Ben watched her rant, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight. “Yes, I am the third Baron Archer of Umberslade,” he said tightly. “Does it really change who I am?”

“Of course it does!” She spun round. “It makes you a liar. When I have given you all of my truths.”

He took a step forward, the flat muscles along his abdomen bunching. “By degrees,” he said, flinging his arm wide. “Doled out like pieces of Sunday cake. And I understood that. It is what we all do.”

“That is not at all the same thing! There is a difference between refraining from divulging the truth and outright lying.”

Archer snorted. “Which appears to be knowing what questions to ask.”

Her fists balled at her sides in an effort to hold still. “You ought to have believed in me. Believed in us. And those men, those poor old men. You’re as old as they are!” She pressed her hands to her face, wanting to scream but unable to. “God.”

“And what should I have said?” His dark brows rose in inquiry. “ ‘I’m sorry, darling, but even if I do get better, I might turn into a withered husk and most likely die within months.’ Would that have eased the way?”

Hearing it come from him hit like a slap. The floor tilted beneath Miranda. She could not stay and watch him be destroyed. “I’m leaving,” she said through numb lips.

She turned for the door.

He was in front of her in an instant, slamming the door shut with his fist. “No.” He grabbed her shoulders, spinning her round, shoving her back against the wall. “No,” he said again, his voice breaking. His lips crushed against her, his fingers biting into her flesh.

She yielded to the pressure, and his tongue dove into her mouth. Miranda sucked it hard, needing to taste him, and he groaned. His fist pressed into her back, holding her tight enough to take her breath away.

“You can’t leave me.” He took her lower lip between his teeth. “I won’t let you go.”

She nipped back, her legs clenching his hard thigh. Shaking, his hand tore at her chemise and the fabric ripped.

“No.” She wrenched her head to the side, away from his seeking mouth. “No!”

“Miri.” It was a whimper of pain.

Suddenly she was hitting him, striking his hard chest with her fists. “You should have told me!”

He took her assault without flinching, and her hands fell to her sides. Hurting him only hurt her more.

He gazed at her sorrowfully but made no move to touch her. “My only excuse is fear,” he whispered thickly.

“A sorry excuse,” she sobbed, breathless from her spent fury. “When have you ever felt fear? The dauntless Lord Archer. When I think of how you looked upon Cheltenham’s body… you didn’t even flinch. It was as if you felt nothing.”

“Felt nothing?” he hissed. His brow wrinkled as he stepped back. “Felt nothing!” He moved with a blur of speed and struck the side of the wardrobe. The thick wood tore like paper under the impact of his fist.

He spun back to face her, the fine muscles along his shoulders and chest tensing as a milky light pulsed through his changed flesh—the sight of which alarmed Miranda more than his fury.

“It was all I could do not to scream when we found Chelt.” He grasped the short hairs upon his head as though he’d tear them out. Words poured from him like a purgative. “Cheltenham and I visited each other in the nursery. Merryweather and I roomed together in Cambridge. And Leland… Leland was my best mate. He brought me into West Club, then helped cast me out of London.”

His large frame began to shake as if he’d soon break apart. Miranda moved toward him, the pain of seeing him suffer stronger than her anger, but he glared at her fiercely. “Do you have any idea…” His breath hitched. “I’ve had to watch them age, turn gray. I couldn’t stand it. I had to get away. That is the true reason I left, not because they told me to go. And when I came back they were old, withered. A reminder of what I should be.”

He took a shuddering breath, and his shoulders fell. “I’ve watched you age. From a lovely young creature to this woman who is so achingly beautiful… God!”

He spread his arms wide in entreaty before letting them fall. “I lied. I lied when I said your beauty does not affect me. I look at you, and I’m breathless, dizzy from it. I want to kneel at your feet and worship you. While the baser part of me wants to fling up your skirts and stick my c**k in you until we forget our names.” His nostrils flared as he glared at her, accusation and pain mingling within his eyes.

