“Lovely,” she said, and kissed it again.

It was a dream. Sweat tickled down his neck. His abdomen clenched in sweet pain. She cupped his stones, caressing them as she peppered little kisses down the

length of him. A dream. If it was, he was going to enjoy it.

“Put it in your mouth.” Just the words made him convulse. He dug his fingers into loose desert sand.

Making a little noise of contentment, she moved to comply. And those plump lips opened over him.

“Ah… Jesus!”

Hot, wet mouth. Slick, swirling tongue. Unpracticed but effective.

Weakly, he lifted his head to look down at her. The sight nearly undid him. Her mouth. On him.

“Suck it.” His voice was a coarse growl. “Deep. In and out.”

She sucked him in a long, wet pull that nearly made him blind with pleasure. Liquid heat scorched his veins. His h*ps lifted in little thrusts, helping her as she worked his cock. Her hand clutched his thigh as she moaned.

“Harder.”

The pressure increased.

With a trembling hand, he cupped the back of her neck and steadied her as he pumped himself into her clever mouth. He wouldn’t last. His ball s drew tight, the heat within him becoming too much. He wanted more.

“Come here,” he managed, easing her away with shaking hands, then pulling her up. “Come here. I need to be in you.”

She surged up as though riding a wave. Long limbs settled around him, the stiff tips of her br**sts grazing his chest as he pulled her close. And then he was tunneling into her tight, wet heat. Heaven.

Her red-gold hair surrounded them like a curtain. He shuddered, and his arms wrapped around her as he thrust in with a grunt. “Miranda.” Her neck was warm, fragrant with the scent of roses. He nuzzled it, and she sighed.

“Archer.” Her slender arms surrounded him, holding him close as she moved on him.

His throat convulsed. A hot prickle behind his lids disarmed him. “I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to be alone again.”

She undulated, riding him, driving him mad.

“Then come back to me, Archer.”

“I cannot. I am not whole.” She deserved him whole, cured.

Softly, she touched his cheek, bringing his head up. Their eyes met, and he forgot to breathe, forgot to move. “I love you, Benjamin Archer. More than my life.”

He came with a shout of pleasure, and the world went white.

Chapter 6

London, May 15,1879

Miranda woke feeling as if she’d been plucked from her dreams, a hard forceful removal that had her body jerking in the bed as her eyes opened. Her heart pounded as she blinked up at a cracked ceiling, trying to place just where she was for several pained moments. Right, in the spare room. Her guest, one Billy Finger, was occupying her room.

He had roused the morning after she brought him here, and since then, had cursed her and this house seven ways to Sunday.

“How do you think I bloody feel, you stupid cow! I’ve been roasted like a market pig. I’ve got pain on top of pain!”

He’d thrown the water ewer at her when she tried to get near. “Get out.”

Miranda had ignored him, and ignored the temptation to tell him that it was her house and he was free to leave it.

While the rotten blighter had no qualms about insulting her, he seemed content to stay just where he was, ordering her about whenever she visited.

She sighed, wishing she hadn’t come fully awake. On the heels of full wakefulness came a bone-deep sense of loss. Her hands curled into the sheets, as if she could

somehow hold on to the dream. To Him.

For it had been him again, the dark stranger. Her br**sts felt heavy, her ni**les tight and tender. A blush of heat stole over her face as she remembered the feel of his mouth, so hot and wet, pulling on her ni**les. Such a thing. Martin had never done that. Indeed, he’d never been given a chance. Their coupling was a furtive thing, not allowing for her to undress. Surely, Martin had caressed her br**sts, touching her ni**les through the thick layer of her bodice, but it had been nothing compared to what He had done in her dream. Wicked things. Wonderful things.

On a sigh, Miranda sat up, trying to shake the memory of his big, strong hands skimming up her thighs to grip her waist. Of being filled by his big, strong…

“Bloody hell,” she muttered and leapt out of bed. Today was her bloody wedding day. Vigorously, she splashed her face with icy water.

