She shook seeing it. “Come. Come.” She could not say anything else.

Somehow she got them to the main street. People gave them a wide berth. No one would help them. No one ever did.

He swayed, helpless groans and whimpers escaping his locked jaw. He would not last long.

Desperately, she hailed a hack. The jarvey took one look at them, and his weathered face pinched. “Oh, no, I don’t want no part of this.” He made to drive off, and Miranda grabbed hold of his horse’s harness. It wouldn’t do much; most likely the driver would roll over her without a thought, but it startled him enough for her to get a word in.

“I’ve got money!”

“Don’t care if I’m ending up with a dead man in me cab.”

“I’ll pay you a sovereign.” Jostling her load, she dug into her pocket and pulled one out. Precious coin, but well worth it. “Four blocks for one sovereign.”

The driver’s eyes narrowed. “Done. But you’re getting him in on your own.”

“For a sovereign, you’ll be helping me and still have made a deal,” she retorted. Already the thug had passed out, and his dead weight was making her topple.

The man’s eyes shifted to the coin, then back to her. With a muttered curse and pursed lips, the jarvey helped her get him into the cab, and they were off. Her victim moaned with the jostle of the coach but didn’t wake. Awkwardly, she patted his shoulder as her heart thundered within her breast.

What had she become?

“Don’t worry,” she muttered, not believing a word she said. “I’ll get you well.”

Chapter 5

London, May 1, 1879

It had been hell. Miranda clattered down the back stairs of her house. The muscles along her torso trembled so hard they hurt. Her fingers were ice cold as they slid along the handrail.

Her guest had screamed. There was something about hearing a man scream in pain that unnerved her to the bone.

The agony in it was enough to finish shredding what was left of her soul. What had she done? She could only thank the heavens that Father hadn’t been at home. He would have taken his own pound of flesh had he discovered her guest.

Pray God none of the neighbors had heard the man’s shouts of pain. She did not know what she’d say should a constable arrive.

Going to hospital had been out of the question; one was more likely to die from picking up an infection there than one was to be healed. Besides, Miranda knew how to heal burns.

It had been a trial though, cutting the thug’s clothes away while he writhed as skin pulled away with his clothing, getting him calm so that she might attend to his roasted flesh.

A sob broke from her mouth as she rushed into the kitchen. He needed more laudanum. She needed more milk to soak the linen strips that she’d gingerly placed upon him.

Heedless, she was reaching for her reticule when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around her waist.

Miranda squeaked, but her body recognized Martin in an instant. He pulled her back against his hard chest before turning her round. His lips met hers in a hungry kiss. She did not deny him. Nothing could be more welcome at that moment. She needed to be held just now, more than she needed to breathe.

Martin’s gold eyes gleamed when he finally let her go.

“Hello, gorgeous.” His hand smoothed down her back. “I want to come home to a kiss like this every day.”

A nice thought, but her mind was on the thug in her bed upstairs, a man who might very well die on her. “Martin, I need to—” Her words were cut off when he kissed her again. It was a nice kiss, as kisses went, but she squirmed against him, desperate to get a word in.

He pulled back, oblivious, it seemed. “When we are married, I will come home to this.”

A sharply drawn breath behind them stopped her from replying. She and Martin both froze. Miranda winced as she pictured the scene they made.

“What did you say?” came the sharp hiss from her father.

Slowly they turned to face him. Father’s face had gone pasty, but a flush of anger was quickly rushing up his neck.

“You’ve been creeping behind my back, have you?”

Miranda didn’t know whether he spoke to her or Martin. It did not matter. They were one in this. “Father, we meant to tell you.”

“Oh?” He took a step closer, and his hands fisted. “When would that be? When you’re swelling with a bastard child?”

She lifted her chin. “Surely you can’t object to my marrying Martin.”

“Surely I can!” he roared. “I told you to stay away from him.”