“But none of that matters,” he said, trembling before her, “because every day that I am with you, I am more convinced that God made you just for me. For in ninety years on this earth, no one has made me feel the way you do, as if every day is an adventure. You make me laugh. And I never laugh. I go around smiling like a witless fool. So yes, I kept it from you, because I am so desperately in love with you that the knowledge that you might love me too was irresistible. And I was afraid it would turn to dust should I take off that mask.”

A sound tore from his throat, and he turned away to lean against the wardrobe, resting his forearms over his head. The silver lines of his body glimmered in the afternoon sun that slanted through the lacy curtains. His voice drifted out, rough and choked. “How am I to resist the one thing I’ve ever truly wanted?”

His forehead hit the wood with a thud. “I am sorry, Miri,” he finished weakly.

Miranda’s vision blurred. There were lies, and there were lies. She went to him, sliding between his strong body and the wardrobe. Despite his distress, his arm automatically reached out to cocoon her against him as he breathed raggedly. “I’m sorry, Miri,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m sorry…”

She smoothed his back. “Hush.” Her lips brushed across his collarbone. She looked up at him through her tears and found his eyes red, his thick lashes clumping like spikes. “Do you think it is any different for me? I want you so much it is a constant ache.”

He made a sound, and his lips found her temple. Soft kisses to ease her tears, yet her heart grew cold. She was losing him. He was retreating. Behind thick walls where feelings could not hurt him. She felt it as surely as the lips upon her brow. Miranda had lived in that cold dark place for most of her life.

She turned toward him, her cheek caressing his chin. “I need to hear your voice every day or I despair. You are the balance of my soul. I cannot lose you, Ben. I would not live through it.”

The very idea caused her to sob, and he caught her mouth with his. “Don’t cry,” he whispered against her lips, his big hand cupping her cheek. “I can’t bear it.” He kissed her tears as she kissed his cheeks, eyes, and beloved jaw line.

She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest against his as they breathed together. Sick dread slid down her belly. She could sense the wild desperation filling him. She would lose him to this madness.

“We can solve this together.” She kissed him softly, desperately. The taste of him broke her heart anew. “We will find a cure. And this killer… It takes only a thought for me to finish him. Do you understand?”

Suddenly he went utterly cold. “Yes.” He closed his eyes and released a deep sigh. The fight in him seemed to drain. “I understand you perfectly.”

When she moved to kiss him, he cupped her face in his hands, and his gray eyes searched her face as if to commit it to memory. “Know this, there is only one truth left to me.” His trembling fingertips caressed her jaw. “That I love you.” He said it again, his voice broken, his arms pulling her tightly against him. “I love you. The rest is darkness.”

Her fingers curled around the smooth swells of his biceps. “Then let me be your light.”

Archer shuddered, dragging an open-mouthed kiss across her cheek to claim her lips. “Always, Miri.” He grew tighter, colder in her arms. “All that I am, all that I become, is for you.”

Chapter Thirty-one

No!” Miranda lurched out of bed, her heart pounding painfully. Shaking, she buried her face in her hands until little prickles of awareness set in. She whipped round, knowing she was alone, but needing to see. The bedding at her side was rumpled and empty. Archer. On his pillow lay the silver rose and a note. Pain spread through her middle, doubling her over, and she grabbed the note, seeing Archer’s heavy scrawl, more slanted than usual.

—Forgive me

Her knees knocked as she fell from the bed and scrambled to reach the water closet in time. She retched until she had no more to give, then fell upon the smooth, hard floor. Why? Why, Ben?

That he meant to face the killer alone was clear. Forgiveness meant only one thing—he did not mean to survive this confrontation.

Miranda curled into a tight ball, pressing her knees hard into her aching chest. But the pain did not abate. Cursing roundly, she climbed to her feet and washed her face and mouth. Wallowing would help no one. That God damned sneaky bastard.

Her fencing clothes, long unused but never forgotten, flew from her wardrobe as she heaped more curses upon her errant husband. If he thought she’d sit at home and let him go off to die he was sorely mistaken.

