Firelight by Kristen Callihan Page B

statue.
    Victoria’s voice drifted overloud to her ears. “Do you truly want me to answer you while the mice are at play?”
    Miranda felt rather than saw Archer turn toward the door, for by then she had slipped away, her heart pounding, her feet moving as fast as they could without making a sound.
    “You bitch!” Archer’s hand twitched at his side. Striking her would be useless. “So that was all for her benefit, was it?”
    Victoria laughed, throwing her head back with delight. “Of course,” she said, snapping round to glare at him with full venom. “Your little chit, as they say, is an amusing distraction. Now then”—she moved to wrap her arms about his neck—“let us kiss and make nice.”
    He pushed her then, a hard shove that made her fall back a step. God help him, he shouldn’t have. But his weakness was already exposed. And it made his heart pound hard.
    Her humor died with a snarl. “We had an understanding.”
    “Based on lies.” He brushed by her, and she struck like lightning, grasping hold of his arm so that he jerked back. The thick miasma of her floral perfume filled his nostrils, making his temples throb.
    “I love you, Archer.”
    For a moment, he might have thought her capable of such an emotion, but for the sight of her cold, soulless eyes. “How odd,” he said. “The last time we spoke you told me you hated me, never wanted to set eyes upon me again.”
    She smiled thinly. “You understand nothing of women then.” Her fingers bit into his arm. “Have your toy if you must,” she said with flat reserve. “But I will not be pushed away again. Only I know what you truly are. We belong together, and it is time you remembered.”
    He drew her in, vaguely aware that a low growl rumbled in his breast. He would end this now. For too long, he had ignored her mad attachment to him. Victoria’s eyes widened, watching him, waiting to see what he would do. A faint sneer curled her red lips. She underestimated him; she always had.
    “This way, darling,” said a voice from behind them. “Oh, I say…”
    Archer turned to see young Mr. Hendren framed in the doorway with his latest mistress clinging to his arm. The pair eyed him with varying levels of distaste and wariness.
    “Have we interrupted?” The jeer in Hendren’s voice was poorly hidden.
    Archer almost told him yes, sod off, but Victoria slid from his grasp and out of the room. He grit his teeth in fury. He’d never catch her now; experience had taught him that well. With a glare at Hendren, he pushed past the couple and went out to control the damage wrought.
    He tracked Miranda by instinct, feeling the pull of her lead him through the house. No longer distracted by Victoria, his senses filled with his wife, her scent, the desperate sound of her breathing coming to him over the chatter of revelers and the discordant strains of a waltz.
    Outside, the air was cool and fresh, the scent of loam and earth rising from well-tended flowerbeds lining the rear garden. Crushed shells crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the center path, alerting her to his presence. She spun from her position under the willow tree, her glorious hair shining penny bright in the moonlight.
    “Miranda.” He reached out for her, desperate to hold her, reassure her, and perhaps glean some comfort for himself.
    She stopped short at his touch, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…” She bit her lip and looked away ashamed. His heart turned over in his chest. He was at fault here. He’d pulled her into a world of death and depravity. The need to protect her made his arms quake, yet he hesitated. What right had he to hold Miranda when everything Victoria said about him was true?
    The wind shifted, pulling strands of red silken hair across her cheek. He could not help but brush them back, his touch lingering on her skin, but something about the breeze gave him pause. He stopped and inhaled. His throat closed tight as the