Ember: A prequel to Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  Martin’s gold eyes gleamed when he finally let her go.

  “Hello, gorgeous.” His hand smoothed down her back. “I want to come home to a kiss like this every day.”

  A nice thought, but her mind was on the thug in her bed upstairs, a man who might very well die on her. “Martin, I need to—” Her words were cut off when he kissed her again. It was a nice kiss, as kisses went, but she squirmed against him, desperate to get a word in.

  He pulled back, oblivious, it seemed. “When we are married, I will come home to this.”

  A sharply drawn breath behind them stopped her from replying. She and Martin both froze. Miranda winced as she pictured the scene they made.

  “What did you say?” came the sharp hiss from her father.

  Slowly they turned to face him. Father’s face had gone pasty, but a flush of anger was quickly rushing up his neck.

  “You’ve been creeping behind my back, have you?”

  Miranda didn’t know whether he spoke to her or Martin. It did not matter. They were one in this. “Father, we meant to tell you.”

  “Oh?” He took a step closer, and his hands fisted. “When would that be? When you’re swelling with a bastard child?”

  She lifted her chin. “Surely you can’t object to my marrying Martin.”

  “Surely I can!” he roared. “I told you to stay away from him.”

  Martin flinched. “Sir…”

  “Do not ’sir’ me, you wastrel.” Spittle flew from Father’s lips. “I treat you like a son, and this is how you repay me?”

  Miranda stepped in front of Martin. “You treat him like a son, and yet you would deny him the opportunity to become son to you in truth? Why?” She clenched Martin’s hand. It was too cold. “To what can you possibly object?”

  The heat in Father’s eyes dimmed just a bit. “I’ve no true objection to your character, boy.” Father’s gaze went to Miranda. “But he’s not meant for you. You are meant for something more.” A tremor went through him. “Something grand.”

  “Nonsense!” Miranda swallowed down the urge to scream at her father. “Martin and I have nothing but each other, Father.”

  “You are not meant for him!”

  She laughed. “I don’t see why not. Your dreams are just that, Father.” She let go of Martin to step closer to her father.

  “I am sick of dreams. I want the reality. And the reality is that Martin and I love each other and will marry, whether you will it or not.”

  Her father’s body visibly recoiled, his eyes going wide. But he rebounded quickly. “You have not reached your majority, Daughter. I most certainly can stop you.”

  “And we most certainly can run off to Gretna Green should we need to,” she snapped back. “Like you and mother did. Or have you forgotten?”

  He was turning too red. A vibrating anger made his hands shake. Soon he would start throwing things.

  Martin stepped around her. “Sir, we need not go to such lengths. I know you worry, but I will take care of her. I swear.”

  It took a moment for Father to meet his gaze, as he was too intent on glaring a hole through Miranda’s skull. His gaze softened on Martin. “As I said, boy, it has nothing to do with you.”

  “Then why don’t you tell us what it does have to do with?”

  Miranda said. A warning plucked at her spine. She would not like his answer.

  Martin caught her by the shoulder. “Miranda,” he said softly, yet with a hard look in his eyes. “Let me handle this.”

  “No.” She took his hand and gripped it hard. “We handle things together.”

  A muscle in Martin’s jaw bunched, but he squeezed her hand back.

  “You’re determined, then?” Father said, breaking their stalemate.

  Miranda eyed him wearily. His question was odd in its tone. “Yes.”

  Father rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then Martin needs a proper job. A clerk’s salary is not enough to support a wife.”

  Martin’s head jerked up. The hopeful light in his eyes, and the cunning look in her father’s, had Miranda’s stomach falling. “Sir?” Martin said.

  “You’re good with numbers,” her father said to him. “What do you say to my making you ship’s accountant?”

  Martin stepped away from her. She felt the break as if a physical tether had been cut. “I’d say I’ll make you proud, sir.”

  It suddenly occurred to Miranda that Martin would be going away. For months. And he had not hesitated to accept Father’s offer. She cut Martin a look, and he avoided her gaze.

