Firelight (Darkest London 1)

She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked away. Better to ignore the brute. Oh, why had she admitted to being moved by him? A sound of irritation broke from her lips. Despite herself, she glanced his way, and her traitorous mind chose that unfortunate moment to call forth the memory of his tongue sliding over hers, the hot kiss of his breath against her skin.

He blinked in response, his mouth softening as though remembering too. He was silent for a moment.

“I see…” The silkiness of his voice had a ring to it she did not like—like the chiming of warning bells. He took a step closer. An odd half-smile flittered across his lips.

Wariness crawled up her spine. “Archer…”

“I’ve abused your feminine notions of how a husband should conduct himself.” He took another step. “You want me to punish you—”

“No—” The brick wall of the alleyway brushed her skirts. Trapped.

Archer shook his head thoughtfully. “I believe you do.”

She read the intention in his eyes an instant before strong hands whirled her round and her cheek was pressed against the cold, damp wall.

“Is this what you want?” His chest crushed into her back, flattening her br**sts against the brick. Icy cold seeped into her skin, setting her ni**les to harden as an anticipatory thrill lit through her.

“Hmm?” The hard length of his thigh wedged between her own, impudently pushing past thick folds of gathered crinoline and satin flounces.

“Leave off,” she said through her teeth. She’d be damned if she’d struggle with him.

His laughter rippled through his chest and into her back. To her horror, heat raced down her belly and between her legs. She closed her eyes and silently cursed.

“I tried that,” he huffed against her ear. “You didn’t like it.”

Her eyes flew open as the cold night air hit her calves.

“Archer, stop!” But his hand continued to wrench up her dress. Gone were cautious, gentle touches, replaced by the firm authority of a man who believed his advances were not entirely unwelcome. The bastard.

“Do not pretend you do not know what becomes of ladies who venture into alleyways on their own.”

She struggled in earnest then, but it did no good. He was too big and bearing down on her with his weight. She might as well have been a butterfly pinned to a lepidopterist’s board.

“So tell me, Lady Archer…” A large, surprisingly hot hand clamped down on her rump. She squeaked in shock. “What great magic will save you now?”

The other hand joined its mate, one encased in soft leather, one shockingly bare. Even through her drawers, she could tell the difference. She burned in humiliation as Archer held her bottom in his hands, moving them in slow, insolent circles. Her humiliation doubled as she fought against the heat and anticipation that grew within her.

“Do not try me,” she gritted out and attempted once more to thrust him away. The action only pushed her bottom into his pelvis.

Archer gave a small groan and pressed harder. “Show me, Lady Archer.” Butter-soft lips brushed her neck, his breath a hot caress. “Show me your defenses. I cannot wait forever.”

Hands slid from her rump to her hips, threatening to slip around to the front. A fine shudder ran through Archer’s frame, and he went still. “Do it now, or there is no turning back.”

She felt the tension gathering in him, his shock at how he touched her, and beneath it, a small tremor of want. She closed her eyes, her cheek pressed against the cold wall, the tips of her fingers slipping on the crumbling mortar. Oh please.

The horrifying heat between her legs began to throb, and the cold wall was a refuge for the fire in her skin as the muscles along her belly shivered. Feeling the movement, Archer’s body tightened around her. On a breath, his fingers curled, caressing the curve of her hipbones, a delicate fluttering that raised gooseflesh along her limbs. He swallowed audibly, his breath stirring tendrils of her hair. The fingers at her h*ps trembled as if they sensed the close proximity of their target, and her breath slowed to soft bursts. They tensed together at the edge of a precipice. Miranda licked her lips. She only had to speak. Tell him to stop. She knew it. He knew it. One word.

The silence grew still and thick. Her br**sts were heavy, aching against the chilled wall, her ni**les hard little points that chafed against her bodice with each rasping breath. Heat suffused her cheeks as lust surged within, taking her to that dark place in her mind that simply wanted. One word and he would walk away. She closed her eyes tight, bit her lip, and moved. A small nudge of her bottom that bid him to act.

