Her fingers curled around the smooth swells of his biceps. “Then let me be your light.”
Archer shuddered, dragging an open-mouthed kiss across her cheek to claim her lips. “Always, Miri.” He grew tighter, colder in her arms. “All that I am, all that I become, is for you.”
Chapter Thirty-one
No!” Miranda lurched out of bed, her heart pounding painfully. Shaking, she buried her face in her hands until little prickles of awareness set in. She whipped round, knowing she was alone, but needing to see. The bedding at her side was rumpled and empty. Archer. On his pillow lay the silver rose and a note. Pain spread through her middle, doubling her over, and she grabbed the note, seeing Archer’s heavy scrawl, more slanted than usual.
—Forgive me.
Her knees knocked as she fell from the bed and scrambled to reach the water closet in time. She retched until she had no more to give, then fell upon the smooth, hard floor. Why? Why, Ben?
That he meant to face the killer alone was clear. Forgiveness meant only one thing—he did not mean to survive this confrontation.
Miranda curled into a tight ball, pressing her knees hard into her aching chest. But the pain did not abate. Cursing roundly, she climbed to her feet and washed her face and mouth. Wallowing would help no one. That God damned sneaky bastard.
Her fencing clothes, long unused but never forgotten, flew from her wardrobe as she heaped more curses upon her errant husband. If he thought she’d sit at home and let him go off to die he was sorely mistaken.
“Eula! Gilroy!” Her shouts rang out shrilly as she strode down the upper hall not two minutes later. Miranda swallowed down her panic. She needed to think. The bun secured at the nape of her neck was tight enough to pull her scalp, and her head pounded rather dreadfully.
The hall remained empty. Miranda’s boot heels clattered on the steps as she raced down them. “Eula!”
Finally, the cheeky woman appeared, shuffling with a gait worthy of Methuselah.
“Trying to wake the dead, are you? What’s amiss? You and Lord Rapturous run out of fresh beds?”
“He’s gone, Eula.” Her lip trembled, and she bit it hard. “For good.”
Eula drew herself up with purpose. “Where?”
“I-I don’t know. I thought you might.” Damn and hell. I will not cry.
She gaped at Miranda. Eula at a loss for words nearly undid her. Miranda turned from her and headed for the library, almost colliding into Gilroy. The stately butler stumbled along, hastily dressed and rubbing the back of his neck in a most unusual outward display of discomfort.
“Apologies, my lady.” He made an effort to straighten. “I was abed when you called. I do not know what came over me.”
Miranda eyed him carefully, taking note of his glazed expression. “Lord Archer is gone. Do you know where he is?” She rather thought Gilroy did not.
“No, my lady.” He blinked several times. “I’ve not seen him since he gave me a tisane for my aching joints last night.”
Miranda ground her teeth together to keep from shouting. Poor Gilroy did not deserve her censure. “Tisane,” she bit out at last. “The bloody man gave you a sleeping draught so you wouldn’t wake when he left.”
Gilroy’s lean face went white. “You mean he has gone to face that fiend?”
Despite her resolve to stay calm, she grabbed his frail arm. “Do you know who it is? Where he could have gone?”
His shook his head wildly. “On my honor, I do not.”
She closed her eyes for one precious moment. “Thank you, Gilroy. Have my horse saddled. Make sure to tell them I shall be riding astride. And find me a riding cloak.”
His scandalized expression might have been laughable. “But my lady—”
“Blast it, Gilroy! I can’t very well go out in a silken mantle.” She gestured to her trousers and linen shirt. “Just find a damned cloak that will fit me and be quick about it. I don’t care whose it is,” she shouted at his rapidly retreating form.
Eula eyes gleamed. “Well, if yer up for screaming like a harpy then I expect you’ve enough mettle to bring him back.”
Miranda tasted blood. “Find me a sword. Archer surely has one lying about.” Her insides quaked. She hadn’t practiced the sword in years, but the yearning and the need to wield it now stirred her blood, making her muscles twitch. “And Archer’s spare pistol as well. Loaded, Eula,” she said over her shoulder before she shut herself up in the library.
