chapter Eighteen
The Rusty Spanner was located in the middle of a crooked narrow street two blocks off of the London Docks. The scent of tar rising from the sail maker’s shop next door overrode everything: the thick perfume of tea, the briny sharpness of sea water and dried fish, the sulfuric smell of the tanneries, and the general stench of too many people and goods forced into one small area.
Archer tried to ignore the burning in his nose as he walked down the street, the low-lying buildings leaning this way and that like a set of jumbled bottom teeth in an overcrowded mouth. It was dark here, save for the golden light spilling from the tavern windows and the sound of merriment within. Someone had procured an accordion, and from the sound of the boisterous singing that accompanied the instrument, the patrons within were already well in their cups. Not well enough. The music stopped the moment Archer came through the door, the dying wheeze of the accordion punctuating his entrance. Through the thick, gray haze of tobacco smoke, a multitude of glassy eyes stared at him. But only for a moment. The song started up once more, the singer’s voice unsteady at first, and then the accordionist began to play. The patrons returned to their fun but Archer knew better than to feel safe from attack. Hard stares bore into his back as he made his way toward the bar. He kept his head bent, the rough-hewn beams overhead so low he might brush them should he stand in full.
He could only imagine the scene if he’d come dressed in his usual fashion; the black top hat, mask, and cloak would have caused an outright revolt. He’d dressed like one of them, donning a heavy peacoat—the collar turned up high, thick woolen skull cap pulled low—then wrapped his face with linen. Even so, sailors were a superstitious lot. At best, they thought him a victim of a tragic accident, which made him bad luck. He couldn’t blame them. He remembered his days of sailing and that feeling of helplessness mixed with excitement. It took some nerve to put your life in the hands of that tempestuous mistress, the sea.
He did not feel fear now, only a sick knot of hope mixed with fury. Fury for Cheltenham. His fists ached to strike something when he thought of the elderly man slaughtered like a pig. And hope. That coil of emotion stuck like soggy pudding to his gut ever since Leland had sent him a note telling him of Dover Rye, Hector Ellis’s old manager and sea captain. Apparently Dover had been stealing out from under Ellis all this time, a bit of larceny among thieves. Dover had been the captain of The Rose when it had pirated Archer’s ship. Only Dover lived. All this time, he’d been hidden away in some forgotten taproom.
The man behind the bar watched Archer come forward. He was a big fellow, chest like a full sail, masts for arms, ginger-haired and skin reddened by the sun. He set down the mug he’d been wiping.
“An’ what can I be getting you then?” There was a fair amount of accusation in the man’s voice. That, along with an odd mix of Scottish and Cockney.
Archer sat on a high stool. “Ale.”
He set down his coin, and a large tankard of thick ale appeared. Archer drank for a moment, well aware that the barkeep had not wandered off but continued to study him with a jaundiced eye—a keen eye that knew Archer wasn’t there for ale or company.
He set the tankard down and met the pale gaze. “I’m looking for a man,” he said without preamble.
“Aye?” The barkeep grinned, revealing deep dimples. “There’s a doxy house down that street that caters to mandrakes. Best you be asking there.”
Archer chuckled low, knowing it irritated the barkeep. “And you know this from personal experience, do you?”
Dark promise glinted in the barkeep’s eyes. “I also know how to make a man disappear if I was of a mind.”
A large man knocked against Archer’s shoulder. When Archer glanced that way, a set of brown eyes beneath bushy white brows stared back at him for a moment before the man set to his drink. Archer suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to hurt these men. Most especially not the man sitting next to him; the burly fellow had to be near sixty years of age.
He took a slow slip of ale. “I’m looking for Dover Rye.”
There was only a moment of hesitation from the barkeep, but it was enough. “Never heard of him.”
“Oh?” Archer sat back a little. “For I’ve heard tell that this establishment is run by one Tucker Rye, son of Dover Rye.”
The man barely blinked. “You’ve been misinformed.”