A violent shout brought her up short, sending water into her eyes. It was Billy, crying out in pain, and another masculine voice… Martin!

“Help!”

Billy.

“Who the bloody hell are you!”

Miranda scrambled to the other room, bursting in as Martin hauled Billy up by his shirt and gave him a shake.

“Martin!” Miranda grabbed his arm. “Let him go! You’ll hurt him.”

Martin dropped Billy as if the man had turned to live coals and instead turned his glare on her. “Who is this?”

“Billy Finger,” she said baldly.

When Martin’s brows rose, she grimaced. “He’s convalescing.”

“More like being held captive in a madhouse,” Billy muttered. But there was real and deep pain etched into the lines of his face. Gingerly, he eased himself into a better position on the bed. Miranda went to him and offered up a packet of pain powders.

“Why is he convalescing here?” Martin asked as she moved to pour Billy a cup of water. “And why did you not tell me about him?”

Miranda paused before the water ewer. Her hand tightened on the tin cup. “I meant to tell you. The other day. When Father found us.” Slowly she turned. “We were distracted.”

Martin nodded, but his gaze slid over Billy. The line of his jaw bunched. He turned back to her with a pointed look. Miranda took an unsteady breath.

“Go on,” Billy said with an ugly smile. “Tell him, or doesn’t he know about you?”

“Shut your mouth,” Martin said to him before he looked at Miranda once more.

“I burned him.” The confession was a whisper, caught in her throat.

“What?” Martin said it so flat and thin that she might have missed it. But she didn’t. Her heart pounded a fearful rhythm.

“I. Burned. Him.” She enunciated each word, as if doing so didn’t pierce her soul with guilt. As if it didn’t hurt to see Martin wince.

Martin took a step back. “Good god, Miranda. Why?” He glanced at Billy, who lifted his chin as if to say, you see who you want to wed? Billy’s burns were still angry and raw. Ugly scars would cover his arms and upper torso till the day he died. Martin’s mouth twisted. When he faced her again, his golden eyes were cold. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“He was about to rape me!” Her hands fisted. “I had no choice.” Oh, but it wasn’t true. She’d chosen to face Billy. Her pride had led her to hurt another.

“Oi!” Billy struggled to rise. “I was just after a bit o’ fun. Followed her when she was fanning--”

“Shut up!” shouted Martin.

Billy glared.

“It was a mistake,” Miranda said. “One I’ll never--”

“You’ve said that before, Miranda.”

Her eyes watered. But she would not cry.

Martin watched her for a long moment, then heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, leaving the curling ends to shoot about wildly. “What does he mean, fanning?”

Miranda resisted the urge to pluck her skirts. “Fanning means to pick a man’s pocket.”

“I know what it means, Miranda. Why does he suggest that you were doing it?”

She lifted her chin. “Because I was.”

Martin blinked at her. “Picking pockets. You.”

“A regular parrot, this one.”

They both glared at Billy, who glared right back.

Martin’s jaw was tight when he returned his gaze to Miranda. “You pick pockets. Like a common street rat.”

Her face flushed. “Do not look at me in that way, Martin.”

When his brows merely rose, her fists clenched. “Father made me do so. To supplement his meager income.” Martin still stared, and she ground her teeth. “We were in danger of being turned out on the streets, in danger of starving. What would you have me do?”

“Come to me?”

She sighed. “You can barely support yourself. And it was my cross to bear.”

“I’d say you’ve borne in well.”

She bristled. “If I was a martyr, I’d have come crying to you.”

Martin’s nose wrinkled but he nodded shortly. “All right, Miranda. I understand. You had no choice.” His tone suggested otherwise.

“Martin…”

She stepped closer but he backed away, holding up a hand as if to warn her off. The act felt like a physical slash to her chest. “It’s all right.” He swallowed. “I… I should go.”

