chapter Four
Archer nearly ran down the hall like a frightened schoolboy. Had he some blasted malady that prompted him to act the ass at the very worst instant? Surely he must, for he’d nearly lost her before even having her. He cursed and shoved open the servant’s door. A maid coming up the stairs squeaked in alarm, nearly dropping her pile of linens. Sally, was it? New maid. She’d learn.
He took the narrow stairs upward. The footman on the next landing stepped aside, well prepared for the sudden sight of the master on the backstairs. Archer took the stairs two at a time, tugging at his cravat as he got toward the top.
He burst through the door at the top of the stair and slammed it behind him, setting the panes of glass above his head shuddering. Solitude. Already he felt his disquiet ebb.
His green house. A little glass jewel hidden away on the roof of the house. The rain rattled hard upon the glass, streaking and pebbling, hiding the world from view. It was kinder here, warm and humid. Filled with potted fruit trees and velvet roses, their fresh scent as thick as the air.
The mask first. He tore it from his head, then the inner one, and allowed himself the first fresh breath he’d had in hours. The humid air collided with his sweat-soaked skin, and his nerves twitched. He raked his fingers hard through his flattened hair, scraping his scalp just to feel the blood flow beneath the surface. The rest of his clothes followed in rapid succession. Then he moved to the water tap set high in the wall and opened it.
God it was cold. Good. He needed as much. Being trapped in the dammed coach with her had been torture enough. Archer closed his eyes and let the water pour over his head, down his heated torso. And he was rewarded with the image of that blasted reverend looking at him in the church, waiting for him to kiss Miranda—of all things. Had the man any idea of just how badly Archer had wanted to?
And her voice. It no longer held that high, girlish pip, but was warm and soft—like honey in the sun. Archer shivered. That voice, haunting him for three years. He took a shuddering breath, closed the tap, and reached for a towel.
The rain petered out to a light mist as he walked to the long cot by one of the glass walls. He reclined on it with a sigh and blinked up at a cluster of peach roses in full, audacious bloom. This wasn’t how he’d imagined facing her, still trapped in a mask, snapping at her like an arrogant bastard solely because, for the first time in years, he’d felt true embarrassment over his appearance. What must she think of him?
His forearm fell over his eyes. Ah God, and that utter rot about wanting her for an heir. Right-ho, when he couldn’t even show her who he was. What he was. His mind had gone blank when she’d asked him for an explanation. The truth was ridiculous, and the height of selfishness. Because he wanted her, despite all logic, all caution. Though he could never fully be with her, he needed her near. And now? Being near her wasn’t nearly enough.
How could he hide what he was from her indefinitely? His desolate laugh sounded like a stranger’s. Impossible. What he wanted was impossible.
Not impossible. Only hopeful.
Archer smiled tightly as he heard the voice in his head. “Ah, Elizabeth. If only it were you.”
It was a game he played with himself, talking to her as though she were here. Sometimes he wondered if talking with a memory was the final push into madness. Or the only thing that kept him sane.
You deserve happiness, Benjamin.
It was what he wanted to hear. But was it true?
A teardrop of dew rolled along the velvet edge of a rose. It hung for a suspended moment, glimmering diamond bright, before falling on his temple to skim over his brow like the stroke of a fingertip. He couldn’t remember the last time human hands had willingly touched him.
Not true. Miranda had. She had touched him as if he were just a man. He had lived on those moments ever since, pulled them to the fore when loneliness threatened to suck him down and drown him. He hadn’t meant to be away from her for so long. What ought to have been a year had drifted into three.
He took a deep breath. The air around was still, wet, and thick. Past the sweetness of roses came the heady scents of exotic orchids, strange plants acquired on his trips down the Amazon. All in search of a cure. His gaze drifted to the cluster of fire-pink flowers resembling a feather duster. That one had turned his piss red for a week. The purple seeds from some dark pit in Brazil that would have killed a normal man had him hunched over begging for mercy for twenty-four hellish hours. So many experiments. Trips to forgotten places. Strange concoctions made by tribal medicine men. Failures all. But he had been close.
Daoud, his valet, his trusted ally, had found it. The man’s clear script burned bright in Archer’s memory.
My lord, our suspicions prove correct. Alexandria held the key. I have found the answer. To be conveyed in the agreed-upon venue.
And so Archer’s hope and salvation was tucked into a lacquered box and sent out on his fastest vessel, The Karina, only to be set upon by Hector Ellis’s pirates and lost to the sea. Two days later, Daoud’s body was found, his throat slit, silenced forever. Archer’s return trip to Egypt to discover what Daoud might have found yielded nothing.
Frustration made him want to crawl out of his skin. “Damn it all,” he hissed.
Elizabeth’s voice filled his mind. You have her now. All will be well.
“Now who sounds hopeful?” he said, blinking up at the glass roof. But there was hope. His sources told him his box might not have sunk to the bottom of the sea, but made it to England. Thus he had returned, and had been unable to keep from claiming his bride.
Sunlight broke through the gray clouds. Shafts of light hit the glass house and filled it up. And when the first rays touched him, a familiar tingling shivered over his skin. He inhaled sharply, at once feeling the surge, the heat—and the bitter failure—for he had not been able to stay away from the light. His body hummed, the light pouring through him. God help him, he was weak. He thought of Miranda, and his fist curled tight. He needed to be stronger. For her.
Then get back down there and be with her, coward.
For a moment he thought he heard gentle laughter. Then it was silent.