Firelight by Kristen Callihan Page A

but Archer.
    A set of large double doors lay open near the end of the hall. Yellow light spilled out from the open doorway to lie in rectangles upon the crimson rugs. Voices came from within, little more than an indistinct rise and fall of sound. Her step grew slower, for she recognized one voice in particular.
    In keeping with Lady Cheltenham’s ornate sense of style, heavy brocade drapery adorned the doorway, with life-sized black marble statues of Hades and Persephone standing guard on either side. Hades’ black hand stretched out toward Persephone’s turned head, his stone mouth open as if in a plea. Miranda placed a hand upon Persephone’s cold marble foot and leaned forward.
    A woman’s melodious voice rose up. “You have finally come out of hiding, Benji.”
    “Do not call me that.” Archer’s voice was so low it was almost inaudible, but filled with raw anger. “You’ve lost all right to call me anything.”
    Curiosity screamed for Miranda to stay, but she owed Archer his privacy.
    The woman’s light laughter tinkled like crystal. “You did not used to object to me calling you Benji, beloved .”
    Beloved? Privacy be damned; she wasn’t going anywhere now . Miranda risked a look. The pair stood alone before a heavily draped window. Victoria stalked around him slowly, her gloved hand traveling over his shoulder as she surveyed him. Archer stood like timber, his dark head facing forward.
    “In fact”—the train of her lime-green gown curled about his ankles—“I remember you being quite fond of me moaning it—”
    He grabbed her wrist and wrenched her arm up hard. “What you remember is your own vanity.” He bent over her. “If you had any eyes for the world around you, you’d know our time together was better forgotten.”
    “Bastard!” She moved to strike him. He caught the hand neatly.
    “Temper,” he warned lightly, though there was little humor in him. He let her go abruptly, and she fumbled back a pace.
    Victoria’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I should say the same to you. You wouldn’t want that mask to come off in a scuffle. People might see what lies beneath.” She gave his chin a light flick, her finger clicking loudly against the hard mask.
    The cold cruelty of the gesture cut into Miranda, and she bit her lip hard.
    “You do not want your sweet bride to run off, no?” Victoria went on, when Archer didn’t respond. She tutted sadly. “I ought to have said virgin bride. You cannot have bedded her.” She laughed hard, a near mannish sound in all its unfettered glee. “I can just imagine how quickly she’d leave should she gaze upon your horror.”
    Archer’s hand rose high, vibrating with the effort to hold back. “If you weren’t a woman,” he whispered fiercely.
    “Oh yes, you would, Archer.” She glared up at him without fear. “We both know you’ve done that and worse. You ought to have stayed hidden away in darkness where you belong. Why you choose to subject anyone to your presence astonishes me.”
    Pain radiated from him in palpable waves, and it made Miranda ache for him. His hand lowered.
    “You haven’t answered my question,” he said in a low voice. “Why are you here?”
    Victoria made a turn, letting her long train swish elegantly, and Miranda caught a faint whiff of her heady perfume, thickly sweet like carnations and roses, yet acrid underneath from the overuse of lemon. Victoria’s wide mouth turned in a pout.
    “I was bored.”
    She cocked her head slightly, her eyes slanting. “Your pretty wife is quite stimulating, no?” Her lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “This must be why you wed her—the titillating conversation.”
    Archer might have been a block of carved basalt.
    “Ah, but you guard her well.” Her melodious voice was becoming less so.
    “Answer the question.”
    Victoria inclined her head toward the door, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to make Miranda’s breath freeze. She eased back behind the