Firelight (Darkest London 1)

Icy drafts of night air flowed over her heated cheeks as the door swayed back and forth. Only the wind. The French windows fronting the drive were open, the white lace curtains floating and swirling. Blue moonlight ghosted over the parquet toward the rug. She wrenched off her mask and moved forward as though entranced. Something was waiting for her.

She was going to scream. She felt it rise in her throat, trapped only by the fear that tightened all her muscles. Miranda took a step closer. And suddenly a presence was rushing up behind her. Intent upon claiming her.

She turned in mindless terror, colliding bodily with something large and dark. The thing caught her by the arms, and her scream broke free. She lashed out only to be drawn against it.

Her body knew him before her mind did. Archer. Her hands clawed at his lapels as Archer’s arms wrapped around her.

“Archer.” When she could breathe, she gave his chest an unsteady thump with her fist. “Good Lord, you gave me a fright.” But when she tried to pull away, he held her tight, his big hand cupping the back of her head.

“I apologize,” he said. It was then she felt the rapid tattoo of his heart against her cheek. “I thought I heard…” He eased back to glance at her, but his body stayed tense, alert to any threat. “Something here is amiss. I can feel it.”

She glanced at the open door, and a chill crawled down her spine. “I do, too,” she whispered.

“We are leaving,” Archer said. “Now.” He did not give her a chance to protest but tugged her down the stairs. Miranda was more than willing to go. With each step, she felt the burn of unseen eyes upon her back.

He took her down the back door and out the service entrance. Their four-in-hand landau waited in the drive with the hood up, the dark bays gleaming blue in the bright moonlight. Archer offered her a hand up to the coach. A sable rug and hot water bottle lay in wait upon the seat, and she tucked herself in, glad for the warmth. Archer was just about to follow when a loud crash echoed through the courtyard. They jumped, but a nearby footman was quickest to recover.

“That would be Henrietta,” the footman said with a glance at a small woman bent over a fallen crate of glasses near the kitchen door. “One of the maids. She’s a bit soft in the head.”

Muffled sobs reached Miranda’s ears as the poor woman tried to adjust her heavy load.

Archer jumped down from the coach step. “I’ll be just a moment.”

The footman, caught in the position of looking less than chivalrous, followed at a reluctant pace. Miranda watched Archer go, soaking in the prowling way he walked.

The violent crack of a whip and a shrill shout from above made her jump. The coach lurched forward, throwing her back in the seat as the frightened horses took off. She fumbled to right herself, dimly hearing Archer shout her name, but another, far worse sound from the driver’s seat cut his cry short—the cackle of the same fiend who had tried to kill her at the museum.

Her fingers turned to ice but a spark of familiar heat ignited in her belly. I’ll kill him, she thought with clarity. Char his bones for what he did to poor Cheltenham. But she couldn’t bloody do it while in the coach.

“Miranda!”

She turned to the back window. Archer raced down the drive after her. Hopeless, the strength of four strong bays nearing full gallop pulled the coach farther out of reach. He flung off his outer mask and did not abate. Her hopelessness turned to astonishment as she watched him surge forward, his long stride moving at speeds no man ought to possess. Archer gained. Closer. The fiendish coachman lashed his whip, urging the horses on, and the coach pulled ahead.

Archer’s speed increased and, in a magnificent bound, he landed on the running board with a thud that rocked the coach. Archer jumped onto the roof and threw himself upon the fiend with a grunt. The hard leather coach top dented beneath them.

Unmanned, the coach lurched dangerously, and Miranda fell to the floor. The sight of a large black object falling by her window drew her to the back window as Archer and the villain hit the hard gravel road and tumbled head over heels to land in a twisted heap upon the ground.

“Archer!” The coach hit a rut, and she fell back. “Bloody hell!”

The terrified horses did not break stride but seemed to gain purchase. There was only one avenue of escape, and she was not about to attempt it in a gown. Tossing about like a cork in a sea, she tore at her skirts until free. How far she’d traveled she could not tell but a clear memory of a narrow bridge and winding forest road prickled her skin. She had to be nearing those pitfalls, and a speeding coach would not make it through.

