Firelight (Darkest London 1)

Blood drained from Miranda’s face. She knew how it must look and hated that she had put Archer in a position of vulnerability in his own home. He stopped, framed in the open doorway with his feet planted wide, his large hands curled into tight fists as his broad chest heaved.

“Ah, and the man behind the mask gives us a tantalizing peek.” Mckinnon’s smug barb cut through the silence, and she winced at the realization that Archer had left off his outer mask, a further humiliation in his eyes.

For a moment, simply seeing him again caused her heart to flip, then she noticed his expression. Rage, rage like nothing she’d ever seen colored his flesh, made his eyes blaze. The tip of his nose and lips stood out bone white.

“Archer…” She trailed off as his eyes flicked to her. And the rage yielded to such unmitigated hurt that her heart squeezed tight.

“Get out.”

His words were a knife in her heart. But his eyes looked past her.

“Get out of my house,” he said again to Mckinnon.

Mckinnon gathered his gloves and top hat from the side table. “I shall take my leave here.” His eyes took on a sudden twinkle, making Miranda wonder if irritating Archer had been Mckinnon’s true purpose all along.

Mckinnon caught her hand before she could move. The weight of Archer’s eyes bore into her as the devil leaned over her hand and kissed it. It snapped her out of her shock, and she wrenched her hand free. “Oh, do get out!”

He laughed lightly as he sauntered by Archer, who stood like granite in the doorway. Mckinnon paused before him, and the men stared at each other for an agonizing moment, while her blood rushed like wildfire. Archer’s eyes trailed over Mckinnon, pausing at his hands as though he would like nothing better than to rip Mckinnon’s gloves from his grasp and hit the man with them. Something wild gleamed in Archer’s eyes for a moment before it was snuffed out, and his gaze returned to Mckinnon’s face. A dead calm went over the men, and she tensed, ready to push between them, saving Archer from having to act, but Mckinnon put on his hat and slipped past.

“Good evening then,” he called lightly in the hall.

The door slammed shut with a reverberating crack, and then there was silence.

“Archer.” It came from her lips in a rasp.

He looked at her for one long moment, his face devoid of emotion, his eyes blazing like stars, then he turned and quietly walked away.

Archer had disappeared as if made of ether. Facing empty rooms, Miranda headed toward the stairs when Eula’s voice stopped her.

“The Prince of Darkness is in the greenhouse.”

Miranda paused, her hand upon the newel post. Greenhouse? In all her wanderings, she’d never happened upon a greenhouse. The housekeeper saw her confusion and snorted. “Take the back stairs to the top. You’ll find it.”

“Eula,” Miranda fought a smile, “you’re helping me? I’m touched.”

“Pish.” Eula stomped off, waving Miranda away as if she were an insect. “It’s either that or have you run amok messing up my house.”

The narrow back stairs wound up four stories, the air growing more dense and heated as she ascended. At the top, a black door stood closed against her. Slowly, she turned the knob and pushed into a world of green and the warmth of summer.

Above her, the black hand of night was stayed by sheets of glass held together by a grid of white-painted iron. The greenhouse itself ran the length of the house, a cavernous jungle of languid ferns, fragrant orange and lemon trees, and clusters of velvety roses. Roses everywhere, a kaleidoscope of color.

Gaslights hissed in the quiet, reflected off the panes of glass. Humid air enveloped her in a rose-scented kiss as she moved forward, past an iron chaise and into the thick quiet. A scuff of a shoe brought her round a corner.

He stood before a marble-topped work counter, his capable hands busy filling a large pot with soil. Just under the graceful sweep of his jaw, his pulse beat visibly. That sign of life, the column of his neck working as he swallowed, sent a shiver along her skin.

The way he breathed, the singular angle of his head when he bent it—they were as familiar to her now as her own reflection. More so because she could not grow tired of watching him. Was this an immortal man who stood before her? It could not be. It was the stuff of legend. A cold shudder took her. And if by some mad reasoning it were true, he would leave her behind. Because she was most assuredly mortal.

