Firelight (Darkest London 1)

He clutched her tightly as though she might slip away, sobs wracking his body as the loneliness he’d held within unleashed in a torrent. The sound of his anguish pulled tears to her eyes. He cried like a babe unbidden as she murmured unintelligible words of comfort, stroking his soft hair.

After a time, he quieted and the shaking ended. She dried his tears with his dressing gown and then held him, their arms and legs akimbo, the flickering light of the wall sconce above and the quiet of the house surrounding them. She loved him. It had always been so. His arms relaxed, and he turned his face into the crook of her neck.

“I love you too,” he whispered tenderly. “So very much.”

Miranda closed her eyes with a sigh and let her head fall against his.

“Say my name again,” he pleaded against her skin.

A smile ghosted over her lips. “Benjamin.”

He nuzzled the sensitive hollow of her throat, creating little shivers down her back. “Again.”

“Benjamin.”

His lips found hers.

“Benjamin,” she said between soft, gentle kisses. “Ben.” She caught his face in her hands, one cheek warm, the other cool.

His beautiful gray eyes locked onto hers, and his lips curled into a smile. “I have not been Ben to anyone,” he said, his voice rough with emotion.

She brushed a kiss over his high, clean cheekbone and then on the corner of his mouth. “That is because Ben belongs to me.” Her lips fitted over his, opening his soft mouth with her own, and he sighed. “You are mine.”

He pulled her closer. “I have always been yours, Miranda Fair. Just as you have been the only one for me. Only you. Always.”

The hard swells of his shoulders quivered beneath her touch but he put a staying hand upon her when she moved to kiss him. “Miri…” He cupped her face in his hands, and his eyes grew haunted. “I admit not being able to reason where you are concerned. I see you, and I want you. I love you to distraction.” His forehead rested against hers. “Miri, if we had only one night together”—he swallowed hard—“would you still want this?”

His words slid cold down her back. “What are you saying, Archer?”

Archer ran his thumb over her lip. “The killer is still out there. There isn’t a cure for me. I…” His eyes closed. “I wish the situation were different.”

She clenched his wrists, as if they could anchor her. A tremor went through him, and his long fingers slipped into her hair.

“What did you say before?” she whispered. “That life is here and now?” Her hand went to his cheek. “We shall take the here and now.” Miranda swallowed past the lump in her throat. Slowly, her hand went to the ribbon at her breast and pulled the tie loose. The peignoir slipped from her shoulders. “I’ve been your bride long enough; now make me your wife.”

Archer studied her with an expression that was almost fierce. The avid heat and want in his eyes sent a bolt of heat straight through her. Tenderly, he cupped her cheek, holding his gaze with hers as he slowly bent forward, giving her time. Time to move away, time to change her mind. Miri met him halfway, her lips melting against his, their sighs mingling. His kiss was deep and sure as if they had all the time in the world. She murmured her pleasure as he pulled her farther onto his lap to straddle him.

God, he was strong. Muscles shifted and bunched beneath her questioning hands. Smooth, cool marble became heated stone as his kiss deepened and became insistent. He trembled, and the strong arms that bracketed her tightened. “Don’t stop.” It was part plea, part demand. “I’d forgotten,” he whispered, “how it felt to be touched. To have hands upon my skin.”

Then she would never stop. Tremulously, she caressed the smooth slope of his back to the rounded curves of his shoulders. Archer sighed, his long body moving against her hand like a contented cat. “And kisses?” she murmured and placed a kiss on one corner of his mouth. Then the other. “More of those?”

His eyes drifted closed. “If you must.” His breath hitched as she kissed the tender spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The skin was satin there, cool and strong. She moved to the other side, where the scent of him was heady and warm, and his pulse jumped beneath her lips. Silence lay thick around them, highlighting the lazy crackle of the fire in the grate. She pressed each soft kiss along his shoulder, increasing the cadence of Archer’s breathing.

Firelight flickered over his skin, setting it aglow like sunshine on winter ice. Down her hand went, over hard, flat pectorals, along the little ravine that divided his abdominal muscles. His navel was a small half-moon and ticklish, she discovered as taut muscles around it twitched at her touch. The thick length of his sex lay almost flat against his stomach, reaching toward his navel. It was changed, the color of ice. Fascinated, she wrapped her hand around it.