“Tucker!” The shout made more than one man flinch.
A short but ample woman clambered up the crooked stairs near the back. “Tucker Rye!”
The barkeep turned two shades of red. “Leave off, Mabel! Can you no’ see I’m right before ye?” His blue eyes flicked to Archer in wariness as he shouted.
Mabel was undeterred. “I’ve been waitin’ a bleedin’ hour for you to take down them casks. If you can’ get off yer lazy arse—”
“Hush now, woman!”
Tucker Rye kept his eyes on Archer. As the shouting woman drew near, she too spied Archer and grew hushed and stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Rye’s overlarge fists curled, defiance blazing in his pale eyes. “You best be goin’ before I’m of a mind to call in me mates.”
“I’ve faced worse than a bar full of men such as these,” Archer said. The man stiffened, lifting his head, ready to fight. Archer merely smiled. “You won’t come near to harming me, I can assure you. And I’ll only haunt the place until I get what I want.”
He glanced to the corner of the room where a dark booth sat unoccupied. “Why don’t we sit a moment?”
Rye slapped the bar in irritation. “Fine then.”
“What do you want with me da?” Rye asked as soon as they sat.
“He was the dock manager and captain for Hector Ellis.”
Rye’s gaze narrowed. “Aye. A bad lot, Ellis was. We’ve no’ dealt with him for years.”
“We? You worked with him as well, then?”
The man’s expression hardened, angry over the slip. “Aye.”
Archer sat back. “Then you might have sailed on The Rose.”
Rye’s round nostrils flared, and Archer leaned forward, letting the weak light of the table lamp show full on his gauze-wrapped face. “Forgive me,” Archer said. “I forgot. The Rose sank off the coast of Georgia. You’d be dead. Unless The Rose made a stop elsewhere. Perhaps lightening its load of men and cargo before going back out to sink in the Atlantic.”
Frustrated rage almost made Archer punch the table, or Rye. He’d been a fool to not to have considered the possibility until now.
“Who are you?” It was not Rye who spoke but the old sea dog who’d sat next to him at the bar. He stood now by the table, towering above them and fixing a stern look on Archer, although it was not entirely hostile.
Archer considered not replying but something niggled at the back of his mind, and he chose honesty. “Lord Benjamin Archer. And you are Dover Rye.”
“It’ll be something Hector Ellis has done,” Dover said, sitting next to Tucker Rye. His weathered hands were swollen with work, so much so that they appeared more wood than flesh. “Are ye wanting justice, then? For I’ll tell ye now, husband of Pan or no’, you’ll no’ be walkin’ out of here if you aim to take us.”
Archer looked at the men for a long moment. “I’m more interested in The Rose. Were you on that ship?”
At this, Dover pulled a scrimshaw pipe from his pocket and slowly set to lighting it. Thick whorls of smoke ghosted in the air before being swallowed up in the blue haze that hung over the room. Behind them, men began singing again, stamping their feet to the beat. “We stole from you,” Dover said finally, his dark eyes squinting through the smoke. “I know that well. As I know of your agreement with Ellis. If ye can call it that.”
Archer sat back. “Then you know of what I am capable.”
“Aye.” Dover took a deep draw off his pipe. “I believe ye got a fair trade for your loss. More than fair by my measure.” He lowered his pipe. “I trust yer treatin’ Miss Miranda kindly.”
Miranda. He didn’t want to think of her now. He dreamed of her with the constancy of breathing. Waking dreams. He had only to let his mind wander, and it went to her. The silken, slick feel of her skin, the way her lithe body felt pressed against his, fitting like hand to glove. He had gone too far in the alley. The rush of the fight, his fear and anger—it had overwhelmed him and pushed him over the edge. He would not repeat the mistake. Nor would he regret it, however.
Archer forced a light tone. “Do you think Miranda capable of demanding anything less?”
Dover laughed loud, and his son smiled. Yes, they both knew Miranda well.