She took a step toward him but stopped short at the sight of the potted rose on the counter. “Oh my.” Her breath caught. It was utterly lovely, so white that it was luminescent in the dim light. Silver veining laced its petals, caressing its edges. The enormous bloom stood erect and alone in its little pot. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.

Archer inclined his head slightly. “You’d think differently were you a rose. Should I pot it with the others, it would take all of their nutrients. Within hours, they would wither on the vine. Wasted to give the silver rose its strength.”

Miranda moved to touch it but a sudden wariness stayed her hand. “If it is so deadly to the others, why do you keep it?”

Braver than she, Archer reached out and gently touched the glinting silver edge of a petal. “Sentimentality, I suppose.” Something in his voice made her heart squeeze.

“Only one bloom?” Deep-green leaves sheltered the single flower like a mantle.

“It cannot produce more than one bloom at a time. New buds compete for the light and only the strongest remains.”

He said no more, but ripped open a sack of rich black soil. “What did he want?” The quietness of his query did not fool her. The trowel in his hand shook under his tight grip as he filled the bottom of a larger pot with soil. A soft snort came from his lips. “Never mind. I know.”

The trowel hit the counter with a clang, and she flinched, the stays at her waist cinching tight as she waited for the imminent explosion.

It did not come. He simply stared down at the scattered soil as though trying to make sense of the mess. And a queer feeling tilted her insides, watching him retreat instead of turning to fight. Shame washed over her. Mckinnon and his blasted horror stories. She was no better than a calf-eyed fool for listening to him. Perhaps the club sought immortality. Perhaps not. But Archer was her husband. The man who protected her with his life. He did not deserve wild speculations.

“He told me about—”

“West Moon Club?” Archer’s mouth curled in a bitter smile when she started in surprise. “You have my coin. You are a busybody of the first order. It doesn’t take a mystic to know that you’d have discovered all you could about West Moon Club.” He stabbed at a pile of soil with his trowel. “You might have asked me, instead of him.”

She drew herself up. “And you are cagey and evasive at best. Am I now to believe you would have answered?”

A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Ask me now and see.”

Heart in her throat, she forced herself to speak. “Mckinnon believes you were looking for the secret to immortality.” It sounded ridiculous to her ears, yet he did not start in surprise. Instead, he merely glanced down at the soil, unseeing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, detached. “Immortality was not the goal, though I suppose by prolonging life, one is evading death.” Carefully, he lifted the exposed ball of soil that held the rose and settled it into its new pot. “This rose you see here is our most successful endeavor.”

Miranda blinked at the silver rose trembling delicately as Archer filled soil around its roots. “You expect me to believe these murders are about a rose?”

“No.” A wry smile touched his mouth. “However, knowing you will march headlong into danger, do you expect me to tell you whom I think responsible?”

A breath of frustration left her. “Thus you force me to seek answers elsewhere.”

Archer tensed but would not face her. “You already have, though, haven’t you?” A clump of soil flew into the pot with a thud. “I hope your time with Mckinnon was worth the knowledge gained. The question is, what did you exchange for his stories?” The trowel scraped over the counter, hacking through the pile of soil. “I know that dog well enough to understand he would not give away anything for free.”

“It appears you know both of us quite well,” she said without thinking.

The trowel clattered to the slate floor. Archer took a bracing breath, then clenched the sides of the counter. “I’ve work to do, Miranda. Please go.”

Slowly she went to him, conscious of her feet on the floor and the hammering of her heart. He did not move nor turn as she came up behind him, close enough to feel the tense energy that surrounded him. “You’ve no reason to be jealous.”

His head remained bent over the pot. “Is that what I am?”

Her breath hitched, but she could not move away. She knew the feel of his body now. The hardness and the power it held when he’d pressed up against her in the alleyway. And she craved it. Her head fell forward, coming just short of touching the space between his shoulder blades. She stared at the black suitcoat before her and the gentle rise and fall of his back.