Archer hissed sharply. His hand locked on her wrist. “You will kill me,” he rasped. His grip on her tightened as if to pull her away, but then he stilled, and his fingers settled over hers, holding her there, urging her on. Enthralled, she stroked down. A weak curse tore from his lips, and his head fell against her shoulder. Heat swelled over her as she stroked, watching him shiver, his muscles tensing. He was hard as marble, yet pulsing with life. She squeezed and a choked sound rumbled in his throat.

“Harder?” she whispered. Vividly, she remembered him pushing her into a cold wall, his long fingers probing her. The helplessness and urgency, the luscious heat. Her insides tightened.

His brows knitted, a look of agony darkening his features yet his mouth was slack with pleasure. “Yes… God, yes.”

She complied, and he convulsed, his narrow h*ps thrusting up to meet her as if compelled. Her core pulsed in response. She wanted to bite his neck, lick his skin, drive him over the edge. Groaning, Archer burrowed his face into her neck, his hands weakly clutching her upper arms.

“Faster?” He swelled within her hand.

“Yes.”

A strangled sound died on his lips as she moved faster, watching his large frame shake. Heat throbbed between her legs; the empty void there wanting to be filled. Archer’s fingers bit into her skin, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Unable to help herself, she leaned forward and sank her teeth into the hard muscle of his shoulder. The response was immediate. Archer’s hand clasped hers, yanking it away, as his other cupped her nape and pulled her down to his mouth.

The kiss was deep and hard and frantic. She wrapped her legs around his waist as his tongue plumbed her mouth in deep strokes, and he tweaked her ni**les, tender little tugs that pulled mewling cries from her lips. Red lust sent her head spinning. Her arms wrapped about his damp neck, and she rocked against his sex, her br**sts heavy and aching, her skin tight and hot. “Archer,” she whimpered against his mouth.

Soft carpet met her back, his hard flesh and untapped strength surging over her, pressing her down, his mouth never leaving hers. “I will try to be gentle, Miri,” he promised against her lips. The tip of his sex bunted up against hers, so big that she convulsed. “I swear,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll try.”

And then she understood.

“It is all right.” Her hand curled around his neck. “I’ve done this before—” She broke off in horror, and their gazed locked. The tips of her br**sts trembled against the smooth contours of his chest as he froze. Archer’s expression shifted, warring with jealousy and something deeper. His clear eyes gleamed, and she realized it was the masculine thrill of possession.

“But not with me.” And with those calm words, he entered, thick and hot and parting her swollen flesh so slowly that the whole of her senses focused on it. Lord, it was not like her first time. He was bigger. Almost too much for her. She felt stretched and invaded, yet a tight ache quivered in her belly, demanding that she be taken. And taken thoroughly. Heat crested over her skin at the thought, and she arched up into him, her legs parting on a breath, but he stopped, the line of his throat moving as he swallowed.

He hovered over her, his arms shaking with effort, the sinews along his shoulders and chest standing out in fine relief. “God.” He pushed a little deeper and then stilled again. “Too good,” he croaked.

“Too…” She cleared her throat. Desire steamed in her veins. “Too good?”

His muscles twitched, his breath ratcheting. “Jesus, yes.” Brows furrowed, eyes shut, he held a look of intense pain, but for the way his lips opened, panting and soft. So utterly delicious looking that she licked the tender column of his throat.

“Miri.” A bead of sweat trickled along his temple as he gave her a helpless look. “I’m a lit cannon about to go off.” He swallowed hard. “It’s been years and you’re… you.”

That he was all but undone by her sent a possessive thrill coursing through her veins. She wrapped her arms about him, wanting to bring him closer. Unhinge him the way he unhinged her.

“Don’t move,” he rasped. “For the love of God.”

Smiling, she smoothed her hands over the taut swells of his bu**ocks and gripped them. Her legs slid up his thighs to wrap around his waist, and he groaned hard, nudging a bit deeper. Pleasure scattered through her center. Poor Archer, he didn’t stand a chance. “Think of England, darling.”

A choked laugh burst from his lips. “Witch.” His eyes opened, and the pained expression broke into something so tender and hot her heart kicked. “God, I love you,” he whispered, then thrust in with a deep glide that made her moan.

