chapter Fifteen
Cagy, rotten blighter. On the inside, Miranda seethed. She knew Archer well enough now to understand that he sought to divert her when he made ridiculous statements or scathing declarations. Moreover, she knew he was lying. Thus, she said nothing in return but let him stew in the knowledge that his plan to unnerve her had failed. She appeared perfectly at ease, as if she did not feel the ghost of his touch upon her skin, did not feel the slickness between her legs with every step. Ignored him when he sent her wary looks. Good, let him squirm. She was not without her own methods of manipulation.
Her theory proved true as he strode into the front hall and headed for the stairs, clearly thinking she’d run for her rooms like a frightened mouse. The man was mad if he thought she’d let him wander off and bleed all over the house before telling her the truth. She followed, lifting her skirts a bit to keep up with his long stride. But when he began to alight the stairs, a small grunt escaped his compressed lips, and his step faltered. She was at his side in a moment.
“Let me help you,” she said, taking his arm.
“Go to bed, Miranda.”
Her fingers dug into his elbow, and he winced again. A dark patch of blood stained his upper arm as well. She eased her grip but did not let go.
“Shall I make a scene?” She glanced pointedly at one of the footmen who stood at attention in the hall. “Or shall we adjourn to your rooms together?”
A myriad of emotions ran through his eyes, the prevalent one being supreme irritation. “I thought you would never ask,” he said through his teeth.
Archer’s room. It was much like the library, paneled in mellow woods, with large, comfortable leather chairs and a long leather couch arranged before the hearth. She kept her eyes firmly away from the massive bed hung with silver velvet draping and followed Archer as he stomped over to a sideboard near the window and helped himself to a tumbler of brandy.
Her eyes went to the wide door connecting her room to his. So close. Every night so close, yet he remained the gentleman and kept his distance. That alone filled her with tender gratitude. The ache in her chest was gratitude, wasn’t it?
He eased off his coat and vest, staying in shirtsleeves and collar, then went to the full-length mirror in the corner. Gently, he pulled apart the torn, blood-soaked linen and inspected his wound.
“Shit.” The crisp expletive snapped through the air.
She came closer and pulled in a breath. The wound was a good six inches long and rather deep. Blue-black blood and meaty pink flesh gaped at her. The floor beneath her feet swayed.
“The muscle looks intact—” Archer’s head jerked up. “Sit down before you faint.”
She backed into a seat and watched as he pulled a stack of white linens from a drawer and pressed one to his side. The cloth bloomed crimson.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, keeping his eyes on the cloth. “This needs attending and I’ve no time to…” He swayed and caught himself with a hand to the sideboard.
She jumped up and pulled him none too gently to the couch by the fire. “Then let us proceed.”
“No!” His ashen mouth pinched.
She nudged his shoulder, and he fell easily back onto the couch.
“You talk of my stubbornness,” she snapped, hauling his heavy legs up so that he lay down. “You’re no better than a belligerent ox.” A lock of hair fell down over her brow, and she swatted it back.
“How,” she asked, glaring at him, “are you to attend a wound that you can’t even view without twisting your side and making it gape?”
He simply glared back, his expressive mouth set and firm.
“Well?”
“I don’t know!” he shouted, then winced.
“That is enough.” Her hands went to his shirtfront. “Let us proceed before you bleed to death.”
He caught her wrists in a surprisingly firm grip. “No.”
The childish resolve in him irked her to no end. “Is it worth your life?” she asked, still imprisoned by his hands.
Alarm flashed in his eyes, but it was ruthlessly suppressed by determination. “Yes.”
A shiver of real fear ran along her limbs. “And where does that leave me?” she asked softly.
His grip eased but the war clearly still raged inside him. She took pity and moved away.
“Here.” She took the soft woolen rug from the couch back. “We shall leave the shirt on and cover up your right side.”
He watched as she tucked the throw around him.
“I don’t deserve you, Miranda.”
The softness in his voice made her want to smile but she kept it repressed. “Yes, I know.” She straightened. “No matter, I shall soon have my revenge. Now tell me what to do.”
“Bring the lamp close. And I need more of the linen cloths.”