The latch to the hood lay overhead. She fell once, then twice trying to reach it. The ride grew rougher, the lamps swaying recklessly. Placing her feet on either side of the seats, she leapt upward and knocked the latch open. The front half of the hood fell down with a crash.

The cutting wind brought tears to her eyes, the clattering of the coach and pounding of hooves near deafening. Blinking fiercely, she concentrated on the four bobbing heads of the horses, blue black in the moonlight. In dismay, she saw the long reins dragging along the ground. She could never reach them.

Ahead a dark shadow cut across the moonlit road. The crick in her neck remembered that particular ditch well when they’d gone over it on the ride to the party. Too deep a rut.

The coach careened toward it, and she dove back into the cab, hitting her knees and head hard as she landed upon the floor. In the same instant, the coach crashed over the ditch with the deafening sound of squealing horses. She braced her feet and hands as the coach spun sideways, slowing down, then gaining momentum as it began to tip to the side.

From outside herself, she heard her screams, felt her body lift into the air. Wind rushed over her. By sheer will, she curled inward and hit the ground with such tumbling speed that the world blurred, the sound of breaking wood and shattering glass a roar. The weight of the tumbling carriage bore down on her, and then everything went black.

Archer’s head hit the ground with a meaty thunk. Stars lit behind his lids as he rolled, his limbs tangling with another’s, dirt spraying his eyes. For a moment, he lost all thought of who or what he was. Then he swung blindly, knowing that his opponent would soon do the same. His fist connected with a jaw harder than bedrock. Pain vibrated down his arm. He swung again and missed. A faint cry echoed down the road. Archer scrambled to his feet. Miri! Miri on the coach.

A hand clamped like a manacle over his ankle. Archer spun through the air, whipped around by the unholy force upon his leg, the light of the moon a blur before he hit the hard earth. A knee crushed into his elbow. He wrenched to the side, and another knee followed, trapping him in the dirt. He roared, bucking up, but the body sitting upon him pinned him down as easily as if he were a child.

“You’re quick. But not as quick as I.”

Like lightning, the hand struck, catching Archer across the left temple. Brilliant white exploded before his eyes and then the faint outline of a black mask appeared, hovering above him. From far off came the sound of wood splintering and horses squealing. Archer’s heart stopped, terror strangling him. Miri. A roar died in his throat as a cold length of steel pressed against his jugular.

“Want to save her, do you?” Again the laugh. Softer this time. The edge of the knife pricked Archer’s skin. “I have all the time in the world. You, unfortunately, do not.” The masked face above his tilted, catching the blue rays of moonlight gleaming down. “We have played enough games. Time to decide.”

The knife snagged over his cravat and down his thin linen shirt, burning a trail to his heart. Sweat tickled his brow as the needle-sharp point stopped at the place where his heart thumped against his chest. “Your heart or hers.” The eyes behind the mask flashed. “If hers is still beating after tonight, that is.”

Archer’s fingers twitched, his heels digging uselessly into the earth. Crushed beneath the coach? Despite the knife, he bucked again, felt the sting on his chest. The knees upon his arms pushed down harder. Red rage blinded him. “Do it, then.” His teeth ground into each other. “Take mine, and let us end this now.”

Laughter rang out. “So you’d rather die than save her?”

He blanched and the laughter turned chilling. “I didn’t think you would. And let me assure you, if you deny me, I will cut her into very small pieces when you are gone.”

Suddenly the knife was gone. Icy breath touched Archer’s nose as the masked face drew near. “The new moon and the winter solstice occur on the same night this year. Four days from now. Change under such powerful forces will make that romantic heart of yours incalculably strong. So I’ll grant you a reprieve.” Teeth flashed in the night. “To show how caring I can be, I give you until then. If you do not comply…”—a hand lashed out, smacking Archer lightly, highlighting his feebleness—“not only will I cut out her heart and eyes, I will keep her alive as I do it.”