It hit her then that they were supposed to meet at the church in a few hours. Every joint throbbed as her body seized in sudden fear. He would not look at her. He was walking away with stiff, uneven strides that took him back to the open window from whence he came.

“Martin,” she licked her lips, “I’ll see you soon?”

His stride stuttered. “Of course,” he said after a pained moment.

He left without looking back.

Central Mexico, March 17th 1881

“Hey!” A rough hand shook his shoulder. “Lord Archer.

You there?”

Another shake.

Archer groaned, nausea making his guts tumble and writhe. Slowly, feeling came back into his body. With great concentration, he lifted his lids. Sunlight stabbed at his eyes, making them water. He blinked, and Smith wobbled into view. The shaman was on the other side of him, his dark eyes twinkling as if the sight of Archer laid out like a drunkard was highly amusing. With an approving nod, the shaman turned and spoke a few words to Smith.

Smith grinned down at Archer. “Quite a trip, eh?”

A trip? Archer thought the word too benign for what he’d experienced. It had been so… vivid, intense… I love you,

Benjamin Archer. A stab of longing hit him with unexpected force. Her.

He swung himself upward and groaned again. A bad move, that. His empty stomach heaved. Swallowing hard, he put his head in his hands.

“Well?” said Smith crouching beside him. “You find your answer?”

The word tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Miranda.”

Both his salvation and the one woman he would stay away from, because he wasn’t yet cured. But his resolve was crumbling. Come back to me, Archer. Dreams were nothing like reality. Likely, she’d run in fear of him. He’d forced her father’s hand. She was his without her even knowing it. How could he do that to her? Everyone deserved a choice.

His chest felt heavy, aching.

A hand touched his shoulder. The shaman squinted into his eyes and then spoke to Smith.

“He says,” said Smith, “that you are like a hawk struggling against the wind and never getting anywhere. You resist your fate. Let go and trust that the wind will take you where you need to go. Follow the signs.”

Archer scrubbed a hand over his face and found that he still wore his half mask. Let go? Christ, he wanted to.

Stay away. Your presence here puts us all in danger.

Come back to me, Archer.

Which course was the truth? Perhaps he’d let fate decide. All he needed was a sign.

London, May 15,1879

Miranda was late to her own wedding, a regrettable occurrence due to the fact that Billy Finger had fussed and complained about his wounds and demanded that they be re-dressed. Rotter. Cad.

She fought a smile. As she was entering a church, she supposed she ought to be truthful with herself and admit that part of her liked the dissolute thug. She had no idea why really, only that his frank discourse and the unapologetic way he moved through life was something she admired. Or perhaps it was the truce they had arrived at over the days in which she helped him heal.

“What’s your name then?” he’d asked on the second day.

“Miranda.” She tucked in a loose end of his bandage and handed him a cup of hot tea, mildly laced with laudanum.

“Heard that bloke who was visiting you in the garden call you Pan.”

Miranda glanced at him. “You were spying on me?”

Martin had called on her that morning, and they’d spent a few quick moments together in the garden. The memory made her cheeks scald. If Billy Finger had been watching, she would die of mortification.

But Billy only scowled. “How can I be spying when I can’t get out of this bloody doss?” He made a sound of disgust before looking at her again. “But I heard well enough through the open window, eh?”

She pressed her lips together. “Pan is a nickname.”

“Name fits.” He took a sip of tea, and his nose wrinkled. “Haven’t you got any blue ruin in this place?”

“No. Nor would I give you any if I had.”

They were silent while Miranda tidied the bed.

“How long have you been a dipper?” he asked.

“A while. My father taught me.” And hadn’t that been quite the education.

“Don’t understand it.” He shifted, then grimaced. “You’ve this fine house. Why pick pockets?”

She sighed. “Father owns the house but he needs to keep it. Turns out I’m good at dipping, as you call it. So I do what I can to help him.”

She moved to go when Billy stopped her. “You’re a cut above, Pan.” His mouth twisted. “Even if I’m cursing the day I met you.”