Cold dread seeped like ice water through her veins. “Yes.” And no. No. There was no way to spare him now.

Leland’s knobby hand ran over his face, dragging his white mustache down. “We must get you away.” Leland glanced at Archer and he frowned. “Archer will soon wake.”

Miranda clasped Leland’s hand, the skin beneath hers as fragile as old linen. “Dear man, don’t you see…” Ruthlessly, she bit her trembling lip. “I never meant to leave. Without Archer, I have no soul anyway. It is best he take it into him. That’s where it belongs—with him.”

His grip was hard. “No! You will be damned. And Archer as well.” Spittle flew from his dry lips. “I gave my word, and by God, I shall keep it!”

“What do I care of damnation?” Miranda’s throat closed. “I don’t even know if I believe…”

“In God?” Leland squeezed her hand. “With what you have seen tonight? Can you not see divine justice at work?” He blanched. “Please, if you do not believe, then have care for the soul that Archer sought to protect.”

“If there is an afterlife then surely Archer and I will find it together. Now—” she pushed a small smile—“don’t make me force you to leave.”

He flinched, clearly remembering the fire.

And she did too. Her heart gave a lurch. Not all fire destroys. She looked down at the man she loved. The tender curve of his neck showed no sign of a pulse. But soon. Soon the sun would come, and he’d awaken. And be nothing but a soulless demon. The innocent are redeemed by fire, and the guilty annihilated. The vivid image of what she’d done to Victoria loomed large in her mind, and it occurred to Miranda that she did believe. She looked down at her husband. She would save him. Save herself as well. Gently, she lifted him as much as she could and eased behind him, winding her legs around his torso. Ben’s heavy head fell against her breast.

“Leave us,” she said to Leland.

“Lady Archer—”

“Go now.”

Her eyes stayed on her husband and the way his silver lashes cast shadows upon his cheeks. God, how she wished to see him smiling at her and hear his rich voice once more.

“Go,” she said when Leland did not stir. “Or be consumed with us.”

Leland hesitated for a moment, perhaps more. She curled herself over Archer. “It’s all right,” she whispered against his cool ear. “I am here now. You aren’t alone.” Her tears pattered onto his sculpted cheek, rolling into his closed eyes. She blinked hard. “You’ll never be alone again.”

Leland’s heavy footfall echoed in the emptiness and then there was quiet. Miranda’s arms came around Archer’s broad shoulders. “I never told you, but that day you asked me why I was following you… do you remember it?”

She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve and then held on tighter. “I thought I was so sly, trying to goad you into revealing your secrets, but you knew what I was doing. You always saw right through me.” A weak laugh broke free. “There was a moment… you looked at me and our eyes met and I thought… I thought, ‘I love this man—’ ”

A sob ripped from her throat. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head. No breath came from his lips. “It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen your face. I knew—I knew I would love you until I died. But I was afraid. And I pushed it out of my head. For too long. Stupid of me, really. Because I’d been waiting for you too, Archer. My whole life.” A keening wail escaped her. She swallowed the rest down, clinging to Archer like a buoy in a storm.

His lips yielded against hers, unmoving but soft.

“It will only hurt for a short while,” she whispered against them. “And then we will be free.”

Torchlight flickered like the rays of the setting sun over his long, silver body. Miranda inhaled deeply and then opened his lips with hers. Let us be judged. Her breath exhaled in a rush of heat, flowing into him. My soul and his.

Once more, heat surged up from within, wrapping itself around her, around Archer. Purify.

Pain. It cut into Miranda. The heat and the pain. She held on, thinking of the flame. My soul and his. With all that I am.

Her lips trembled against Archer’s, the scorching heat in her throat nearly unbearable.

Distantly, she heard a hiss, like the sizzling of a fry pan. More heat. Her eyes flew open, dazzled by pain. Blue-white tongues of flame danced over them. Strange blue flame, nearly cold in its intensity. She could only stare helplessly; she was caught up in it now. No turning back. Her linen shirt burned away. Brown flakes of charred clothes whirled up into the air, caught in the flames.

She forced another surge. Purify.