Mabel set down three tankards and then bustled away. Dover took a sip of ale, and Archer did the same.
“What is it yer lookin’ for, then?” the seaman asked.
“A box. Black lacquered. The size of a cigar holder.” He ought to approach the thing delicately but impatience got the better of him.
Tucker Rye took a deep drink and gave an appreciative smile. Archer did not blame him. It was stifling in the tavern, and the ale was cool. Archer took another long drink.
Dover set his pipe down and moved under the smoky light of an untrimmed gas lamp. His weathered features flickered in and out of shadows. “The box was taken off in Leith, along with everything else. We found the Madeira hidden in the hold right quick. Sold that an’ the saffron in Amsterdam. Only later did we find the crate, filled with straw and naught but that simple box within. The pearl necklace it held was fine, fetched a good price later.”
Archer’s teeth unclenched as he made himself speak. “And the box?”
Dover’s bushy brows lifted before he shrugged lightly. “Gave it to me lad.” He gestured toward Tucker. “He asked for it.”
“Is it the box you’d be wanting?” Tucker Rye asked. “Or the ring inside of it?”
Both men turned to him in surprise. Tucker Rye shrugged. “Found the hidden slot and the ring that very night. Kept that bit o’ knowledge to meself,” he said with an apologetic wink to his father.
Dover grinned. “Aye, an’ what sort of son would you be if you gave up such a treasure with ease?”
Father and son laughed comfortably.
Soft warmth spread over Archer as he sat with the men sipping ale. He hadn’t shared a drink in years and had forgotten the feeling of it. Strangely it was comforting, as was the sound of frivolity around him. Miranda would like it here. He wished she were sitting next to him. Don’t think of her.
“Being a right tosser,” Tucker went on after a moment, “I bragged about it in the tavern.” He gave a humorless laugh. “A man bet me for it. Three rolls of the dice, and it was his.”
“A just penance for gamblin’,” Old Dover retorted with a snort.
Archer set his heavy hand upon the table. “Who has the ring?”
“Don’t know for sure. Could be anywhere now. Seamen aren’t apt to keep treasures such as that overlong.”
Weariness settled over Archer, pulling at his eyes until he felt as though he must close them. “Give me a name.”
Tucker’s smile warped, blurring at the edges, and as he leaned forward, the light hit the faded tattoo upon his forearm—a black wolf with DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM inscribed around it. Rye saw the direction of Archer’s gaze and grinned. “Figuring it out, are you?”
From deep within the stores of Archer’s mind, information rose up. DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM—By the grace of God I am what I am. “Clan Ranulf…”
“Aye, mate. Lord Alasdair Ranulf, Earl of Rossberry.”
Dover’s laughter wheezed out as Archer’s hands curled into fists. “Didn’t know Ellis was in his pocket the whole time, did you?” He laughed again, his wrinkled face leering through the smoke. “Ellis hasn’t the brains, nor balls, for piracy. We was under orders to hunt your ship down from the first.”
Archer sat back with a thud. “I’ll…”
Tucker shook his head, knowing the direction of Archer’s weak threat. “Won’t do you any good, mate.”
Archer pulled in a breath, the sound of the singing growing muffled. “Oh?”
A twinkle of malice lit the man’s eye. “We ’eard you might be coming for us. Said we was to take real good care of you, should you show.”
Too late, Archer realized the feeling coming over him. By then, the sound of a footfall was behind him. He surged forward, sending his empty tankard flying and the bench beneath him clattering. Too late. The sack was over his head, the men falling on him before he could turn. His chin cracked against the table. Down he went, the drug turning his legs to water, his mind a fog, and the men tied him up tight. A sharp kick to his left side took his breath, and as darkness seeped in he heard old Dover, his words muffled through the heavy cloth now wrenched tight around Archer’s head.
“Make sure no piece of him’s found.”
Archer came to with a gasp as though suddenly doused with ice water. He hadn’t been out long. Men were carrying him. Four of them, by the feel of hands upon his body.