Martin flinched. “Sir…”

“Do not ’sir’ me, you wastrel.” Spittle flew from Father’s lips. “I treat you like a son, and this is how you repay me?”

Miranda stepped in front of Martin. “You treat him like a son, and yet you would deny him the opportunity to become son to you in truth? Why?” She clenched Martin’s hand. It was too cold. “To what can you possibly object?”

The heat in Father’s eyes dimmed just a bit. “I’ve no true objection to your character, boy.” Father’s gaze went to Miranda. “But he’s not meant for you. You are meant for something more.” A tremor went through him. “Something grand.”

“Nonsense!” Miranda swallowed down the urge to scream at her father. “Martin and I have nothing but each other, Father.”

“You are not meant for him!”

She laughed. “I don’t see why not. Your dreams are just that, Father.” She let go of Martin to step closer to her father.

“I am sick of dreams. I want the reality. And the reality is that Martin and I love each other and will marry, whether you will it or not.”

Her father’s body visibly recoiled, his eyes going wide. But he rebounded quickly. “You have not reached your majority, Daughter. I most certainly can stop you.”

“And we most certainly can run off to Gretna Green should we need to,” she snapped back. “Like you and mother did. Or have you forgotten?”

He was turning too red. A vibrating anger made his hands shake. Soon he would start throwing things.

Martin stepped around her. “Sir, we need not go to such lengths. I know you worry, but I will take care of her. I swear.”

It took a moment for Father to meet his gaze, as he was too intent on glaring a hole through Miranda’s skull. His gaze softened on Martin. “As I said, boy, it has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why don’t you tell us what it does have to do with?”

Miranda said. A warning plucked at her spine. She would not like his answer.

Martin caught her by the shoulder. “Miranda,” he said softly, yet with a hard look in his eyes. “Let me handle this.”

“No.” She took his hand and gripped it hard. “We handle things together.”

A muscle in Martin’s jaw bunched, but he squeezed her hand back.

“You’re determined, then?” Father said, breaking their stalemate.

Miranda eyed him wearily. His question was odd in its tone. “Yes.”

Father rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Then Martin needs a proper job. A clerk’s salary is not enough to support a wife.”

Martin’s head jerked up. The hopeful light in his eyes, and the cunning look in her father’s, had Miranda’s stomach falling. “Sir?” Martin said.

“You’re good with numbers,” her father said to him. “What do you say to my making you ship’s accountant?”

Martin stepped away from her. She felt the break as if a physical tether had been cut. “I’d say I’ll make you proud, sir.”

It suddenly occurred to Miranda that Martin would be going away. For months. And he had not hesitated to accept Father’s offer. She cut Martin a look, and he avoided her gaze.

Father’s smile was oil and honey. “Of course you will.”

He held out a hand, beckoning. “Come, let us discuss this in the parlor.” Said the spider to the fly.

Cold fear touched Miranda’s spine. Surely Father wouldn’t deliberately try to hurt Martin?

“We will marry before you go,” she said sharply and distinctly, so there would be no confusion. If Father thought he would rid her of Martin by sending him away, he was greatly mistaken.

Both men paused, almost bemused by her presence.

Martin swallowed hard, then gave her a smile. “Of course.”

He straightened his spine and addressed her father. “I insist.”

The corners of Father’s eyes twitched just a moment but he did not blink. “Very well. If you insist.”

His compliance was worse than resistance, for Miranda could not fathom why he’d done it. The man calculated everything. She wanted to shout a warning to Martin, wanted to run away from this house and everything in it. The thought reminded her of the man upstairs. He needed her now. She could not discuss this sudden change in plans with Martin when another was suffering.

Even so, she almost called out to Martin, but he and Father were already halfway out of the kitchen and deep in conversation. Martin’s cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile at something her father said. The smile was full of warmth and so very intimate, as if the receiver of it was the most important person in the world. She knew the strength of that smile, for she had been on the other end of it many a time.

Only, she had thought she was the one person he gave it to.

