She couldn’t think past the mad pounding of her blood. She swallowed painfully. “I feel you too.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

Miranda stepped closer, closer to the heat of his body, to the place where her senses came alive—toward him. Her hand trembled as she touched her breast. “I feel you here,” she said, both an admission and the true reason she could not leave him.

The corner of his lush mouth quirked. His legs moved into the folds of her skirts, and they were standing but a handbreadth apart. She felt his legs tense, a gather of his resolve. His hand lifted.

She watched it come, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the windows at his back. The swells of her br**sts rose and fell over her bodice with a rapid rhythm. Gently he touched her, his fingertips brushing the upper curve of her left breast, and she gasped.

“Here?” he asked thickly.

A tremulous smile touched her lips as a sudden weightless anticipation filled her, making her head spin. “There.”

Smooth leather burned a path to her neck. Archer watched his fingers, the line of his mouth stern, the look in his eyes almost angry. Then, as if in answer to a challenge, he lowered his head. Miranda’s breath ratcheted in her chest, became trapped by her corset. Unable to bear it, she closed her eyes.

Soft lips pressed against her breast, barely a touch that sent a bolt of feeling through her heart.

“Archer.”

“Miri.” His breath steamed against her fragile skin. “Sono consumato.”

Slowly, oh so slowly, his lips took the path his fingers made. Up, up, over the curve of her breast to the indent just above her collarbone. Not quite touching her, but skimming the surface. Hot breath ebbed and flowed in waves over her skin as he explored with unhurried languor.

“I am consumed,” he whispered against her ear, and she shivered. “By you.” Soft lips grazed her jaw in an agonizingly slow trail toward her waiting mouth. Her eyes squeezed tight. She could not bear it. The heat in her was fever bright. No part of him touched her, except that mouth. But oh, that mouth. It destroyed her composure as it moved with steady deliberation toward her lips.

The tip of his nose brushed against her hair as his lips touched the corner of her mouth. A universe of nerves occupied that small corner of her mouth. One touch was enough to leave her dizzy.

Archer held still, trembling as she did. The tips of her br**sts brushed against his chest as she struggled to gain equilibrium. Liquid lust surged through her veins like wildfire. She wanted to move, do something rash, crush her lips to his and simply take, press herself against him and ease the heated ache between her legs. She did none of those things, only clutched her skirt like a lifeline as he moved his open lips just above hers.

His breath left in a pained rush that flowed into her. In, out, in. Still he did not kiss her, but let his lips brush against hers as if he knew, just as she, what would happen should their mouths truly merge. She wanted more. She wanted a taste. Her limbs quivered as she let her tongue inch forward, slip out between her parted lips. Of a like mind, Archer did the same. Their tongues touched.

A choked cry broke from her, the silken wet tip of his tongue sending a bolt of heat to her core. Archer made a sound close to pain. For a moment, their tongues retreated. And then.

She flicked her tongue, a small lick. And found his again. The sound of their breathing filled her ears as their tongues caressed, retreated, and met again, learning each other. Every flick, each wet slide of his tongue felt like a direct touch to the center of her sex, until she throbbed there, grew so hot she feared she might combust.

Their lips never melded, only danced with the possibility of it. It was not a kiss. It was something infinitely worse. It was torture. And God help her if she didn’t want more.

Their breathing became pants. Her fingers fisted her skirts with near violence. His tongue slipped deeper, lighting across her lips, invading her mouth for one hot moment. Miranda moaned, her knees buckling. Archer’s big hand clasped her nape, hard and impatient. Now he would kiss her, take her. Now. Her body screamed for that sweet release.

He wrenched his mouth away even as his arm crushed her against his hard chest. Her heart leapt to her throat, her senses jumbled and confused until she heard the strange thump of something hitting the wall behind her. She froze, panting softly, her nose buried in the black folds of his suit coat for what felt like an eternity but was at most a moment in time.