  Father’s smile was oil and honey. “Of course you will.”

  He held out a hand, beckoning. “Come, let us discuss this in the parlor.” Said the spider to the fly.

  Cold fear touched Miranda’s spine. Surely Father wouldn’t deliberately try to hurt Martin?

  “We will marry before you go,” she said sharply and distinctly, so there would be no confusion. If Father thought he would rid her of Martin by sending him away, he was greatly mistaken.

  Both men paused, almost bemused by her presence.

  Martin swallowed hard, then gave her a smile. “Of course.”

  He straightened his spine and addressed her father. “I insist.”

  The corners of Father’s eyes twitched just a moment but he did not blink. “Very well. If you insist.”

  His compliance was worse than resistance, for Miranda could not fathom why he’d done it. The man calculated everything. She wanted to shout a warning to Martin, wanted to run away from this house and everything in it. The thought reminded her of the man upstairs. He needed her now. She could not discuss this sudden change in plans with Martin when another was suffering.

  Even so, she almost called out to Martin, but he and Father were already halfway out of the kitchen and deep in conversation. Martin’s cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile at something her father said. The smile was full of warmth and so very intimate, as if the receiver of it was the most important person in the world. She knew the strength of that smile, for she had been on the other end of it many a time.

  Only, she had thought she was the one person he gave it to.

  Somewhere… March 16, 1881

  He became aware of himself again, and of the night sky now above him. Where had the parlor gone? Leland and the others? Below the shimmering sickle moon, the three pyramids of Giza were black shadows against an indigo sky. By God, was he in Egypt? That could not be right. He’d been in Mexico. Hadn’t he? Yet the sand beneath him was softer than the hard-pack sand of the Chihuahuan desert, and the sultry air held the musky tang of Cairo.

  How could he be in Egypt…

  Hell, he was still trapped. Trapped in his mind? Or had he gone elsewhere? A giddy laugh broke from his mouth. Absently, he rubbed his chest and was surprised to find it bare. He smoothed his hand back and forth, a slow rhythm.

  Yes, bare. A curl of pleasure unfurled within his belly. Rather nice to lie in the dry desert air with not a stitch on. His sex stirred. Well, all right then…

  “Mmm…”

  He stilled. That was not his voice. Most definitely not.

  “Archer.” The honey and cream voice drifted up from the area around his knees.

  Shock rendered him incapable of movement. Well, not all of him. Something definitely moved. And stiffened as warm, smooth hands started to glide slowly up his thighs.

  Feminine hands.

  Uncertain terror and virulent hope made his pulse leap.

  With a jerk of his head, he looked down the length of his body. Satin ribbons of red-gold hair spread over his legs, and the pale, perfect heart of a woman’s buttocks jutted up in the air.

  She turned her head, and the curtain of her hair slipped back to reveal her face. His breath left in a gasp.

  “Miranda?” he croaked. Ah, God. He went from hard to throbbing. He drank in the sight of her smooth skin, her deep rose nipples. His mouth went dry. He needed to touch her. He went up on his elbows to get a better view of her swaying br
easts and plump mouth.

  “Archer, love.” She kissed his inner thigh. The touch of her lips burned like a brand, hot yet insanely good.

  “Gorgeous man.”

  Gorgeous? Did she not see what he was? She did not appear to care. The very idea of her looking upon him without fear or loathing made his chest ache.

  God, she was lovely. Her sculpted face was even more defined then when last he saw her. She appeared older, more womanly. How could that be so? Ought he not see her as unchanged in a dream? Luminous green eyes stared up at him, even as her lush mouth glided over his skin, kissing a path toward his cock. Being an accommodating fellow, he parted his thighs just a bit. Her tongue snaked out, tracing the sensitive crease where his thigh joined his hip. Archer’s head went light.

  “I’ve been dreaming about you,” she whispered, her breath stirring the hair around his sex. Jesus. “So much that you haunt me.”

  His forearms tensed. “I dream about you every night. Every day,” he rasped.