Archer thrust his head forward, ready to smash the vile thing’s nose in, doing whatever it took to kill it. He met with air, lurched up into nothingness. Laughter echoed in the void, and then he was alone, sitting like a child on the dark road.

Chapter Twenty-four

Darkness. Quiet. Miranda reveled in it for a moment, breathing hard, holding the earth as though an anchor. Dirt crumbled beneath her fingers, and dead winter grass prickled her nose. She sneezed and the back of her head slammed into something hard. The carriage was on top of her, she realized with a start of terror. She flopped about, desperate to be free of her prison. It would not budge. Her chest squeezed painfully, her throat closing. Breathe! She took a slow breath, and another.

Tentatively, she wriggled her toes, fingers… all working. Everything ached, but there were no sharp pains that she could detect. Other than the horrible pounding in her head and a slight throbbing on her elbows and knees, she felt perfectly fine.

She had room, not much of it, but enough. No sound of horses. Which was all fine save there was no one around for miles, and she was assuredly out of sight of the main road. The image of bugs and vermin crawling in to taste her flesh loomed high in her mind, and she started violently. Then the ominous sound of strained timber creaked overhead. She froze, the pounding of her heart filling her ears, when another sound broke through the muffled silence of her tomb—a man shouting. She pressed an ear toward the carriage body. Another desperate roar of terror, the sound of which went straight to her core.

“Miranda!”

“Archer,” she whispered, tears blurring her eyes. A whimpering sob broke from her lips. He’d come. He was alive.

“Miranda!” His shout was clearer now. He was by the carriage, obviously looking around for her and failing.

“I’m here.” Her voice sounded pathetically small and weak in the dark space. He wouldn’t hear.

“Archer!” she called louder, filling the space with her voice.

Pounding footsteps reverberated through the dirt, then came a jostling of the carriage above. The wooden body of the carriage sunk down an inch and pressed into her bottom.

“Stop!” she screeched. “You’ll bloody crush me.”

Odd, she thought as the pressure instantly ceased, one could always tell when another was cursing violently, even when the words were unclear. The thought of Archer in a temper rallied her more than anything. He’d find help and get her free.

She could only gape in a stupor when a loud groan ran through the wooden carriage frame and the pressure upon her back began to ease. Surely he did not mean to lift the bloody thing himself?

Surely he did. The carriage slowly rose, pale moonlight seeping in as it ascended. The toes of muddy boots came into view. Another groan shot through the night, this one altogether human and strained. A cacophony of splintering wood, squeaking springs, and Archer’s shout rang in her ears as the carriage toppled back onto its broken wheels to land in a rattling heap next to her. Cool fresh air filled her lungs.

“Thank God. Miri… ah, stop!”

Archer jumped to her side the instant she began to wobble to her knees.

“Don’t bloody try to rise! Damn fool, woman… Your spine may have been injured,” he lectured as he knelt before her. “Not to mention…” His words faded from her hearing as she drank up the sight of him—alive and whole.

His usually gentle upper lip was set firm, a sure sign of irritation. The squared-off line of his cheek and jaw was pale blue in the moonlight but unmarred.

“Your ankles appear unharmed…”

Dimly, she felt the gentle touch of fingers running up her calf. He’d retained his silk mask, but a large rent ran along the shoulder seam of his fine suit coat, and a lapel was gone. On the whole, however, he did not look like a man who’d gone head first off a speeding coach.

“Can you turn your head? I say, can you turn your head!”

“Pardon?” She blinked and found his eyes narrowed on her.

“Can you turn your head?” he asked with forced patience. “Slowly.”

She turned her head from side to side.

“Good.” He went on with his examination. “Lift your arms?”

She did as asked, only half listening. The skeletal form of the carriage’s wreckage had caught her eye when she turned right. Black scars of turned-up earth and grass marked the carriage’s trip down the slope. It had landed on a streambed. Only luck and dry weather had made it possible for her to fall within the deepest crevice of the dried-up bed, with the carriage landing on its side above her. A shiver of gratitude rent through her.

Such a blessing brought her back to her senses and, with it, the realization that Archer’s big hands roamed over her hips, scarcely covered by her thin drawers.