Miranda did as bidden, and he pressed a large bundle of linen firmly against his side.
“Can you sew?” he asked, looking a bit peaked.
“Yes, but…”
“Good. Go wash your hands. And bring back a bowl of soapy warm water. You’ll find a bowl in the cabinet by the washroom door.”
When she returned, he lay so still upon the couch that she worried he’d fainted, but his eyes found hers as soon as she drew near and set down the bowl of water.
“Go to the wardrobe over there.” He gestured with a jerk of his chin. “There is a black valise on the top shelf. Can you reach it?”
“Just.”
She set the things on the table and added the rolls of clean linen she’d found by the valise.
“Take out that length of black velvet—carefully—and the three larger bottles.” He rested his head upon the pillow. “Good. We’ll tend to the arm first.”
“How is it that you have all this,” she asked as she ripped the gaping hole on his sleeve a bit wider. The wound was superficial, a light slash across the large arc of his biceps. Firmly, she told herself that such a display of masculine strength was nothing to gape at like a blushing chit, and set her thoughts to the task at hand.
“I am a surgeon,” Archer replied, glancing at the wound. It had already stopped bleeding. “For all intents and purposes. Before… the accident I had completed medical school. I’ve taken examinations, attended lectures…” He made a sound of weariness. “Though I doubt anyone would let me practice upon them.” His wide mouth pulled wryly. “Even without the mask, a noble seeking to work in trade is unsettling to most. And to become a surgeon over a physician”—he tsked wryly—“it was quite boorish of me.”
Gently, she washed and bound the cut with a long length of thick linen cloth, following his precisely put instructions to the letter.
“Now the other wound.” His deep voice was rougher now. He took a restorative breath and eased the cloth away from his side. The cut welled but the bleeding had slowed.
He let her pull the shirt farther apart so that she might wash the skin around the wound. “Don’t let that water in; we’ll clean it with iodine in a moment.”
When his skin was reasonably clean, he gestured to the implements on the table. “Unroll that velvet bundle. And watch your fingers. There are knives within.”
The rolled velvet revealed its cache of sharp little blades, and three wicked-looking needles that might have been fishing hooks but she knew were not.
Her eyes went to Archer.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said patiently.
“I do.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What now?”
“The clear bottle is distilled alcohol, the red iodine, and the green laudanum.” The corner of his jaw twitched, and he paled a bit. “Hand me the laudanum and dab the wound with the tincture of iodine, in that order please.”
Archer uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a deep pull from it.
“Careful, you can easily overindulge!” The thought of him dying from laudanum poisoning tightened her chest.
A weak smile touched his lips, the drug already glazing his eyes. “I know the proper dosage for myself. I assure you, the effects wear off quickly with me.”
He settled back with a sigh and watched her with serpentine eyes as she doused a cloth with the iodine and pressed it to the gaping wound. Archer let out a roar, throwing his head back as his body went taut. “Christ’s blood!” he shouted and fell limp against the couch.
Miranda retrieved the dropped cloth with hands that trembled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, feeling close to tears.
Still panting softly, he managed another smile. “It’s unavoidable,” he rasped. He took another cloth to hold it at his side, lest the blood flow again, then glanced at the row of knives and needles. “Select the smaller of the needles.” He licked his dry lips quickly. “There is a spool of black thread in the bag.”
Her stomach flipped over as she stared at him in horror.
He held her gaze. “You said you could sew.”
“I…” Her lips pursed. She could not very well tell him that she’d stupidly assumed he’d ask her to mend his shirt.
A sound of impatience tore from his throat. “Hand me the needle and thread before I bleed out here on this couch.” He reached out, and the wound gaped.
Miranda started. “No.” She caught hold of his arm and placed it over his head so that his side lay smooth. “I’ll do it. You are in no condition.”
He blinked back at her but let the arm stay. “The same could be said of you.”
Ignoring that, she set about her task. The sharp little needle curved like a sickle and had a small eye for threading on the blunt end.
“Do not make the thread overlong,” Archer instructed. “It might catch in the flesh and cause tearing.”
Her grip wobbled. She ground her teeth and cut the thread.