  She paused and smiled. A cat-who-got-the-cream smile, complete with a little flick of her pink tongue. “You do things to me in my dreams,” she said.

  “Wha--” He swallowed. “What sort of things?” He had a good idea of what he’d like to do now.

  Her silken hair slid over his knees. “You kiss me. Kiss my breasts.” She gave his hip a kiss. “Lick them.” She licked her way across his belly. So close. Not close enough.

  His hips lifted a fraction, encouraging her. “Suckle them.”

  His breath sawed now. It was a dream. A bloody good dream. “And then?”

  A smile curled her lips. “You kiss me between my legs,” she whispered on a deep blush.

  Ah, God. His eyes fluttered closed, but he forced them open. “I’ll do it now. Let me do it now.” He was panting. Begging.

  With a small laugh, she shook her head, and all that glorious hair moved over him, strands brushing his cock.

  Her soft breasts pillowed on his thigh. “No. I want to kiss you.”

  “Kiss me between my legs.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Kiss my cock.”

  The idea sent heat flaring down his torso and made said cock ache.

  Green eyes gazed at him through lowered lashes. A flush worked across her cheeks, and he feared he’d gone too far, but she smiled. Every muscle tensed as she moved, and then her sweet mouth touched the swollen tip of his cock. A light kiss but enough to have him groaning.

  “Lovely,” she said, and kissed it again.

  It was a dream. Sweat tickled down his neck. His abdomen clenched in sweet pain. She cupped his stones, caressing them as she peppered little kisses down the

  length of him. A dream. If it was, he was going to enjoy it.

  “Put it in your mouth.” Just the words made him convulse. He dug his fingers into loose desert sand.

  Making a little noise of contentment, she moved to comply. And those plump lips opened over him.

  “Ah… Jesus!”

  Hot, wet mouth. Slick, swirling tongue. Unpracticed but effective.

  Weakly, he lifted his head to look down at her. The sight nearly undid him. Her mouth. On him.

  “Suck it.” His voice was a coarse growl. “Deep. In and out.”

  She sucked him in a long, wet pull that nearly made him blind with pleasure. Liquid heat scorched his veins. His hips lifted in little thrusts, helping her as she worked his cock. Her hand clutched his thigh as she moaned.

  “Harder.”

  The pressure increased.

  With a trembling hand, he cupped the back of her neck and steadied her as he pumped himself into her clever mouth. He wouldn’t last. His ball s drew tight, the heat within him becoming too much. He wanted more.

  “Come here,” he managed, easing her away with shaking hands, then pulling her up. “Come here. I need to be in you.”

  She surged up as though riding a wave. Long limbs settled around him, the stiff tips of her breasts grazing his chest as he pulled her close. And then he was tunneling into her tight, wet heat. Heaven.

  Her red-gold hair surrounded them like a curtain. He shuddered, and his arms wrapped around her as he thrust in with a grunt. “Miranda.” Her neck was warm, fragrant with the scent of roses. He nuzzled it, and she sighed.

  “Archer.” Her slender arms surrounded him, holding him close as she moved on him.

  His throat convulsed. A hot prickle behind his lids disarmed him. “I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to be alone again.”

  She undulated, riding him, driving him mad.

  “Then come back to me, Archer.”

  “I cannot. I am not whole.” She deserved him whole, cured.

  Softly, she touched his cheek, bringing his head up. Their eyes met, and he forgot to breathe, forgot to move. “I love you, Benjamin Archer. More than my life.”

  He came with a shout of pleasure, and the world went white.

  Chapter 6

  London, May 15,1879

  Miranda woke feeling as if she’d been plucked from her dreams, a hard forceful removal that had her body jerking in the bed as her eyes opened. Her heart pounded as she blinked up at a cracked ceiling, trying to place just where she was for several pained moments. Right, in the spare room. Her guest, one Billy Finger, was occupying her room.

  He had roused the morning after she brought him here, and since then, had cursed her and this house seven ways to Sunday.

  “How do you think I bloody feel, you stupid cow! I’ve been roasted like a market pig. I’ve got pain on top of pain!”