Somewhere… March 16, 1881

He became aware of himself again, and of the night sky now above him. Where had the parlor gone? Leland and the others? Below the shimmering sickle moon, the three pyramids of Giza were black shadows against an indigo sky. By God, was he in Egypt? That could not be right. He’d been in Mexico. Hadn’t he? Yet the sand beneath him was softer than the hard-pack sand of the Chihuahuan desert, and the sultry air held the musky tang of Cairo.

How could he be in Egypt…

Hell, he was still trapped. Trapped in his mind? Or had he gone elsewhere? A giddy laugh broke from his mouth. Absently, he rubbed his chest and was surprised to find it bare. He smoothed his hand back and forth, a slow rhythm.

Yes, bare. A curl of pleasure unfurled within his belly. Rather nice to lie in the dry desert air with not a stitch on. His sex stirred. Well, all right then…

“Mmm…”

He stilled. That was not his voice. Most definitely not.

“Archer.” The honey and cream voice drifted up from the area around his knees.

Shock rendered him incapable of movement. Well, not all of him. Something definitely moved. And stiffened as warm, smooth hands started to glide slowly up his thighs.

Feminine hands.

Uncertain terror and virulent hope made his pulse leap.

With a jerk of his head, he looked down the length of his body. Satin ribbons of red-gold hair spread over his legs, and the pale, perfect heart of a woman’s bu**ocks jutted up in the air.

She turned her head, and the curtain of her hair slipped back to reveal her face. His breath left in a gasp.

“Miranda?” he croaked. Ah, God. He went from hard to throbbing. He drank in the sight of her smooth skin, her deep rose ni**les. His mouth went dry. He needed to touch her. He went up on his elbows to get a better view of her swaying br**sts and plump mouth.

“Archer, love.” She kissed his inner thigh. The touch of her lips burned like a brand, hot yet insanely good.

“Gorgeous man.”

Gorgeous? Did she not see what he was? She did not appear to care. The very idea of her looking upon him without fear or loathing made his chest ache.

God, she was lovely. Her sculpted face was even more defined then when last he saw her. She appeared older, more womanly. How could that be so? Ought he not see her as unchanged in a dream? Luminous green eyes stared up at him, even as her lush mouth glided over his skin, kissing a path toward his cock. Being an accommodating fellow, he parted his thighs just a bit. Her tongue snaked out, tracing the sensitive crease where his thigh joined his hip. Archer’s head went light.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” she whispered, her breath stirring the hair around his sex. Jesus. “So much that you haunt me.”

His forearms tensed. “I dream about you every night. Every day,” he rasped.

She paused and smiled. A cat-who-got-the-cream smile, complete with a little flick of her pink tongue. “You do things to me in my dreams,” she said.

“Wha--” He swallowed. “What sort of things?” He had a good idea of what he’d like to do now.

Her silken hair slid over his knees. “You kiss me. Kiss my br**sts.” She gave his hip a kiss. “Lick them.” She licked her way across his belly. So close. Not close enough.

His h*ps lifted a fraction, encouraging her. “Suckle them.”

His breath sawed now. It was a dream. A bloody good dream. “And then?”

A smile curled her lips. “You kiss me between my legs,” she whispered on a deep blush.

Ah, God. His eyes fluttered closed, but he forced them open. “I’ll do it now. Let me do it now.” He was panting. Begging.

With a small laugh, she shook her head, and all that glorious hair moved over him, strands brushing his cock.

Her soft br**sts pillowed on his thigh. “No. I want to kiss you.”

“Kiss me between my legs.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Kiss my cock.”

The idea sent heat flaring down his torso and made said c**k ache.

Green eyes gazed at him through lowered lashes. A flush worked across her cheeks, and he feared he’d gone too far, but she smiled. Every muscle tensed as she moved, and then her sweet mouth touched the swollen tip of his cock. A light kiss but enough to have him groaning.