A small pair of tweezers with handles like those on scissors held the needle secure. From short, clear instructions, she learned she was to hold the edges of the wound close together with one hand while piercing his flesh and sewing it shut with the other. She listened intently, focusing on the wound instead of the man. But the needle froze in her hand, refusing to plunge in.
“Miranda…”
She blinked up upon hearing her quietly spoken name.
His skin was ashen. Beads of sweat covered his jaw and ran down from beneath his mask, but his eyes were steady. “It is only a simple handstitch.”
“But it is on you,” she said with a weak voice.
His hand fell over hers. “I promise not to cry.”
The corner of his mouth quirked, and her confidence returned with a rush. She bit back a smile and bent her head close to his side.
“Remember, ninety degree angle going in, a quarter of an inch depth. Hook through, then ninety degree out.” He took another long drink of the laudanum.
His flesh resisted and then gave with a silent pop. Archer went rigid but made no sound as she set to work. Once the first stitch was made, her hand grew steadier, the stitch more sure. The sound of Archer’s light breathing filled her ears.
“Do you really believe that you ruined my father?” she asked, pulling the thread gently through his flesh. His side twitched then stilled.
“No,” he admitted in a low voice. “That is one sin that I do not carry on my conscience.”
She adjusted her hold, taking care not to push the flesh too tight or slack. Gentle firmness was needed. “No,” she averred. “That sin is mine.”
Archer was silent but Miranda could feel his eyes upon her. “I thought,” he said after a moment, “Ellis’s fortune was lost at sea.”
“Mmm…” The needle pierced through the red, weeping flesh and then out again. “But had he not already lost more than half his fortune in a warehouse fire, he would have been able to recover from that setback.”
The muscles along her neck and shoulders ached. Archer’s stare did not help matters.
“It happened when I was ten,” she said. The wound was almost closed, just a few stitches more. “I often stole into the warehouse. I called it my treasure chest.” The final stitch pulled through. She tied it with a small knot and then took the iodine-laced cloth and dabbed the length entirely.
“I… I was showing a trick I’d learned to my friend…”—like an utter pompous fool—“I didn’t mean to start a fire.” Rather, she hadn’t meant for it to get out of control. Her hands fell to her lap where they lay like leaden weights. She dared a glance at Archer and found his gaze inscrutable.
“You were only ten,” he said, reading her as usual.
“I know that now.”
He held her eyes with his. “Good.”
It was that simple. One small word and a weight lifted from deep within her breast. She surveyed her handiwork. It looked awful, lumpy and red, with ugly black stitches marring the flesh.
Archer lifted his head and looked down the length of his nose to see the wound. One corner of his lips lifted. “Good,” he said, surprise mixing with admiration. He glanced up and his smile deepened. “Very good, Miranda Fair.”
She made a small face. “It looks horrid.”
Archer rested his head again as she packed up the materials. “It always does in the beginning. The swelling will ease. Clean the needle with alcohol,” he added with a glance at her progress.
A comfortable silence settled warmly over them as she cared for his instruments.
“You remind me of her, you know.”
Archer’s sudden yet detached observation gave her pause. She looked up to find him frowning as though he hadn’t meant to speak those words.
“Of whom?” she asked in a low voice. The stillness in him made her wary, as if she ought to whisper.
His lips curled in a sad smile. “One of my sisters. I had four of them. Beautiful girls with shining black hair, soft gray eyes. Claire was the baby, nearly ten, then Karina, who was eighteen and preparing to come out to society, Rachel, who had her first season the year before and was a beautiful nineteen-year-old fighting off ardent suitors at every turn.” He smiled thinly. “I had a devil of a time with her. She liked attention and received more than her share.
“I loved them all. I was twenty-six when my father died. The running of the family fell to me. I took to the task without resentment. It was the role I had been born to play. Until that spring.
“There was a duel, fought in Rachel’s honor. A young fortune hunter had thought to ruin her reputation by stealing a kiss during a spring fete. I did not kill him, but my mother thought it best I stay out of town for a bit. She sent me to Italy.” He sighed lightly. “Mother always knows best, hmm? I loved it there. I might have stayed indefinitely.”