  He’d thrown the water ewer at her when she tried to get near. “Get out.”

  Miranda had ignored him, and ignored the temptation to tell him that it was her house and he was free to leave it.

  While the rotten blighter had no qualms about insulting her, he seemed content to stay just where he was, ordering her about whenever she visited.

  She sighed, wishing she hadn’t come fully awake. On the heels of full wakefulness came a bone-deep sense of loss. Her hands curled into the sheets, as if she could

  somehow hold on to the dream. To Him.

  For it had been him again, the dark stranger. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples tight and tender. A blush of heat stole over her face as she remembered the feel of his mouth, so hot and wet, pulling on her nipples. Such a thing. Martin had never done that. Indeed, he’d never been given a chance. Their coupling was a furtive thing, not allowing for her to undress. Surely, Martin had caressed her breasts, touching her nipples through the thick layer of her bodice, but it had been nothing compared to what He had done in her dream. Wicked things. Wonderful things.

  On a sigh, Miranda sat up, trying to shake the memory of his big, strong hands skimming up her thighs to grip her waist. Of being filled by his big, strong…

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered and leapt out of bed. Today was her bloody wedding day. Vigorously, she splashed her face with icy water.

  A violent shout brought her up short, sending water into her eyes. It was Billy, crying out in pain, and another masculine voice… Martin!

  “Help!”

  Billy.

  “Who the bloody hell are you!”

  Miranda scrambled to the other room, bursting in as Martin hauled Billy up by his shirt and gave him a shake.

  “Martin!” Miranda grabbed his arm. “Let him go! You’ll hurt him.”

  Martin dropped Billy as if the man had turned to live coals and instead turned his glare on her. “Who is this?”

  “Billy Finger,” she said baldly.

  When Martin’s brows rose, she grimaced. “He’s convalescing.”

  “More like being held captive in a madhouse,” Billy muttered. But there was real and deep pain etched into the lines of his face. Gingerly, he eased himself into a better position on the bed. Miranda went to him and offered up a packet of pain powders.

  “Why is he convalescing here?” Martin asked as she moved to pour Billy a cup of water. “And why did you not tell me
about him?”

  Miranda paused before the water ewer. Her hand tightened on the tin cup. “I meant to tell you. The other day. When Father found us.” Slowly she turned. “We were distracted.”

  Martin nodded, but his gaze slid over Billy. The line of his jaw bunched. He turned back to her with a pointed look. Miranda took an unsteady breath.

  “Go on,” Billy said with an ugly smile. “Tell him, or doesn’t he know about you?”

  “Shut your mouth,” Martin said to him before he looked at Miranda once more.

  “I burned him.” The confession was a whisper, caught in her throat.

  “What?” Martin said it so flat and thin that she might have missed it. But she didn’t. Her heart pounded a fearful rhythm.

  “I. Burned. Him.” She enunciated each word, as if doing so didn’t pierce her soul with guilt. As if it didn’t hurt to see Martin wince.

  Martin took a step back. “Good god, Miranda. Why?” He glanced at Billy, who lifted his chin as if to say, you see who you want to wed? Billy’s burns were still angry and raw. Ugly scars would cover his arms and upper torso till the day he died. Martin’s mouth twisted. When he faced her again, his golden eyes were cold. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “He was about to rape me!” Her hands fisted. “I had no choice.” Oh, but it wasn’t true. She’d chosen to face Billy. Her pride had led her to hurt another.

  “Oi!” Billy struggled to rise. “I was just after a bit o’ fun. Followed her when she was fanning--”

  “Shut up!” shouted Martin.

  Billy glared.

  “It was a mistake,” Miranda said. “One I’ll never--”

  “You’ve said that before, Miranda.”

  Her eyes watered. But she would not cry.

  Martin watched her for a long moment, then heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the curling ends to shoot about wildly. “What does he mean, fanning?”

  Miranda resisted the urge to pluck her skirts. “Fanning means to pick a man’s pocket.”

  “I know what it means, Miranda. Why does he suggest that you were doing it?”