Firelight (Darkest London 1)

He was ten types of fool for bringing her into his life. And selfish. So very selfish for doing it when he knew full well there was no hope for him. He knew this. Only logic was desire’s bitch. It never stood a chance. And from the moment he saw her, neither did he. Find the ring. Daoud had been certain that the ring had the answer to his cure. Find the ring and then he would claim her.

Her slender hand rested over his heart as she sighed. “I hate being afraid, Archer.”

Carefully, he smoothed her hair and tried to remain relaxed. That she was afraid, in danger, because of him made him want to scream. “I do too.” He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes against the rush of helplessness and rage. “Sleep, Miranda Fair. I’m with you now.”

Chapter Nineteen

Shall I get rid of this person, my lady?”

It was past six, a highly unfashionable time for callers, which was confirmed by the set pinch of Gilroy’s nose. Furthermore, the caller was a gentleman. And alone. Quite boorish, said Gilroy’s twitching nostrils.

The tip of Miranda’s finger pressed into the edge of the caller’s card. The name upon it mocked her. Time to pay the piper. Just what his price might be put a bitter taste in her mouth.

“No.” She smoothed her skirts with an unsteady hand. “I shall see him.” Her voice did not sound quite right, she knew. She had awakened alone and remained that way all day. Archer was avoiding her. She knew it in her bones, and it made her want to strike something. Or perhaps someone.

She put the card down. As her husband was missing, her caller was an ideal target. Besides, she needed answers. Billy had sent word through one of his urchins. Not even a whisper of West Moon Club, or any variant thereof existed on the streets. Given the way information ran through the veins of London’s street rats, this was odd.

The gentleman’s back was to the door as he stood in the salon with his top hat tucked under his arm, taking a detailed study of the room’s objects. He turned at her entrance, and his vivid blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah, Lady Archer. Time only enhances your beauty.”

“It is rather late for a call, sir,” she said as Gilroy shut the door.

The corners of Mckinnon’s eyes crinkled. “Would you rather I called when Lord Archer was in residence?”

She moved to stand by the mantel, with its close proximity to handy weapons such as andirons and scuttles. “Been watching the house, have you?”

He smiled readily. “Nothing so sinister as that.” The crisp line of his frock coat broke as he seated himself comfortably on the settee. “I happened to see Archer riding down Shaftsbury. He causes quite a stir, you know.” Mckinnon let out a relaxed sigh and put an arm along the seat-back. “I do believe one lady actually swooned.”

Pea-brained nitwits. She studied the ormolu clock upon the mantel and waited.

Blue eyes studied her with growing humor. “Come now, madam. Would you not be more comfortable sitting down?”

There was no use standing like an uncommunicative statue; Mckinnon would never leave that way. Stiffly, she moved to the chair closest to her, but Mckinnon frowned. “And leave me sitting all alone?” The mocking in his voice worked upon her nerves like nails on slate. She leveled him a hate-filled glare and then stomped with ill grace over to the settee.

“There,” he said when she plopped down on the far end of the couch. “Much better.”

He angled himself toward her, drawing a knee within touching range of her thigh. She twitched as the gentle brush of his fingertips moved the cap-puffed sleeve of her evening dress.

“Understand me.” Miranda glared into his smiling eyes. “My patience only stretches so far. I agreed to meet with you, nothing further. As I said before, no enticements of Archer’s secrets shall induce me into letting you touch me.”

Absently, Mckinnon caressed his left cheek as though feeling the spot she’d slapped the other night. “And as I said, I’d no intention of taking what isn’t freely offered. But what of the little question of your secret, Lady Archer?”

“Will remain so if you’re a pile of ash on my floor.”

A burst of shocked laughter left his lips. “Touché.” The self-satisfied smile he’d been wearing returned. “Fortunately for me, we both know that won’t happen.” He leaned in, his hot breath wafting across her neck. “How about we come up with an arrangement? I shall answer a question from you, and in return, you shall give me something I want.”