His nostrils flared before the tight hold he had on himself broke. His mouth took hers, open and wanting. Their fingers twined, and he lifted her hands high above her head, holding them there as he pumped into her with hard, deep strokes. Liquid heat, thick and viscous like lamp oil, flowed through her limbs. She writhed against it, pain blurring with pleasure. So this was need. Little grunts rumbled in his throat as he took her harder.

More. More. And more. It was not enough. And too much. Her br**sts trembled with each thrust, the silk carpet at her back abrading her skin. The floorboards squeaked as his rhythm increased. His tongue plunged into her mouth, tangling with hers, stealing her breath. A dark, swirling thing—need—gripped hot and strong. She moved against him, straining, reckless with it. Her nails scored his back to spur him on. He grunted and slipped a hand between them, finding the slick nub of sensitive flesh between her legs, and tweaked it. Her body tightened in white-hot pleasure, and her heels dug into the floor as sensation punched into her.

He watched her as she came apart. Pushed deep within her, he ground himself against that sensitive spot that fractured her, set her body on fire. Gasping, she gazed up at him, and those silver eyes held hers. For one sharp moment, he was whole and unchanged with golden skin, tousled black curls falling over his brow. A picture of the man he truly was inside. Mine. Tenderness, lust, and love crushed her chest, so brutal and sharp that she sobbed.

“Archer.” She touched his cheek. And like that he came. Hard. His shout reverberated through the room as he bucked above her, the tendons in his neck standing out like vines, his c**k pulsing within her. Another wave of blinding heat took her. She clutched him as if she could pull him inside of her skin. They strained against each other for one tense moment before her hands fell weakly to the floor.

On a sigh, he settled over her, cocooning her within his arms, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding a bit as they lay panting. Slowly she came back to herself. Archer eased onto his side, taking her with him, his lips tickling her damp brow as his long fingers threaded through her hair.

“Oh my,” she whispered breathlessly.

A puff of warm air hit her cheek. “Quite.”

His lashes curled like black fans around deep gray eyes. With a wobbling smile, he kissed her, a gentle touch meant to soothe, yet his lips clung, then nipped. A surge of warmth washed thorough her. His tongue touched hers, and his cock, still deep and hard inside her, twitched. Anticipation fluttered. Flushing, she rocked her h*ps in question. He smiled against her lips and nudged back. Oh my. Warmth turned to heat, the tight ache returning to her belly. Again? His eyes met hers, and she saw the heat there, languid yet sure.

“Stamina,” he whispered against her mouth. A wolfish grin lit his features as he rolled back over her and gently but firmly proceeded to give her an in-depth lesson on the very subject.

A figure stood alone in the empty rooms of a grand town house. From outside came the gentle clatter of a hansom, and farther off the soft chime of bells. Unending darkness, both outside and in, made the cold room an inky well. One more day and everything would fall into place.

Soft clicks sounded as the killer paced in slow meditation. The watch called the hours, a gentle song that announced the ebbing of time. Archer’s movements used to be as predictable as the tides. And now, one could never be sure. A grunt of agitation rang out. Archer’s reprieve had been too long. Foolish. Another reminder was needed.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Wonderful, beautiful, blissful, gorgeous, lovely. Adjectives floated around in Archer’s head like cherry blossoms falling in late spring. He wanted to laugh, shout, and run amok, singing at the top of his voice. Snatches of romantic poetry learned in his salad days came to mind. She walks in beauty like the night; shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? He smiled then, looking up at the ceiling above his bed. He certainly did not possess the talent to fit into words what he felt. Too bad Byron was dead. He’d have hunted him down and introduced him to Miri. The master poet would have found words to do her justice.

He glanced at his glorious, beautiful, wonderful wife lying asleep at his side. The deep curve of her narrow back glowed like Egyptian alabaster in the sunlight. The silken tumble of her hair, golden with glints of fire, fell over her pillow and onto his shoulder. As always his breath came in little stabs of sweet pain when he looked at her. Miri, his miracle, his little fire starter. Laughter bubbled up within him. He ought to have known she would possess some extraordinary power; she was too sensible to have such little fear in dangerous situations. Cheese on toast, indeed.