“Lord, he’s heavier than a cannon, he is!”
“Just as solid too,” said the one holding his legs.
Archer hung limp as they bumped along with him. His head was heavy, his mind a fog. Whatever it was they gave him would have killed an ordinary man. As it was, however, he only needed a moment or two. A breath of fresh air would have helped, but the shroud over his head was too tight.
“Shut it, both of you. We’re nearly there.”
And then he smelled it. Burning. The acrid scent of burned goods, wood, rubber, metal; everything and anything. The distant clang of buoys and the mournful wail of a foghorn told him they were still at the docks. There was only one place near the docks that smelled pervasively of smoke—the Queen’s Pipe, a massive kiln set up to destroy condemned goods. They meant to burn him. Terror skidded through him, an altogether unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. He moved then, thrusting his arms and legs wide. The thick bonds that held him snapped as he fell.
“Christ! He’s alive!”
He landed hard on the ground and in an instant was up, tearing the cloth from his head.
“Get him!”
Archer caught a glimpse of a dark alleyway and wet dock boards, and then they were upon him. Archer grinned wide as he went down under a heap of arms, fists, feet, and legs. The blows landed on him like rain. He let them tire, and then he used his fist, the right one. The time for mercy had past. He swung hard and felt the satisfying crunch of bone as a man’s jaw connected with his fist. His foot went into yet another’s gut, sending the thug flying back into a heap of rubbish. Still two came at him, both holding knives.
He whirled, catching one by the arm, snapping the man’s wrist, slamming his forehead into a tender nose. Snap. Crunch. Something took over. A white mist of fury that made his blood sing, his heart pump. Light. Strength. It surged through him.
It took a moment to realize that the blows upon him had stopped, and the only sound was that of gurgling, like water eking down a clogged drain. Archer blinked, his vision clearing, and he found himself holding onto a neck, his fingers still in the act of crushing the man’s windpipe. The fellow in question was a big one, nearly as tall as he was. Archer held him aloft, high off the ground as he choked the life from him. Stop! Clawing helplessly at Archer’s gloved hand, the man’s eyes bulged, his mouth agape. With a last gurgle, his struggles stopped. Still Archer held him, his hand locked around that meaty throat, unable to let go. Archer’s chest heaved.
The fellow went limp, hanging there in his hand. Stop! The man fell with a thud. Archer stared down at his hand. He’d killed with the strength of his left hand alone. His human hand. Shaking, he pulled off his glove, convinced he’d find his skin altered. The sight of normal flesh sent a flood of relief through him, and he sank to his knees, flexing his fingers experimentally. Not yet changed. But stronger.
Around him lay the broken bodies of the men he’d slain. He’d killed them all. A diamond-dust sky lay overhead, broken only by black flumes of smoke drifting by in the breeze. He gazed up at it, breathing deep. The blood lust, the white haze—he’d felt the pull like never before. Shame swept over him. He ought to have walked away, left these men to the night. He did so then, his feet sounding dully on the old wood as he left the broken mess of bodies behind.
Emptiness pressed upon him as he made his way home. He wanted to collapse, crumple into a helpless ball against the pain of it. Murder tainted his skin and pounded through his veins like a drug, whispering for more; he was losing the battle.
Despite a firm resolve to keep his distance, Archer found himself standing before the glossy white door to Miranda’s room, his fist poised before it, caught in indecision. He was certain he had heard a soft sob break from behind her door as he crept past to his room.
His fingers curled tighter. Perhaps he had misheard. There was nothing now save the sound of the hall clock steadily ticking and the subtle creaks and groans of a house settling down for the night. He eased back to go and… there! Another muffled sound. Miranda crying. Into her pillow, if he had to guess. Swallowing past the thumping of his pulse, he braced himself and knocked. Immediately all was silent, stunted. And then…
“Yes?” Her voice came husky and afraid.
It sent a pulse of agitation through him. “Miranda,” he said. “Are you well?”