The room lay still and cool. It might have been waiting for him. She went to his desk. The cluttered chaos over it appeared untouched. She tore through it, searching for something, any clue. There was nothing.
Defeated, she dropped her head upon the desk. Tears would not come, no matter her frustration. She sat for a long moment, simply breathing. The killer’s identity drifted just beyond her grasp, as ephemeral as smoke in the wind. She cast aside Lord Mckinnon. She rather thought Mckinnon flirted with her mainly to antagonize Archer. Irritating but not viscous. These murders had nothing to do with her and Archer, but with Archer and West Moon Club. Then there was the fact that Archer knew who the killer was. While Archer wanted her away from Mckinnon, he did so out of possessiveness, not from a genuine fear for her safety. Lord Rossberry then? But these murders were calculated, coolly done. With rage, yes, but the killer was a planner. Rossberry struck her as all rage and impulse. Then who?
Every conversation, every fight she’d had with Archer played in her mind, until the small tableaus of her life with him spun in a flash of colors like the inside of a kaleidoscope.
A thing that feeds off the light of souls… I am not so easily dispatched… What if I told you it is something wondrous and beautiful he hides… immortal.
Miranda reared up, her heart pounding in her throat. The spinning wheel stopped. What was once a blur suddenly came into sharp focus. Archer bending over Victoria. Why are you here?
Slowly, she pushed back from the desk. For every father there is a mother. And every creation, a creator. Stay away from her, Miranda. Victoria, with her silver eyes and flashing white teeth. The makeup covering skin that surely gleamed like moonstone. Archer broke my heart once. And I’m afraid I’ve never forgiven him for it. Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
A mad cackle broke from Miranda’s lips. He knew. He’d known all along. Only one thing could have escaped a man as strong as Archer: another immortal.
What I recognized was myself.
And now he’d gone to Victoria. Save she was whole, and he still part human. A final battle that he would not win. Unless…
“Bastard!”
Chapter Thirty-two
Too bloody long. It took too bloody long to track down the home of Lord Maurus Robert Lea, Seventh damned Earl of Leland. Leland was Archer’s best mate, was he? Brought him into this folly? Then he damned well better know where Archer was.
She rapped the knocker hard enough to draw stares from a smartly dressed couple headed out. One did not pound upon doors in Belgravia. Miranda glared in kind and resumed her assault on Leland’s door.
It was yanked open by an affronted-looking butler who quivered with restrained irritation.
“Lady Archer to see Lord Leland,” she snapped. “In short order, if you will.”
He narrowed his eyes, no doubt seeing only her mannish costume. “He is not in. Here, here!”
She ignored this protest as she pushed past him. “Pardon me if I see for myself. Lord Leland!”
The sputtering butler was hot on her heels but skidded to a stop as Lord Leland flew out of his library. Leland made a polite bow, drawing near.
“Lady Archer—”
Miranda pulled the sword from her belt and pinned Leland to the wall with it.
“You will forgive me, my lord, but let us get straight to the point.” She nudged the uncapped sword against his cravat. “Tell me, where is my husband?”
Beside her, the butler moved to grab her arm. She pull
ed the gun from her waistcoat and aimed it at his heart. The hammer cocked with a loud click in the cavernous hall. “I’m quite a good shot as well,” she said, keeping her eyes upon Leland. “Your master might be injured during a scuffle.”
Leland swallowed hard but his sharp blue eyes stayed on Miranda. “Go on, Wilkinson,” he managed at last. “Lady Archer and I have need of privacy.”
The butler ran off, most likely to find reinforcements, and Miranda pocketed the pistol.
Leland looked down his crooked nose at the sword still hovering before him. “If you wouldn’t mind, Lady Archer. I shall need my throat if I am to talk.”
She lowered the sword and stepped back a pace.
He smiled thinly. “You know you might have simply asked.”
She laughed without humor as she sheathed her sword. “I might have done,” she said. “Save I am damned angry. And damned tired of high-handed men at the moment.”