She wrenched away, ready to flee, and he held up his hands. “Hold! Hold! I believe you suffer under a misunderstanding, Lady Archer.” Sharp teeth flashed beneath his trim mustache. “I’ve no interest in blackmailing a woman into bed. It offends my pride.”

“Despite all evidence to the contrary,” she snapped. Her skin crawled with the desire to move away from him.

Mckinnon’s eyes skimmed over her form, lingering at the low edge of her bodice. “You keep jumping to conclusions and I’ll wonder if you like the chase.”

When she glared, he smiled. “Oh, I want you, to be sure. But I’d rather you see the error of your ways. You’ve aligned yourself with the wrong man. And I fear it will get you hurt.”

“Do tell me, sir, how is it that I’ve got the wrong man?”

He crossed one long leg over the other. “Is that your first question?”

“No. It was rhetorical, you boor. What is West Moon Club? And I will not accept one-word answers.”

His teeth flashed. “Very well. They were a society of scholars, noblemen all who had one common goal—use science and medicine to discover ways to enhance men, to cure them of disease.” He choked over the word as though it was distasteful to him. “And ultimately, find a way to end death itself.”

She could see how Archer, who dreamed of tombs and death, would find such a mission appealing. It would bring him a sense of purpose. But how had it gone so very wrong?

“What precisely were they trying to discover?”

“That is, you realize, another question. But as I am feeling generous…” His expression grew utterly impassive. “Immortality.”

“Immortality?” Shock prickled over her cheeks. “But how? Did they find it? Of course they must have believed so… Does Archer believe—”

“Barring the repetitive nature of the first question,” Mckinnon drawled, “I believe that was three more questions. You owe me one first.”

“Very well,” she said through her teeth.

His gaze was a caress as he rested his temple against his fist. “Do you feel pleasure when you let it free?”

Heat flamed instantly over her skin. She swallowed repetitively, tasting bile. The fire in the grate roared with merry contentment as she stared into it. Of all the questions.

“Have you ever been burned?” she asked. “Your father has. Has he ever spoken of it? Of the unending pain of having one’s flesh seared? I’ve only burned my fingers, accidents of cooking. I can tell you that was enough to bring a sweat to my skin at the thought of fire consuming me.”

She glanced at him to find his countenance pale. “I roasted that man. Yes, he intended to defile me, just as most men of the streets would without a second’s thought. And I burned him alive. I’ve caused agony beyond endurance, destroyed fortunes. And you think I derive pleasure from such knowledge?”

Mckinnon ducked his head to study the brocade settee with undue interest. “I am sorry, Miranda. I did not think.”

Unexpected guilt punched into her. The ugly truth was that she did feel pleasure when the fire broke free. It coursed through her veins like lust. But she would rather die than have someone know it. Such darkness went beyond understanding.

“You may not believe me,” he said, “but I understand what it is to lose control to disastrous consequence.” When she would not look at him, his voice softened further. “You have the next question.”

“You know my questions.”

Mckinnon’s voice rolled over the divide between them. “They found what they thought was key to life everlasting. I do not know how it was achieved. Father refuses to say. Archer drew the short straw, as it were. Unfortunately, the results were not what they intended. Whatever happened to Archer was horrific enough to disband the club and send the members scurrying for cover.”

Her disjointed breath was a rustling in her ears. “Immortality.”

“Stranger things, my dear.” Mckinnon smiled sadly. “The experiment transformed Archer. Irrevocably. Fits of rages, obvious physical deformation. He is unstable, perhaps mad.”

She jumped to her feet. “Bollocks. You’re saying this to turn me against Archer.”

He watched her pace. “Florid language aside, you know that is not true. Well, yes, true that I want to turn you against him. But this is not a falsehood. Have you never heard the rumors? Of him beating Lord Marvel to a pulp? I assure you, there are other stories…”

“Rumors. Such as the one that claims I came straight from a bawdy house?” His mouth opened but she rushed on. “I live with the man. He is not mad. Has a temper, yes, but it is not madness.”