More thick silence greeted him. Archer pressed his palm against the cool wood, contemplating whether to leave or push his way in and assuage his worry.
“Come in,” said a wobbly voice.
Her room was warmer than the hall, the banked fire and her body giving off heat. And the scent of her permeated everything. Wild grass and something fresh and sweet, like spring peonies. Although it was utterly dark, he walked with ease, seeing as well as if it were day.
She sat up, her ruby-gold hair spilling around her shoulders, down her back. A prim white nightgown covered her from neck to wrists. Even so. He took a step, and his knees buckled. Sweet Lord, a woman should not look so appetizing swathed in innocence.
Miranda fumbled around, looking for her bag of matches.
“No,” he said, coming closer. “Don’t bother with the light.”
She hesitated, that lovely frown of hers wrinkling the smooth space between her brows, but she sat back against the pillows. “I didn’t want you to stumble.”
“It’s all right.” He came alongside the bed and she gave a start, realizing he was so near. “I know the layout.”
A weak smile touched her lips as she looked toward the direction of his voice, her gaze missing him by inches. Silver tracks of tears mapped her curving cheeks.
“Why are you crying?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Will you sit with me?”
He was no match against her wide eyes and the tremor that took her plump mouth. Carefully, he sat on the bed. It seemed a dangerous thing to do. Her sweet scent enveloped him, leaving him lightheaded, his heart pounding. He took a breath to calm himself. It was that or put his head on her lap and beg her to hold him.
“Archer?” she said in the silence. “Would you…?” She bit her lip again and shook her head violently. “Never mind.”
“Tell me,” he coaxed softly.
“Would you…” A lovely blush of rose touched her cheeks. “Stay with me?”
Her strangled request drove the air from his lungs. He struggled to find more, his heart a panicked rabbit in the cage of his ribs.
Hearing his disquiet, Miranda blushed deeper. “It is simply…” A shudder caught her with violent hands. “Oh, God… Never mind. It was ridiculous to—”
“Of course,” he said.
After a moment, she eased back against the pillows. Yet embarrassment kept its pink kiss upon her cheeks. Slowly, Archer removed his coat and boots, tripped up by the shaking of his hands. And then his gloves. He could not tolerate them a moment longer. Already his skin itched to distraction. He left the bandages covering his face. Though she could not see him, a storm brewed outside, and one bright bolt of lightning might reveal all.
A cold sweat broke out over him as he eased into the bed next to her. He did not trust himself to get under the covers. Hell, he barely trusted himself to lie beside her. And yet, it was heaven. The tight, jittery feeling in his gut unfurled as he lay back and felt the warmth of her body so close to his.
Miranda scooted over to give him more room and a free pillow. They lay stiff upon the soft bed and stared up at the ceiling. She was two feet away from him. It felt like two inches. His cock took in that fact and began to stir. Archer willed it down. Begged, really. The little bastard would not listen.
“Now,” he whispered, not trusting his voice, “why were you crying?”
Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth. “I went to bed… upset. I had a nightmare.” She blinked rapidly as a tremor lit through her. “I dreamed of a tomb. And of you lying like ice upon the floor. You had died.”
He wanted to kiss her cheek for letting him in, yet her words were an icy draft that made his gut clench with foreboding. He turned to face her. “You and I are haunted by the same dreams.”
She turned too, her slender hand a pale shadow resting on the bed between them. “I would not like it if you died, Archer.”
His heart stopped, his throat closing tight. Slowly, he reached out. She made a little sound of shock when his bare fingers touched hers. He didn’t care. His fingers laced with hers as he clasped her hand. Something within him settled as if holding her hand had somehow anchored him. The rightness of it was a sigh from his soul.
“I would not it like either.” He meant to speak lightly, only it came as a rasp.
