chapter Thirty-one
No!” Miranda lurched out of bed, her heart pounding painfully. Shaking, she buried her face in her hands until little prickles of awareness set in. She whipped round, knowing she was alone, but needing to see. The bedding at her side was rumpled and empty. Archer. On his pillow lay the silver rose and a note. Pain spread through her middle, doubling her over, and she grabbed the note, seeing Archer’s heavy scrawl, more slanted than usual.
—Forgive me.
Her knees knocked as she fell from the bed and scrambled to reach the water closet in time. She retched until she had no more to give, then fell upon the smooth, hard floor. Why? Why, Ben?
That he meant to face the killer alone was clear. Forgiveness meant only one thing—he did not mean to survive this confrontation.
Miranda curled into a tight ball, pressing her knees hard into her aching chest. But the pain did not abate. Cursing roundly, she climbed to her feet and washed her face and mouth. Wallowing would help no one. That God damned sneaky bastard.
Her fencing clothes, long unused but never forgotten, flew from her wardrobe as she heaped more curses upon her errant husband. If he thought she’d sit at home and let him go off to die he was sorely mistaken.
“Eula! Gilroy!” Her shouts rang out shrilly as she strode down the upper hall not two minutes later. Miranda swallowed down her panic. She needed to think. The bun secured at the nape of her neck was tight enough to pull her scalp, and her head pounded rather dreadfully.
The hall remained empty. Miranda’s boot heels clattered on the steps as she raced down them. “Eula!”
Finally, the cheeky woman appeared, shuffling with a gait worthy of Methuselah.
“Trying to wake the dead, are you? What’s amiss? You and Lord Rapturous run out of fresh beds?”
“He’s gone, Eula.” Her lip trembled, and she bit it hard. “For good.”
Eula drew herself up with purpose. “Where?”
“I-I don’t know. I thought you might.” Damn and hell. I will not cry.
She gaped at Miranda. Eula at a loss for words nearly undid her. Miranda turned from her and headed for the library, almost colliding into Gilroy. The stately butler stumbled along, hastily dressed and rubbing the back of his neck in a most unusual outward display of discomfort.
“Apologies, my lady.” He made an effort to straighten. “I was abed when you called. I do not know what came over me.”
Miranda eyed him carefully, taking note of his glazed expression. “Lord Archer is gone. Do you know where he is?” She rather thought Gilroy did not.
“No, my lady.” He blinked several times. “I’ve not seen him since he gave me a tisane for my aching joints last night.”
Miranda ground her teeth together to keep from shouting. Poor Gilroy did not deserve her censure. “Tisane,” she bit out at last. “The bloody man gave you a sleeping draught so you wouldn’t wake when he left.”
Gilroy’s lean face went white. “You mean he has gone to face that fiend?”
Despite her resolve to stay calm, she grabbed his frail arm. “Do you know who it is? Where he could have gone?”
His shook his head wildly. “On my honor, I do not.”
She closed her eyes for one precious moment. “Thank you, Gilroy. Have my horse saddled. Make sure to tell them I shall be riding astride. And find me a riding cloak.”
His scandalized expression might have been laughable. “But my lady—”
“Blast it, Gilroy! I can’t very well go out in a silken mantle.” She gestured to her trousers and linen shirt. “Just find a damned cloak that will fit me and be quick about it. I don’t care whose it is,” she shouted at his rapidly retreating form.
Eula eyes gleamed. “Well, if yer up for screaming like a harpy then I expect you’ve enough mettle to bring him back.”
Miranda tasted blood. “Find me a sword. Archer surely has one lying about.” Her insides quaked. She hadn’t practiced the sword in years, but the yearning and the need to wield it now stirred her blood, making her muscles twitch. “And Archer’s spare pistol as well. Loaded, Eula,” she said over her shoulder before she shut herself up in the library.
The room lay still and cool. It might have been waiting for him. She went to his desk. The cluttered chaos over it appeared untouched. She tore through it, searching for something, any clue. There was nothing.
Defeated, she dropped her head upon the desk. Tears would not come, no matter her frustration. She sat for a long moment, simply breathing. The killer’s identity drifted just beyond her grasp, as ephemeral as smoke in the wind. She cast aside Lord Mckinnon. She rather thought Mckinnon flirted with her mainly to antagonize Archer. Irritating but not viscous. These murders had nothing to do with her and Archer, but with Archer and West Moon Club. Then there was the fact that Archer knew who the killer was. While Archer wanted her away from Mckinnon, he did so out of possessiveness, not from a genuine fear for her safety. Lord Rossberry then? But these murders were calculated, coolly done. With rage, yes, but the killer was a planner. Rossberry struck her as all rage and impulse. Then who?
Every conversation, every fight she’d had with Archer played in her mind, until the small tableaus of her life with him spun in a flash of colors like the inside of a kaleidoscope.
A thing that feeds off the light of souls… I am not so easily dispatched… What if I told you it is something wondrous and beautiful he hides… immortal.
Miranda reared up, her heart pounding in her throat. The spinning wheel stopped. What was once a blur suddenly came into sharp focus. Archer bending over Victoria. Why are you here?
Slowly, she pushed back from the desk. For every father there is a mother. And every creation, a creator. Stay away from her, Miranda. Victoria, with her silver eyes and flashing white teeth. The makeup covering skin that surely gleamed like moonstone. Archer broke my heart once. And I’m afraid I’ve never forgiven him for it. Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
A mad cackle broke from Miranda’s lips. He knew. He’d known all along. Only one thing could have escaped a man as strong as Archer: another immortal.
What I recognized was myself.
And now he’d gone to Victoria. Save she was whole, and he still part human. A final battle that he would not win. Unless…
“Bastard!”