“His endeavor failed.” Her pulse tattooed against her throat in a painful staccato.

He stirred, a tiny shift of movement away from her. “Not for lack of trying.”

“No.” She took a breath. “But as a woman, I thought it easier—quicker—to let him ask…” The be-gloved hand upon the table curled into a tight fist, and she spoke firmly. “Then send him on his way.”

He grunted with indifference. Her hand hovered at his shoulder, the need to touch him warring with caution. He tensed as though preparing to shrug off her touch, and her hand fell to her side. She closed her eyes and shifted forward so that they were closer still. Just to be near him. They stood in silence, breathing the same rhythm, slow and deep and steady. The heat of his body mingled with hers, the space between them as small as a change in breath. A quiet trembling took hold of her limbs.

“You’ve no reason to be jealous,” she whispered again.

The soft wool of his coat brushed her lips when he turned. Gray eyes gleamed like moonstones as he stared down at her, his breath coming in sudden disjointed draws.

“Archer…”

The look in his eyes vanished at the sound of her voice, and he dipped his head as though suddenly unable to keep it up. “It is as you said,” he answered quietly. “There is no reason for my jealousy. I’ve no claim—” The line of his jaw tightened.

A rush of feeling akin to anger, yet softer, ignited in her breast. His jutting upper lip was set hard, the fan of his dark lashes hiding his eyes.

“Don’t you?” she whispered, scarcely able to speak. “For even if you don’t, I certainly do.”

They radiated through him slowly, her words. His eyes lifted to her, the line of his brows tilting slightly. Their gazes locked as they stood quietly studying one another, the things they’d left unsaid hanging in the air.

He took a quick breath, and his voice dropped thick and unsteady. “Miri…” His hand lifted as though he might touch her but suddenly he was stepping away, moving to the far end of the counter to make a pretense of organizing his gardening tools.

“You misunderstand me,” he said with false casualness. “I simply meant that I have no right to object to your choice of callers.”

Blood rushed in her ears as she stared at him. Every line of his body betrayed the lie in his words. “Why do you turn away from me?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but there was little humor in his eyes as he blinked down at the desk. “I rather thought we’ve been avoiding each other.”

“Yes.” She took a step closer. “It’s been a smashing success.”

A parody of a laugh broke from his lips, but he did not reply. His fists rested on the marble as he stared off. “I only wanted to be near you,” he whispered, so low she wondered if he was even speaking to her. “To live in the shadow of your light. That you would want—” His lips pulled in as he bit down on them. “I cannot think when you are near.”

He was pulling away when she needed him to catch her. She’d killed a man the other night. He had killed. Did it haunt him, too? Did he strive every day to control his anger? Questions pounded like a pulse in her throat.

“Do you ever find yourself tired of all this secrecy?” she whispered in the thick silence.

Archer sucked in a deep breath and turned his head. It seemed that he might reach out to her. The illusion faded with the hardening of his long body. “Always,” he whispered back.

He fell silent, staring at her as though he longed to say more. But he was as incapable of taking that first step as she, and he went back to his potting. The lines around his mouth deepened, and her resentment melted. Perhaps trust did not work that way. She couldn’t know; she had never fully trusted another soul in her life.

Her heels clicked on the slate as she drew close. He inhaled sharply and turned to face her. Archer’s lids lowered as if meeting her gaze would be his undoing. His chest heaved like a bellows as she slowly leaned forward and let the warmth of his body envelop her. The fine grain of stubble tickled her lips as she pressed a gentle kiss upon his cheek, lingering over the subtle scent of him, and his eyes closed almost as if he were pained. He swallowed audibly, his broad chest hitching as they regarded each other from across the small distance that separated them.

“If you want to be near, why deny me?” Her lips grazed his chin. “Deny yourself?”

He blinked back at her, frozen to the spot. Slowly, his gaze traveled over her before resting upon her lips, and the frozen expression on his face melted. He could not shutter the yearning that burned hotly in his eyes.