A deep groan ripped out of Archer, and she almost lost her grip. His sinewy body convulsed, bucking hard against her aching thighs. She curled over him, wrapping her ankles round his legs, holding him down. Forgive me.

White-hot fire tore over them, pulling her hair from its bun. Red-gold strands lifted high, whipping round her face. From outside herself, she heard her piteous screams. So like Victoria’s. More. Archer flopped within her arms, groaning, his lips parting in a gasp. A maelstrom had them, fire and wind scouring her skin. And yet she did not burn. She could see that, but was mindless as to why. The pain was real enough.

Suddenly Archer lurched up, tight as a bow, tearing from her arms before falling back into them. His smooth skin pebbled with perspiration, then began to weep like a flower in the morning dew. Rivulets of silver rolled like mercury over the swells of his muscles. Blue tongues of flame licked it away as Archer writhed against her, his eyes shut tight as if against the pain. Something near joy touched Miranda’s heart as she saw the poison bleed out of him, revealing golden skin as it went, but then the foul silver substance touched her skin, and she screamed.

Bursts of white colored her vision. Razor-sharp pain tore at her skin as silver seeped from Archer and onto her. She curled over him like a shell, her br**sts crushing into his shoulder blades. They convulsed together until a pulse of heat and pressure shot out from his center. Miranda fell back, her head cracking against the ground. The heat of the room left with a loud whoosh of air.

Darkness ebbed and flowed at the edges of her vision.

Ben. She sucked in a draught of air and forced her body to rise.

He lay on his side once more, one arm hanging limply over his broad chest. Shadows played over skin, as golden as honey, as his arm softly rose and fell in cadence with his breathing. Steam rose from the ground around him, a silver mist that dissipated against the cold air. A soft groan came from his mouth, and he flopped onto his back, revealing whorls of black hair over his sculpted chest. Ben.

She scrambled to his side, trembling so badly that she could nary get a grip on his shoulders. Warmth. His skin radiated it. Black shorn hair brushed softly over her bare thighs as his head lolled toward her. High color was on his sharp cheeks.

“Ben.” Her voice came out in a croak.

The tension in his expression eased but still he would not awaken. Frantically, she brushed her lips over his brow. “Ben. Please.” Her hair fell about them like a veil, pooling onto his bare chest and shoulders. “I love you, Benjamin Archer,” she whispered against his ear. “More than my life.”

A tremor rippled through him, and then his eyes flicked open, soft gray and fringed with sooty lashes. They locked onto her, and she forgot to breathe.

“Miri…”

Chapter Thirty-four

Darkness. And cold. They surrounded him, unending and weighty. A frozen womb he could not escape. Deep within himself, he heard his cries, terrified, like a child’s. End this. Set me free. Dread clawed at his soul. He would run if he could. Soft hands were at his neck. Soothing. He strained toward the touch. Useless. He could not move. The hands slipped away, leaving him alone.

And then the pain. A hot brand forced down his throat. God help me. Colors—red, white, and orange—burst before him. Razor claws flayed him inside out. He fought against the heat and the agony. He could not endure. No more. Please.

And then warmth. He fell back with a sigh. Beautiful warmth, flowing like a dream. The scent of roses. Silken strands caressing his aching skin.

“I love you, Benjamin Archer.” Angel wings against his ear. “More than my life.”

Love. Miranda. Miri. It surged through him like a cooling wave. His eyes flew open to the light. A fiery nimbus of hair and grape-green eyes glimmering with tears.

“Miri.”

She sobbed. His love. Her creamy white skin was blotched with red, her eyes and nose swollen and seeping, a gash marred one fine brow. Never had she looked more beautiful.

“Ben.” Her slender arms flew around his neck, and he leaned into her with a sigh. Her plump bare breast pressed into his shoulder. Miranda naked? She curled up against him, the satin warmth of her thighs smooth against his tender skin.

He lifted his arm to hold her, his body sluggish as though moving through thick mud. The world around him was dim, almost grainy, like a photograph.

“Oh God, Ben.” Miri cried harder, her delicate frame shuddering against him.

“I’m here.” His throat burned, razors against raw skin. Where was here? Rough stone walls. Hard dirt beneath him. Memory threatened to suck him down.