He gave a small bow of his head. “Understood.”
“Do you know where he is?” Now that she was there, her fear surged forward once more, leaving her trembling.
“I do.” He sighed then, looking very much his advanced age. “I am afraid you shall not like it.”
Her lips quivered before she got hold of herself. “Where Archer and revelations are involved, I never do.”
“Then you know him well.” He extended his hand toward the open library door. “Come. We have some time left. And there is much to discuss.”
She prowled the room like a wild lioness, the gold-red cap of her severely pulled-back hair glowing in the sunlight that slanted through the open windows. Leland watched her as he made his way to the drinks table. Her legs, encased in buff trousers, were long and supple, the firm thighs muscular but feminine. He’d seen firsthand the deftness with which she wielded her sword. Power, grace, a fencer’s body. He cut his eyes away from the curved arc of her bottom. For God’s sake, he was old enough to be her grandfather, great-grandfather in some families. Still, that hadn’t stopped Archer.
“Would you like a drink?” he offered, keeping his gaze resolutely on her face, and not anywhere near her fetching and quite pert bosom.
She gave him a small smile of gratitude, and his old heart skittered a bit. Hers was not the dainty, sweet beauty of fashion. It was a sculptor’s dream, precise, unearthly. She was Nefertiti, Helen of Troy. Beauty such as hers stunned. He blinked hard. Why hadn’t he noticed before?
“Have you any bourbon?”
“Not you as well?” Leland shook his head. “Perhaps I ought to buy a cask.”
She laughed, all warmth and huskiness. And Leland understood why Archer had lost his head over her.
“Perhaps you ought to,” she said. “It is really quite good. As you are bereft, I should like a whiskey, then. Neat, please.”
He poured her drink and watched, his breath catching, as she glided over to take it. The curve of her hips, the dip in her waist; she was a Stradivarius. Damn his eyes, he felt like a man of thirty inside. A small shard of envy toward Archer cut him then promptly brought him round. Hard enough to bring him shame. He bowed formally and handed her the glass.
“You are very much alike, you and Archer.”
She quirked a burnished brow. “Our taste in drinks?”
“Yes, that. And in temperament as well.” He gave her a tight smile. It hurt too much to do any more. His oldest friend had gone off to destroy himself. And left him to pick up the pieces. “He too would have stormed in to hold me at sword point should he be in a temper.”
Eyes the color of Chinese celadon glaze ran over him in appraisal. “I suspect you are a man of action as well, sir. Though perhaps you prefer to skewer with words rather than swords?”
He laughed. “You are quite right, madam. Touché.”
Her sculpted cheeks plumped then promptly fell. Her eyes misted. “Where is he, Lord Leland?”
Leland set down his glass. “Please be seated, Lady Archer, and I shall tell you all.”
She complied, folding her lithe body gracefully into the same chair Archer had occupied not long ago.
“Promise me one thing,” he said as he sat across from her. “Let me finish what I must say, and then you may do as you wish.”
Her shapely mouth curled into a lopsided grin. “I do not have a history of keeping such promises, sir. But I shall try.”
So like Archer with her forthright nature.
“What has Archer told you of all this?” he asked.
As Leland listened, awe filled him over her capacity to take all the horror in and still love Archer. For all he was.
“So it was Victoria, then,” she finished, “who created him?”
“Yes.” He ran his fingers over the base of his glass. “I shall be forthright with you now. For you have to understand the allure she held for us. All of us within West Moon Club were scholars. And through our collective effort, we learned much about the ancient world. Archer and I went to Egypt to excavate ancient tombs, immersed ourselves in the pharaoh’s world. It was all for naught. True, there were hints, allusions to life everlasting. Does not our own Christian Bible speak of men living well beyond the pale? Is Noah himself not said to have lived past nine hundred years?”
He curled his hand into a fist, remembering those years of frustration. “We could not find a true solution. Until she came.”