His breath left on a soundless gasp. Embarrassment burned so hot, it pained Miranda’s cheeks. Archer’s body grew tighter, his heartbeat a tangible rhythm against her back. And then his hand, trembling with fear or perhaps anticipation, slowly began to move. Down, the tips of his fingers feathered, burning a trail toward the slit in her drawers.

Miranda’s teeth sank into her lip. Her corset became iron hands that would not let her breathe. His fingers brushed light as a kiss against her curls, and they both let out a pained gasp. Archer’s chest heaved against her, his breathing raw as if he’d run miles.

“Open.” His voice was a hot rasp against her ear.

Miranda swallowed hard. One step. Her knees buckled, and she clung to the wall, her eyes still shut tight.

His breath hitched. The blunt tip of his finger touched her flesh, and her head went light. She clung to the wall as that finger moved back and forth, so slow she thought she might scream.

“You’re wet.” Awe and desire darkened his voice to something almost unrecognizable. A faceless stranger touching her in the black night. “Wet for me.”

A strangled cry broke from her lips. It was all she could do.

He slipped deeper, stroking her, learning her. She pressed her aching br**sts harder into the bricks, her fingers growing numb where she clutched tight. Unthinking, she moved her hips, rocking them against his touch. The forbidden act sent a fresh burst of heat over her skin.

Archer trembled. His mouth found the exposed skin over her bodice. His tongue snaked out, tasted her. “Faster?”

Miranda panted, tried to find the words. “Yes.”

Feather strokes slipped over the wet, taunting. She ground her teeth, and thrust her h*ps back into him. His c**k was a hard weight against her back. His free hand gasped her hips, held them still.

“Harder?” he groaned against her skin before sucking it.

“Yes.”

Pleasure boiled within. Her lips parted on a cry. Frantic, she rocked against him, shivering despite the white heat rolling over her. Cruelly, he pressed himself against her, not letting her move as he worked her, faster, harder. Her body tightened like a bow and then she broke, coming apart with small, pained cries.

Archer’s teeth sank into her neck. Holding her there as the world fell to pieces and then slowly came back together.

She returned to herself on a shudder, his hand already slipping away to hold her hip gently. His lips brushed her bruised flesh once as if to soothe her. They were silent for a moment, both of them trembling, their chests lifting and falling in unison, then she felt the realization wash over him. He drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, letting her skirts fall as he went.

Miranda sagged against the wall. She could not face him. Not yet. The ghost of her cries hung in the air between them. Her body still throbbed from what they had done. What he had done to her. Her cheeks suffused with fresh heat.

She felt him watching. Regretting? His silence was a cold presence against her back.

“Go on, then,” he whispered. A deep breath sounded in the dark, and his voice gathered strength. “I’ve done you a wrong. Turn me into cheese on toast.”

She went utterly cold. Cheese on toast. She’d only used that threat once in her life. In an instant, she spun round. “You mock me?” she hissed at his retreating form.

Archer straightened his ascot with false nonchalance; she saw the tremble in his hand. “Never.” He looked down at his bare hand as if he couldn’t quite place it. Miranda glanced away from those skilled, long fingers. The sight of them perplexed her as much as it did him.

“I have thought about having you against a wall since the day we met,” he said without looking up.

“Oh. I… Oh. Then…” To say any more would expose too much of herself. She turned to face the dark cavern of the alleyway. Goosebumps rose over her skin as she thought of flashing knives and Archer falling. “That man. It almost appeared as if you knew him. Did you know who it was?”

“I rather thought it was our killer.”