A black cloak fell gently round Miri’s shoulders. She took no notice. He looked up. His dearest friend stood behind her. Leland. His face withered with age. His deep-set eyes wet. “Hello, Arch. Good to see you again.”

Suddenly dizzy, Archer closed his eyes tight. He could not look at Leland without thinking of blood, bones, Cheltenham… the others. Victoria’s mercury eyes boring into his, her dead lips opening his mouth, the smell of the grave in her kiss. I knew you would come back to me, Archer. May you burn in hell, Victoria. Gray light had filled him. Ice cold and final. He’d changed.

Panic grasped him with heavy hands. He surged upward, knocking Miri off balance. Victoria. Where was she? He had to get Miri away.

Miranda righted herself and shoved her arms into the cloak, pulling it closed. “She’s gone.”

He must have said the name aloud. He turned his head to his wife. Her eyes were flat. “She is destroyed.”

Impossible. He blinked in a daze and then saw… his legs, the long golden skin and curling black hairs dusted over them. His breath came out in a pant, his eyes traveling upward. His ruddy penis lay against his thigh, the dark sac of his balls nestled against black hairs. Christ. Unchanged. Whole again.

Miri’s warm hand curled over his shoulder. He whipped around. Her beautiful lips trembled, her glorious green eyes shining. “Archer.” It was a breath. “The curse is gone.”

He moved, catching her up and crushing her slim body to him. All at once, she began to sob again, great wrenching cries that showed the depth of her anguish. His name left her lips as though a plea. He sank his fingers into the cool silk of her hair. More than my life. Gratitude washed over him like a benediction.

“I’m here,” he whispered into her rose-scented hair. Here was home. He brought her closer. “I have you.”

And he was never letting go. Not for a lifetime.

Epilogue

The miraculous recovery of Lord Benjamin Archer, Fifth Baron Archer of Umberslade would be remarked upon for months, if not years. Indeed many a lady and gentleman could not account for it. The man had remained hidden behind a mask for as long as anyone could remember only to arrive at Lord Leland’s exclusive dance party and stroll directly out on the ballroom floor with his lovely wife, Lady Miranda Archer.

A hush of amazement ensued as guests realized the identity of the handsome man waltzing with Lady Archer. Some speculated, rather spitefully, that Lord Archer had never been disfigured, that he’d worn the mask simply to gain attention, a rather sad tactic indeed. But this theory was soon deemed illogical. A man as remarkably handsome and dashing as Lord Archer would not willingly hide such a countenance away for years. No. His recovery was nothing short of miraculous. And one could not help but smile at his good fortune upon watching him glide his wife about the dance floor as if in a dream. It was decided at that moment by many a lady of the ton, that theirs would be the first invitation Lord and Lady Archer received the next morning.

As for the couple in question, they realized in an abstract sort of way the stir they created, but it did not truly touch them.

“People are staring,” Miranda said, unable to hide her satisfied smile.

His gray eyes did not stray from hers, but merely crinkled at the corners. “Only because I am so handsome.” He pulled her a hair’s breadth closer. “And they are wondering how you tricked me into to marrying you.”

She chuckled, breathless as he spun her with effortless grace. “Undoubtedly. I suspect they are also put out that I have taken the best dancer in the room. I knew you’d be the very devil at dancing.” She glared but not very properly, for she was still smiling.

Soft lips brushed her ear as his hand slipped to her lower back, urging her closer. “Yes, but it takes two to waltz, my dear.” Her br**sts brushed his starched linen, eliciting a soft ripple of shock through the crowded hall. “I should not waltz so well if it wasn’t for you in my arms.”

She let two fingers of her gloved hand slip past the silken barrier of his wide lapels—propriety be dammed—and he grinned in response. “Then I shall have to stay put,” she murmured. “Lest you suffer any embarrassment.”

All in all a good plan. And their happiness was a contagion, causing many a couple to dance a hair’s breadth too close for propriety’s sake. As the night wore on, all wished them well. All save one who stood in a far-off corner watching the couple with a pain-filled heart. His dream had not come true, and he wondered if he would ever find contentment. Bone weary, he turned from the room. There was nothing left for him here.