For a moment, he simply remembered the day Victoria had walked into their meeting as though it were not a secret society at all. A goddess, silver and light. Exquisitely beautiful. “You can well imagine the effect her appearance had upon us,” he said to Lady Archer. “You’ve seen Archer. And she was fully transformed. We did not doubt a word she said. Or her claims that she was an angel of light.” His laugh was bitter. “Not an angel. No, we would learn that when it was too late.”
What Lady Archer thought, he could not know. She held herself in complete control.
“We would not all be given the gift, however. She was to choose the most worthy.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She settled on Archer and me. We became her lovers.”
A soft blush stole up Lady Archer’s cheeks but she remained silent. Nor could Leland blame her for blushing. Even now he could see Victoria, her nubile body writhing beneath his. Pert breasts. Nipples translucent as glass yet succulent, they drove him mad. Take me, Maurus. The heat of her body. The light pulsing through him as he bedded her. He’d felt invincible. And later, when she had wanted more.
“I desire you and Archer in my bed. Together. Come to me, my heathen men.”
By God, he had been willing. So shameful. But there it was. The hold she had on him was madness. And Archer’s wrathful expression. His dark brows scowling. He had stormed out, shoving past her bed in disgust, even as Leland had been crawling into it, all but tearing his clothes from his body in his lust-filled haste. Her sick laughter filled his ears even now.
“It was a test,” he said to a stone-faced Lady Archer, realizing that he’d said the whole shameful tale aloud. “Archer was stronger. Possessed the willfulness that she desired. I was merely a secondary diversion.”
“You resented him for it,” Lady Archer said softly.
“Yes.”
Her sculpted face remained impassive. “All of you did, because Archer was the favorite.”
“I cannot deny it,” he said wearily. “Not one of us realized how lucky we were not to be favored. Until that night. There was a ceremony at Cavern Hall, a place she told us held great power. All of us drank from a silver chalice, filled with a silver liquid. One sip only for the rest of the members. A taste to keep them enthralled and do her bidding. But Archer and I… we would drink a cupful. The liquid took time to work. We were to drink and then she would bestow her kiss. The Kiss of Light. Victoria would push her energy into us, thus completing the transformation. We would then fall into a deep sleep for one day and one night. When dawn broke on the next morning, we would be full-fledged Angels of Light in body and in soul.
&nbs
p; “On the night of the ceremony, Rossberry came to us. He was frantic. He’d found an ancient text. We would not become Angels of Light, benevolent beings who lived forever off the light of the sun, but demons who drew their power from the light of souls. And in doing so, we would lose our own souls.”
He took a steadying drink. “We were fools. Too blinded by her thrall to believe. Or at least I was. Archer had doubts, but the moment was all but upon us.
“Every vein in his body stood out silver against his skin when he drank that brew,” he whispered. “Then his eyes. Viscous silver ran over them before he blinked it away, and the gray irises turned to mercury. Victoria simply laughed. Time to pay the piper, she said.
“Archer regained his strength, and with it he ran, not into her arms as she had expected. But away from her. Out of the hellish cavern. Victoria had merely smiled.”
“She wasn’t angry?”
Leland glanced at Lady Archer. “Irritated, perhaps. She thought he would come back. He was her true mate, she declared. I knew then that she was in love with him. I was nothing. So I ran too. One sip was all I tasted.”
“It did not affect you?”
Leland smiled wryly. “I am ninety-two years old, my dear. An age most men do not reach. And should they do so, are usually quite useless. Yet I can ride a horse, read my books, walk to my club and back. I am not immortal, but my life has been altered from its human course. I age slowly.”
“When I met you, I thought your age closer to sixty.”
“Precisely.” His lip trembled. “I’ve outlived one wife, three children, and one grandchild.” The coals in the grate settled with a hiss as he stared into his glass, watching the honeyed liquid swirl. “That is why I’ve avoided Archer all these years. Guilt. All of us got what we truly wanted that night, a chance to live beyond our years, without fear of sickness or sudden death. All of us save Archer. And Rossberry.”
Firelight Page 28