Archer swore sharply and then moved, leaving her teetering on her feet. She righted quickly and found him glaring around, his frame held tight as a spring. But the long hall behind them was empty. Slowly he turned his attention to the wall before them. The silver hilt of a dagger embedded deep in the plaster still quivered from the impact.

Archer’s breath hitched visibly, his eyes narrowing to slits. The force of the throw was unmistakable. Had he not acted quickly, the wicked dagger would have now rested deep within Miranda’s back.

“What the devil?” she hissed, disbelief and sheer terror making her voice unsteady and her heart pound.

A mad cackle echoed in the empty corridor behind them, and Miranda started. The voice was neither feminine nor masculine—only evil. Footsteps sounded in the far end of the gallery, near the end of the corridor where shadows dwelled.

Archer squeezed her shoulder. “Stay here.”

He took off running. Grabbing her parasol with one hand, and her skirts with the other, she followed. The long corridor veered right, opening to a larger hall and the stairs to the lower exhibits and great court. There the devil stood, paused at the top of the marble stair. He lifted his head, and her heart skittered. Were it not for the man’s smaller size, one might have thought him Archer’s twin. The villain wore a suit of black and a matching carnival mask that covered his entire face.

“Hell,” Archer said.

The man gave a mocking salute and then turned to fly down the stairs. A dash to the high marble balustrade found the stairwell empty; the villain vanished as if by illusion.

“Hell and damn.” Archer’s hand came down upon her wrist. “Stay here. I will come back for you.” His tone brooked no argument, but his touch was gentle. “Stay here.”

She hadn’t the time to protest before he took hold of the railing and leapt over it, straight down the stairwell.

Chapter Fourteen

Archer!”

Miranda leaned over the rail in time to see him land sure-footed as a cat three stories below and then race off.

“Christ almighty,” she breathed. Her heels clattered, echoing off the marble walls as she raced down the stairs, holding her skirts higher than propriety allowed. The only trail left was irate pedestrians glaring in the direction Archer had taken when rushing past.

Outside, the dusky light of new evening colored the streets soft purple and black. She stopped for a breath and scanned the crowds. A hansom swerved wildly, its driver shouting at someone to “watch your soddin’ arse!” Archer. She ran down the portico steps, weaving past vendors and cabs. But Archer disappeared into the fold.

The black flick of a coattail spied out of the corner of her eye brought her round and down a narrow street that twisted and turned like a crack in old granite.

Hard cobble bruised her soles, her boot heels clicking loudly with every step. Mud and muck splashed her shins, the smell of sewage clogging her nostrils. Pain pinched her side, the boning in her bodice restricting her breath, but she could not falter. Grunts and thuds of fighting sounded beyond the next corner. She rounded the corner, her heels skidding on the wet stones.

Archer and the dark villain exchanged blows so rapidly that for a moment it seemed a vision. It had to be, for their movements were a blur. The two men, covered from head to toe in black, danced their strange dance, coming together and falling apart, their fists flying, legs kicking. Though the attacker was smaller than Archer, he had the strength and speed of a panther.

His slim leg rammed up between Archer’s. Archer grunted but threw his shoulder down and slammed the fiend into the brick wall behind him. A snarl tore from the villain’s lips. With a cold ringing of steel, he pulled a curved blade from his belt.

The wicked edge of the dagger flashed silver in the dusky light before slicing toward Archer’s neck. Archer jumped back, the blade tearing through the side of his coat with a sharp ripping sound. He grunted and then ducked the next attack with neat economy.

Lashing in a wild rage, the villain came at him again and again, Archer narrowly missing the blade each instant. Moving with a blur of speed, he grabbed hold of the villain’s arm and brought his fist down hard into the smaller man’s gut.

The dark devil staggered, but then spun round and swung his leg out in a wide arcing sidekick. Archer’s head snapped back with a sickening crack as the heel connected.

“Archer!” The scream left her mouth in a dry rasp as he dropped.