He blinked up at the ceiling. “Three years later, influenza hit London. Mama, the girls, they fell ill.” The thick column of his throat worked. “I came as soon as I heard. It was too late for Mama, Claire… They were gone and buried by the time I arrived. Rachel soon after.”
Only the flutter of his lashes betrayed any movement. Miranda felt his pain in her own heart. A thought occurred to her. “You said you had four sisters, save you named only three…” She trailed off as his eyes lifted, and the anguish in them drove the breath from her body.
“Elizabeth…” It was a dry husk of an answer. “My twin.” Archer closed his eyes. “Her mind was my mind. We never needed to use words between us. I knew her thoughts as my own. Mother said we used to turn at the precise moment when sleeping in our cots, though we did not share one. She was… I could not…” He broke off with a choked sound and then stared listlessly into the distance.
“She died in my arms. At times, I feel as though I am missing a limb… something…” A shimmer of tears pooled over his eyes before he blinked them away. “Her loss was a pain not easily endured,” he said softly. “After that, the thought of death terrorized me. I dreamed of being trapped in moldering tombs with only her body to keep me company.” He glanced down at his stitched side. “I am shamed at what I’ve become. That she should have to see this horror…” He snapped his mouth shut with a wince.
Miranda moved without thinking and knelt before him to clutch his dry ungloved hand. “Don’t keep this burden to yourself. Take off the mask and let me see what troubles you so.”
He looked at her, his great body stiff. “I don’t want your pity.”
“Do you believe that is why I ask?” she whispered.
A sad smile ghosted over his lips. “No,” he said after a moment. “But I cannot. Not even for you, Miranda Fair.” The tired resolve in his voice made her heart ache.
“But why?”
His long fingers curled over her. “You look at me. Me.”
She knew now what that meant to him. No one looked at Archer. They saw only the mask. To the world, he was an effigy, not a man.
The gray depths of his eyes reflected the painful truth as he spoke with weary regret. “That would not continue should I indulge you.”
“Do you think so little of me?”
The fire snapped and crackled behind the grate. Orange light flickered over his golden skin, highlighting the fine grains of black stubble that covered his jaw and the red gash upon his lip. “It is not you who falls short of the mark; it is me. I am a coward,” he whispered thickly, then looked away, his chin set and stubborn.
“You are no coward. You are so very brave—”
“Everyone promises to stand by me—” His jaw clenched, pain flashing in his eyes. “Always in the beginning. But none of them do.” He swallowed hard, arranging his expression into dispassion with force of will. “I cannot risk it with you. Not you. None of the pretty words your sweet mouth weaves will change that so please don’t try.”
Chastised, she drew back. Though she understood him, his refusal did not hurt less. Archer lay prone, his skin gray and sweating, and she found herself wanting to fuss over him, wipe his brow, tuck him into bed. But he would not allow those things, she knew. She settled for covering him fully with the rug and adjusting the pillow under his head. He watched her sleepily through the thick fan of his black lashes. The boyish vulnerability in his unguarded look made her want to curl up alongside him.
“I should not have manhandled you the way I did.” His lashes fluttered and then lifted. “It was uncalled for.”
She sat back on her heels by the couch. The memory of his big hands upon her returned and with it a heated ache. How shocked he would be to know how close she had come to turning around and begging him to push up her skirts, to push into her. It shocked her more than she cared to admit. She tried to find her voice.
“It was not an assault, Archer.” She flushed but forced herself to look at him. “We both know that.”
His gaze warmed. “I meant before,” he said thickly. “Shoving you against the wall…”
“You were angry.”
His smile was lopsided. “I was angry,” he repeated, mocking himself. “I was terrified. And it is no excuse.” A soft gaze traveled over her hair. “You saved my life.”
Her smile was tremulous. “You saved mine first.”
He made a noise of derision but an answering smile played at his lips. The smile faded as he caught sight of his bound wound. A grave stillness settled over him. One that grew as his eyes lifted to hers. They were frozen, flat. Winter lakes that chilled her to the bone.
“I’ve been a fool,” he said in the same frozen tone.