“Then you don’t believe that he sought immortality?”

She paused. Stranger things. Her skirts pooled in a wash of burgundy as she sank back next to him. “I don’t know what to believe.” Miranda worried her bottom lip; everything about this business confused her. “An odd name, West Moon Club.”

“Quite.” Mckinnon settled farther into the couch. “It is in reference to the Norwegian fairy tale, East of the Sun and West of the Moon.”

“I know this story,” she said, the long-forgotten memory making her smile. “One of father’s sailors once told it to me while the men unloaded cargo. A great polar bear takes a young woman as his bride and, in return for her obedience, he gives her great riches. Only she discovers that he is really a prince caught in a sorceress’s spell.”

“Mmm…” said Mckinnon, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Thus you will remember that when the nosy young lady ignores the bear’s request for privacy and discovers his secret, he is whisked off to a place east of the sun, west of the moon, destined to marry a troll princess.”

She plucked at a stray strand of her hair that had drifted to her skirts. “Yes, well… But she did save him in the end, did she not?”

Mckinnon looked at her askance before going on blandly. “East of the sun and west of the moon is essentially nowhere. The club existed nowhere, the meeting place to constantly change.”

Miranda sighed and blinked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t believe any of this.” Scorn laced her voice, yet part of her whispered to listen well. “Why… why is someone killing these men?” She glanced at him. “Does he want the secret? Is he trying to torture it out of the victims?”

“And risk the same end as Archer?” Mckinnon frowned. “But there is another way—one that even the club considered, although it was ultimately deemed too horrific even for them.” He shifted and watched her carefully. “There are those who believe that by imbibing a man’s flesh, one absorbs the victim’s power and his soul. I didn’t say I believed it,” he protested, catching her skeptical look. “But it is an accepted practice, performed as far back as ancient Egypt. I happen to know that Archer himself translated several hieroglyphs on the subject.”

“Ridiculous.” It was a strangled gasp. “Eating flesh simply makes one a cannibal. You’re trying to frighten me. Immortality is a myth.”

“Does it matter?” Bright blue eyes held hers. “Whether or not Archer became an immortal isn’t the point. Those men believed they’d found immortality—unequivocally. Forgive me, my dear, but you have no notion how powerful an inducement belief can be for one who is desperate for a cure—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “To evade death, cure disease, whatever the motivator may be, someone out there is hacking these members up and taking their hearts—the known house of the soul. Personally, I think it is quite clear. Someone is hell-bent to gain immortality any way he can.”

He leaned forward, and his warm breath caressed the curve of her cheek. “If that is the case then he really ought to leave the rest alone and dine on Archer.”

Incensed, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. His skin was shockingly warm, as though fevered, yet he appeared in perfect health.

“Know this,” she said in harsh tones, “if anyone should find my husband”—she swallowed past a lump of nausea—“appetizing, should one hair on Archer’s head be harmed, I shall leave little more than ash of that unfortunate fellow.”

To make her point, she turned her gaze to the hearth. The densely packed coals, burning a steady orange, appeared to swell, going vermilion and then white hot before exploding within the grate.

A trickle of sweat rolled along Mckinnon’s brow, but he smiled. “How very protective of you.” He turned toward the parlor windows where the setting sun had painted the sky purple with streaks of gold. “It appears Lord Archer has returned.”

All was quiet, then the soft clips of hooves sounded on the gravel drive. Mckinnon set his eyes upon her. “Shall I stay and discuss things further?” A devilish grin pulled at his cheeks as his thumb moved to caress her wrist where they were still joined.

She released his wrist with a jerk and was composed when the front door opened. Mckinnon, however, got to his feet with practiced insolence. And as Archer strolled into the parlor, dreadfully unaware of his presence, Mckinnon made great show of straightening his clothes.