The villain’s arm reared back, his dagger ready to plunge straight into Archer’s defenseless chest. Miranda heard herself shout as she charged, her parasol going up and opening into the villain’s face. The long blade slashed through thin, bronze silk before hitting the steel frame with a clang. She jerked the umbrella closed and wrenched both it and the knife hard to the side. The masked man’s eyes flashed and her heart lurched, but she was ready when he swung his fist toward her face, dropping to the ground, just as Archer growled out a vicious curse and kicked the villain hard in his shin.

The man hurtled sideways, landing with a whoosh of breath, his head knocking with a meaty thwack on the cobbled road.

Archer surged upward, ready to attack. In an instant, the man was on his feet and racing down the lane where shadows claimed him. Miranda expected Archer to give chase but he bent and gently helped her up.

The patter of rapidly retreating footfalls rang out of the gloom, and then the night faded to silence, the swirling eddies of mud-brown fog along the cobbles the last marker of the disturbance.

Archer let go of her arm and stepped back a pace. The black silk mask remained on his head but he had lost his left glove in the exchange. The sight of very human, unmarred flesh compelled her—another chip of his shell had fallen away. She stared at the long, blunt-tipped fingers, oval nail beds, and gentle veining that mapped the back of his na**d hand. Fine black hairs began just above the solid bones of his wrist to disappear under his crisp white cuffs. It was his left hand, she realized with sudden irritation. Archer had stated only his right was affected.

Her musings came to a halt when she realized he hadn’t spoken a word but stared at her through narrowed eyes. The knowledge that she’d soon get an earful of Archer’s wrath made her knees quake, so she made a pretense of inspecting her gown. A small moan of true self-pity left her lips when she saw the damage. Thick slicks of muck and black water covered the whole right side of the pale yellow satin skirt, most assuredly ruined. She let the train go with a muttered curse and turned to face her silent husband.

He stood breathing lightly, his hands on his slim hips, an unfathomable expression peeking out from behind the silk mask. “Are you injured?”

“I shall be in mourning over this frock for weeks,” she quipped, though her chest tightened with wariness. “However, I am unharmed.”

He did not smile at the joke but continued to stare, the square line of his jaw hard as granite. A crimson bead of blood welled up from the corner of his mouth before rolling down the side of his jaw. She had almost kissed that mouth.

“You’re bleeding,” she remarked, unaccountably nervous. A vibrant energy radiated from his broad frame but he held himself so rigid that she feared he might break from within.

Unconcerned, he wiped the blood away with the back of his sleeve. “I told you to wait for me,” he said with deceptive calm.

Her hand shook as she smoothed her rumpled satin skirts. “Yes.”

“You did not.”

“No.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared.

“You… you aren’t angry?”

“Seething,” he said lightly. Silver eyes slid over her, and his lips compressed until the muscle at his jaw bunched. Yes, he was at that.

“Y-yet you aren’t shouting.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. He of all people knew the common response to his anger. “Strange, that.”

Exasperated, she turned away and pulled her gloves off to inspect her bruised knuckles. Archer watched without moving, which only served to unsettle her further. Damnable man.

“You insist on following me about,” he said with a suddenness that made her jump. “Go into places where only a well-armed man or a person of ill repute would venture. Place yourself in situations that even the best fighter would hesitate to go—”

She rounded on him. “Now, I wouldn’t say I placed myself in this situation.”

His eyes narrowed. “I can either conclude,” he went on in a sharper tone, “that you are an astonishingly great fool or…”—his voice rose over her gasp of outrage—“… or you have some reason to believe that you are above danger wherever you go.”

A tight smile lifted his lips. “Based on our conversations past, I cannot believe that you are a fool, so I must conclude the latter.”

Her hands curled to fists. “Ooh, you are smug! You know the logical course would be to call me a fool—” She flushed hot and snapped her mouth shut.

Archer’s brows rose. “Are you calling yourself a fool?”

“No, I am not!” She stamped her foot. “You are!”

He threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed out in the small lane, coming at her from all angles.

Her fists clenched. “You’re intolerable!”

“Because I won’t shout at you?” he asked through his laughter.