“What do you mean?” Dread crept along her spine.
His expressive mouth flattened as if tasting bitters. “For tonight. For bringing you into this life.” His chest lifted on a breath. “Miranda…” Weakly, he tried to touch her hand. She drew away. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Miranda straightened, ignoring the painful rhythm of her heart, and the way her hands shook. “Yes, of course. You should sleep.”
But Archer would not be so easily evaded. Pain and wariness bracketed his mouth as he spoke. “You shouldn’t be with me,” he corrected softly. “I—annulments are easy enough gained. Considering we have never…” He bit down on his lip hard enough to whiten it. “Well… as is the case, it can be done. Pick a house, wherever you want, in another country if it pleases you, and I shall set it up.”
A small chuff of air left her as she fell back on her rump. “Why?” she asked. “Why offer for me?” Her strength returned on the waves of anger. “Why bring me here, make me care, if you didn’t want me?”
“Not want you?” He lifted his head off the pillow. “Not want you?” His eyes flared in the firelight. “Christ, Miri, murder and knife-wielding assassins aside, you are the greatest adventure of my life.”
Archer’s words raced like wine through her veins, leaving her flushed and just a bit dizzy. As are you.
He leaned forward, wincing as he bent. “If ever a man wanted… I’m trying to keep you safe. Being my wife is not safe. And I was a fool to think it ever would be.”
They stared at each other in the resounding silence, then his head fell weakly back on the pillow. Frowning, he blinked up at the ceiling as if it contained some great secret.
“As for why,” he said slowly, “I was lonely.” His deep voice fell to something above a whisper. “I saw you in that alley, facing down two thugs with nothing save those little fists, and I thought, here is a girl who fears nothing.”
His eyes flicked to hers, and Miranda’s heart flipped over. “How I admired that,” he said. “So much so I did not want to leave. Later, when the loneliness got so great”—he sighed—“I thought of you again. Thought, this is a woman who won’t fear me.” He flicked a piece of lint off of the rug. “Who won’t run away.”
Miranda’s throat worked as she fought to speak. “How perfectly ironic,” she managed at last.
Archer’s eyes shot to hers, a frown pulling his lips.
“I was engaged to be married,” she said. “A little over a year ago. Did you know?” Of course he would not know; why would he?
He stayed silent, waiting. But something in his eyes flickered with unease.
Idly, she toyed with the fringe of the rug that covered him. “His name was Martin Evans.”
“The boy with whom you sparred that night.”
“Yes. Not that it matters, really.” Martin had long since stopped being that boy. She licked her dry lips quickly. “He left me. In the vestry of my family church on the day of our marriage. He said he’d rather live alone than pretend to live a life in love with me.” One hot tear ran over the bridge of her nose before she blinked the rest furiously away. She would not cry for Martin again.
She felt Archer move and turned enough to see his black fingers curling into the rug. “Any man who would leave you is an idiot,” he said.
Miranda gave him an admonishing look, and he had the grace to grimace.
“Was,” she corrected, after a moment. “Despite our dissolution, Father gave him command of a small ship for which he managed to find backers. They were to go to America to purchase tobacco. It was our family’s last chance at fortune. The ship never made land.”
Archer made a vague noise of condolence, but it did not sound like sorrow.
Her lips curled a bit. “I suppose fate knew better. He wasn’t meant for me.”
“No,” Archer agreed with conviction. They both looked away and were silent.
“In the vestry,” he repeated as though thinking back on her words. “Where we were married.”
She glanced up and found him studying her. “Yes,” she said.
He sighed. “And so you married me.”
She took a shallow breath. “You see, when I met you in the vestry that day, I too thought this is a man who is fearless. Who won’t run away from things…” She bit her lip.
“Who won’t leave you,” he finished for her.
Stiffly, she nodded, unable to look him in the eye for fear that she would fall upon him and tell him how very much he was coming to mean to her. Her emotions felt too raw, and her pride too tender, for such needy protestations.
For a moment, he seemed almost afraid, then his body steeled as if in defiance, toward her or someone else, she couldn’t know. His eyes burned into her. “Then I will not.”