Her pulse thrummed against his wrist as they held onto each other in the dark. Unable to resist, he caressed the silken skin along the backs of her fingers with his thumb. The faint smell of smoke drifted from her like a match just snuffed. Perhaps she had stoked the fire earlier. She shifted, and the scent faded, leaving only the natural fresh sweetness of her. The heat of her breath touched his cold skin. Mirroring his movements, she let her thumb drift over the back of his hand. Archer felt the touch along the whole of his body. He held himself still, breathing light and fast from the effort.
“Your hand,” she whispered.
He knew what she meant and smiled. “Don’t get excited. It is my left hand.” His smile grew when he saw her frown of disappointment. His Miranda Fair loved a good mystery. That she had a little puzzle piece snatched away irked her, undoubtedly.
“You’re an awful tease, Archer,” she murmured.
He chuckled. God, but it felt good to be with her. The horrors of the night melted away, receding to some shadowed place, remembered but no longer as real. “Yes,” he whispered. “But you like that about me.”
The heavy fan of her lashes brushed the tops of her cheeks. “Mmm…” Her mouth curled. “Just don’t hold it against me in the morning.”
“Never,” he promised. Warmth spread through him, contentment tempered by a sweet ache that made him yearn to hold her close against him. He swallowed thickly. With his free hand, he touched her hair and tucked an errant lock behind her ear. The movement was quick and light, not enough for her to truly feel the skin on his right hand. His need to kiss her made him tremble. But he would not. One kiss and he would be making love to her. He could do that. Here in the darkness she wouldn’t see. Only his Miranda would not be content with just that. She would want to know what he hid. He would not be able to bear it.
Unbidden, he thought of another woman. Marissa, Archer’s former fiancée. Theirs was an arranged match. Yet she had been a lifelong friend and a confidante. Until he had told her of what he’d done, and shown her his hand, which had begun to change. Her look of disgust and horror, the resentful anger over his “depraved and utter foolishness” burned through him still. “You’ve become the stuff of nightmares, Benjamin.” She’d left him without a backward glance. And now she was dead and gone. Like so many others.
Miranda’s lids lifted, and she looked at him with tender concern. “You’re shivering, Archer. Get under the covers.”
He closed his eyes against temptation. “I’m getting warmed by the minute. I promise.” Still holding onto her hand, he drew it a little closer, next to his heart. “Sleep now. I’m here.”
She closed her eyes on a sigh, her hand relaxing in his. The sounds of the night flowed around him for a moment before her low voice broke over it. “I was a thief.”
Archer tensed in surprise. She had told him. He knew what she had been, of course. It had enraged him when his man of business relayed how Ellis, having squandered the money Archer gave him, had forced Miranda to steal. How Ellis had hidden his misdeeds from him for so long Archer could only marvel, but the news had firmed Archer’s resolve to claim his bride upon returning to London.
“Father taught me. He’s from the streets originally, the Seven Dials. Taught me to talk like one of them, how to act, blend.” She let out a short laugh. “A lifetime of Mother trying to make me a lady destroyed in a fortnight.” He tightened his grip, and her answering smile wobbled. “I started out as a dipper, picking nobs’ pockets while giving them a pretty smile.” Her accent changed when she spoke the language she’d learned to survive. The warmth in her voice turned thicker, yet harder. “Then as a bouncer marking ignorant clerks in jewel shops.” She swallowed hard. “They never thought to look below my bosom to see how busy my hands were.”
Slowly the pad of her thumb ran over his knuckles, and his attention divided between her words and the wonder of her touch. One might think years of wearing gloves would have dampened his nerves to sensation. It only served to awaken those receptors, making every caress, every fleeting pass pure torture. He felt the very moment she tensed, but she only clung tighter as if finding his hand a lifeline.
“In the beginning, I reveled in it,” she said. “Because they were stupid enough to fall victim, not see past a pretty face.” Her brows drew tight. “I hated them as much as I hated myself.”
“If you are asking me to hate you as well, I fear I cannot comply.”
A reluctant smile touched her lips. “No?”
He squeezed her hand. “Never.”