She opened her mouth to retort but stopped as she saw the sheen of sweat along his cheek. The moonlight cast his skin marble white. For a moment he looked almost ill. Catching the direction of her gaze, he turned abruptly and strode down the alley, leaving her to follow at a trot.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

A hack rattled before them, stopping at Archer’s command. Archer walked through the curling mist kicked up by the coach and opened the door before handling her up like a sack of grain. She landed hard on the leather seat as he swung his bulk inside. As soon as he sat, the coach lurched forward. Her thighs were damp, her flesh tender. The thought of what they had done licked over her like a flame. Well, she would throw reason over it like iced water. Don’t look at him. Speak of something else.

Archer glanced at her and smirked. “I don’t suppose you will tell me just how you intended to turn those young men who attacked you that night into luncheon?”

She sank back into the shadows, away from his keen stare. The weak lamp above their heads swung like a pendulum, moving Archer’s dark form in and out of shadow as the coach sped down Great Russell Street toward Piccadilly. “Perhaps when you have told me what Father had done to earn your wrath that night.”

Cold and unhinged, she crossed her arms in front of her for warmth. Their cloaks were in the museum.

“What does it matter?” He tried to shrug out of his suit coat but stopped with a marked wince.

“Of course it matters. I—” The cab passed under a streetlight, and she saw the black glimmer of blood that darkened his silver brocade vest. “You’re hurt!”

She moved in close, and he shifted as far away from her as he could, which wasn’t very, considering the size of the cab and the size of him.

“It is nothing.” Despite his protest, he pulled the cravat from round his neck and pressed it hard to his side.

“Good God, you’re bleeding like a skinned cat.”

“Really, Miranda, you are the most colorful speaker at times.” A smile ghosted over his lips. Sparring with her apparently restored his good humor. Or perhaps it was easier for him to brush away what they had done, she thought with a flush. But when she reached for him, he swatted her hand.

She tucked the offending hand beneath her skirts. “This is unfair. You can save my life, assault me in an alleyway—”

“Assault, was it?”

“Just look at you! It’s a wonder you are even sitting upright.”

“How odd. My definition of ‘assault’ must be in error.”

“You are not made of iron, you know. You should have alerted me of your injury at once. You could have bled to death! What were you thinking?”

His mouth twitched. “I’m going to assume that was a rhetorical question.”

Heat burned her cheeks. “After all we have been through,” she continued before he could volley any more witticisms, “I cannot tend to your wound?”

He fell silent.

“Don’t worry, it is on your good side,” she sneered. “I won’t see anything.”

Serpentine slits of silver eyed her with irritation. “You cannot ‘tend to my wound’ in the coach.”

She returned his look with full measure. “Fine. Then I shall attend to it at home.”

His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth, and she sat back affecting satisfaction, when really she wanted to hit his stubborn head. They rode in silence for a time, the lights of London moving by in a hazy blur.

Despite her resolve, she found herself looking down at his exposed hand lying limp against his thigh, his skin shifting from gold to silver in the wavering lamplight. He had touched her with those long fingers, made her break apart inside and out. A shiver ran along her thighs. Such intimate things he had done to her. Rather, he had touched her in an intimate place. In truth, he could have been anyone there in the dark for what little of himself he gave to her. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Archer, her avenging angel. Always.

Warmth filled her breast. She pulled her attention upward, to meet his eyes. Unfortunately, her gaze faltered at his mouth. An enticing mouth, curved and firm. Would it be soft? A kiss would tell her. A kiss. That was true intimacy, the conversation of lovers. She had tasted him. Heady flickers of tongue against tongue, but he had yet to truly kiss her. And she found herself craving one. Miranda bit her lip. Speaking was preferable to silence.

“So you came to my home to kill Father,” she said conversationally. “On that we can agree.”

Archer grunted and continued to look out his window.

“And yet you did not. Why? Was it pity?” She tapped her lip thoughtfully, rather enjoying taunting him. “Exhaustion? I scared you away?” That earned her a snort. “What then? What was the reason?”

He turned to face her with a glare. “Logic compels you to deduce,” he said roughly, “that it was I who singled your father out and ruined him, because it was I who wanted more than anything in life to marry you.”