moment.”
The footman, caught in the position of looking less than chivalrous, followed at a reluctant pace. Miranda watched Archer go, soaking in the prowling way he walked.
The violent crack of a whip and a shrill shout from above made her jump. The coach lurched forward, throwing her back in the seat as the frightened horses took off. She fumbled to right herself, dimly hearing Archer shout her name, but another, far worse sound from the driver’s seat cut his cry short—the cackle of the same fiend who had tried to kill her at the museum.
Her fingers turned to ice but a spark of familiar heat ignited in her belly. I’ll kill him, she thought with clarity. Char his bones for what he did to poor Cheltenham. But she couldn’t bloody do it while in the coach.
“Miranda!”
She turned to the back window. Archer raced down the drive after her. Hopeless, the strength of four strong bays nearing full gallop pulled the coach farther out of reach. He flung off his outer mask and did not abate. Her hopelessness turned to astonishment as she watched him surge forward, his long stride moving at speeds no man ought to possess. Archer gained. Closer. The fiendish coachman lashed his whip, urging the horses on, and the coach pulled ahead.
Archer’s speed increased and, in a magnificent bound, he landed on the running board with a thud that rocked the coach. Archer jumped onto the roof and threw himself upon the fiend with a grunt. The hard leather coach top dented beneath them.
Unmanned, the coach lurched dangerously, and Miranda fell to the floor. The sight of a large black object falling by her window drew her to the back window as Archer and the villain hit the hard gravel road and tumbled head over heels to land in a twisted heap upon the ground.
“Archer!” The coach hit a rut, and she fell back. “Bloody hell!”
The terrified horses did not break stride but seemed to gain purchase. There was only one avenue of escape, and she was not about to attempt it in a gown. Tossing about like a cork in a sea, she tore at her skirts until free. How far she’d traveled she could not tell but a clear memory of a narrow bridge and winding forest road prickled her skin. She had to be nearing those pitfalls, and a speeding coach would not make it through.
The latch to the hood lay overhead. She fell once, then twice trying to reach it. The ride grew rougher, the lamps swaying recklessly. Placing her feet on either side of the seats, she leapt upward and knocked the latch open. The front half of the hood fell down with a crash.
The cutting wind brought tears to her eyes, the clattering of the coach and pounding of hooves near deafening. Blinking fiercely, she concentrated on the four bobbing heads of the horses, blue black in the moonlight. In dismay, she saw the long reins dragging along the ground. She could never reach them.
Ahead a dark shadow cut across the moonlit road. The crick in her neck remembered that particular ditch well when they’d gone over it on the ride to the party. Too deep a rut.
The coach careened toward it, and she dove back into the cab, hitting her knees and head hard as she landed upon the floor. In the same instant, the coach crashed over the ditch with the deafening sound of squealing horses. She braced her feet and hands as the coach spun sideways, slowing down, then gaining momentum as it began to tip to the side.
From outside herself, she heard her screams, felt her body lift into the air. Wind rushed over her. By sheer will, she curled inward and hit the ground with such tumbling speed that the world blurred, the sound of breaking wood and shattering glass a roar. The weight of the tumbling carriage bore down on her, and then everything went black.
Archer’s head hit the ground with a meaty thunk. Stars lit behind his lids as he rolled, his limbs tangling with another’s, dirt spraying his eyes. For a moment, he lost all thought of who or what he was. Then he swung blindly, knowing that his opponent would soon do the same. His fist connected with a jaw harder than bedrock. Pain vibrated down his arm. He swung again and missed. A faint cry echoed down the road. Archer scrambled to his feet. Miri! Miri on the coach.
A hand clamped like a manacle over his ankle. Archer spun through the air, whipped around by the unholy force upon his leg, the light of the moon a blur before he hit the hard earth. A knee crushed into his elbow. He wrenched to the side, and another knee followed, trapping him in the dirt. He roared, bucking up, but the body sitting upon him pinned him down as easily as if he were a child.
“You’re quick. But not as quick as I.”
Like lightning, the hand struck, catching Archer across the left temple.
Brilliant white exploded before his eyes and then the faint outline of a black mask appeared, hovering above him. From far off came the sound of wood splintering and horses squealing. Archer’s heart stopped, terror strangling him. Miri. A roar died in his throat as a cold length of steel pressed against his jugular.
“Want to save her, do you?” Again the laugh. Softer this time. The edge of the knife pricked Archer’s skin. “I have all the time in the world. You, unfortunately, do not.” The masked face above his tilted, catching the blue rays of moonlight gleaming down. “We have played enough games. Time to decide.”
The knife snagged over his cravat and down his thin linen shirt, burning a trail to his heart. Sweat tickled his brow as the needle-sharp point stopped at the place where his heart thumped against his chest. “Your heart or hers.” The eyes behind the mask flashed. “If hers is still beating after tonight, that is.”
Archer’s fingers twitched, his heels digging uselessly into the earth. Crushed beneath the coach? Despite the knife, he bucked again, felt the sting on his chest. The knees upon his arms pushed down harder. Red rage blinded him. “Do it, then.” His teeth ground into each other. “Take mine, and let us end this now.”
Laughter rang out. “So you’d rather die than save her?”
He blanched and the laughter turned chilling. “I didn’t think you would. And let me assure you, if you deny me, I will cut her into very small pieces when you are gone.”
Suddenly the knife was gone. Icy breath touched Archer’s nose as the masked face drew near. “The new moon and the winter solstice occur on the same night this year. Four days from now. Change under such powerful forces will make that romantic heart of yours incalculably strong. So I’ll grant you a reprieve.” Teeth flashed in the night. “To show how caring I can be, I give you until then. If you do not comply…”—a hand lashed out, smacking Archer lightly, highlighting his feebleness—“not only will I cut out her heart and eyes, I will keep her alive as I do it.”
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