Her smile faded. “That is twice now that I have told you a shameful story of my past. And twice you have reacted without the censure I expected.”
His thumb played along the soft crease of skin between her thumb and forefinger. “And why should I judge you,” he said quietly, “when I have surely done worse.”
“Have you?” she asked in the same tone.
Her eyes were gleaming rounds in the shadows as he spoke. “I have broken just about every commandment, save… five and nine, if memory serves. I’ve always honored my father and mother,” he said with mock solemnity. “And I don’t recall bearing false witness against anyone.”
A smile touched her lips before slipping away. “And murder?”
Settled and quiet on a soft bed with his wife, he saw with cold clarity the faces of the men he had killed. A chill touched his heart. Despite his vocal temper, he had never been a violent man. His parents had taught him the value of life. But that had been before. Victoria’s voice filled his head. Only I know what you truly are. He swallowed, feeling ill. God save him.
“Yes.” And what right did he have being near Miranda? His conscience bid him to flee; his heart held him still. “Though I can say that each time was in self-defense, it does not lessen the fact that I have stolen lives.”
Pearly white teeth gripped the plump swell of her lip as a shiver lit through her. Thunder drummed in the distance, low and rumbling. An age-old, childish fear ran down his spine, tempting him to huddle beneath the covers, and he tried to draw away, but she would not let him.
“That an innate sense of self-preservation bid you to act does not lessen the guilt, does it.” She spoke with a confidence borne of experience. He vowed then she would never know that guilt again. Never have to steal or fear. Even if he was no longer living, his money would keep her secure.
He forced himself to speak. “No, it doesn’t.”
She nodded, her silken hair a red spill over her pillow. The rain came tapping upon the window and then a violent gust of wind rattled and demanded entrance.
“I have never told anyone that story,” she said after a moment.
The pillow beneath his head rustled as he lay watching her. “Why did you tell me?”
Her small hand clasped his tighter, drawing him near. “The whole of my life I have relied on beauty first, brains second. It was expected, even requested. But you saw right through me from the start. You are the only man I’ve ever known who has looked beyond my face and wanted to know me for me. And I find myself wanting you to know the whole of me.”
I love you. For one agonized moment, he feared he had said it aloud. His soul fairly shouted it. Three long years and not a day had passed when he hadn’t thought about her. She’d filled his mind until she’d become the quintessence of womanly perfection, so much so that when he had come for her, he feared she might not live up to his impossible expectations. And she didn’t. Yes, the real Miranda was brave, loyal, and pragmatic. She was also meddling, quarrelsome, and opinionated. The real Miranda was human, and by God, she took his breath away. He knew he would love her until the end of time. What was he to do?
Thunder rumbled over the house as their breath mingled. “And you?” he managed past the tightness in his throat. “Have you not given me the same gift? Not in all the years since I’ve donned this miserable mask has anyone dared bother.”
The air between them grew heavy, languid. He would not kiss her. He would not. His heart thumped a wild rhythm against his ribs. But he could hold her. Only that. Slowly, as a man approaching a skittish colt, he reached out. She lowered her lids as his hand curled around her tiny waist. The feel of her body melting against his left him breathless for one dizzy moment. Gently, he tucked her head beneath his chin. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in, linger there for days just holding her. Did the rest of the world not realize what excruciating pleasure simply holding a woman could inflict upon a man?
He was ten types of fool for bringing her into his life. And selfish. So very selfish for doing it when he knew full well there was no hope for him. He knew this. Only logic was desire’s bitch. It never stood a chance. And from the moment he saw her, neither did he. Find the ring. Daoud had been certain that the ring had the answer to his cure. Find the ring and then he would claim her.
Her slender hand rested over his heart as she sighed. “I hate being afraid, Archer.”
Carefully, he smoothed her hair and tried to remain relaxed. That she was afraid, in danger, because of him made him want to scream. “I do too.” He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes against the rush of helplessness and rage. “Sleep, Miranda Fair. I’m with you now.”