“Eula! Gilroy!” Her shouts rang out shrilly as she strode down the upper hall not two minutes later. Miranda swallowed down her panic. She needed to think. The bun secured at the nape of her neck was tight enough to pull her scalp, and her head pounded rather dreadfully.

The hall remained empty. Miranda’s boot heels clattered on the steps as she raced down them. “Eula!”

Finally, the cheeky woman appeared, shuffling with a gait worthy of Methuselah.

“Trying to wake the dead, are you? What’s amiss? You and Lord Rapturous run out of fresh beds?”

“He’s gone, Eula.” Her lip trembled, and she bit it hard. “For good.”

Eula drew herself up with purpose. “Where?”

“I-I don’t know. I thought you might.” Damn and hell. I will not cry.

She gaped at Miranda. Eula at a loss for words nearly undid her. Miranda turned from her and headed for the library, almost colliding into Gilroy. The stately butler stumbled along, hastily dressed and rubbing the back of his neck in a most unusual outward display of discomfort.

“Apologies, my lady.” He made an effort to straighten. “I was abed when you called. I do not know what came over me.”

Miranda eyed him carefully, taking note of his glazed expression. “Lord Archer is gone. Do you know where he is?” She rather thought Gilroy did not.

“No, my lady.” He blinked several times. “I’ve not seen him since he gave me a tisane for my aching joints last night.”

Miranda ground her teeth together to keep from shouting. Poor Gilroy did not deserve her censure. “Tisane,” she bit out at last. “The bloody man gave you a sleeping draught so you wouldn’t wake when he left.”

Gilroy’s lean face went white. “You mean he has gone to face that fiend?”

Despite her resolve to stay calm, she grabbed his frail arm. “Do you know who it is? Where he could have gone?”

His shook his head wildly. “On my honor, I do not.”

She closed her eyes for one precious moment. “Thank you, Gilroy. Have my horse saddled. Make sure to tell them I shall be riding astride. And find me a riding cloak.”

His scandalized expression might have been laughable. “But my lady—”

“Blast it, Gilroy! I can’t very well go out in a silken mantle.” She gestured to her trousers and linen shirt. “Just find a damned cloak that will fit me and be quick about it. I don’t care whose it is,” she shouted at his rapidly retreating form.

Eula eyes gleamed. “Well, if yer up for screaming like a harpy then I expect you’ve enough mettle to bring him back.”

Miranda tasted blood. “Find me a sword. Archer surely has one lying about.” Her insides quaked. She hadn’t practiced the sword in years, but the yearning and the need to wield it now stirred her blood, making her muscles twitch. “And Archer’s spare pistol as well. Loaded, Eula,” she said over her shoulder before she shut herself up in the library.

The room lay still and cool. It might have been waiting for him. She went to his desk. The cluttered chaos over it appeared untouched. She tore through it, searching for something, any clue. There was nothing.

Defeated, she dropped her head upon the desk. Tears would not come, no matter her frustration. She sat for a long moment, simply breathing. The killer’s identity drifted just beyond her grasp, as ephemeral as smoke in the wind. She cast aside Lord Mckinnon. She rather thought Mckinnon flirted with her mainly to antagonize Archer. Irritating but not viscous. These murders had nothing to do with her and Archer, but with Archer and West Moon Club. Then there was the fact that Archer knew who the killer was. While Archer wanted her away from Mckinnon, he did so out of possessiveness, not from a genuine fear for her safety. Lord Rossberry then? But these murders were calculated, coolly done. With rage, yes, but the killer was a planner. Rossberry struck her as all rage and impulse. Then who?

Every conversation, every fight she’d had with Archer played in her mind, until the small tableaus of her life with him spun in a flash of colors like the inside of a kaleidoscope.

A thing that feeds off the light of souls… I am not so easily dispatched… What if I told you it is something wondrous and beautiful he hides… immortal.

Miranda reared up, her heart pounding in her throat. The spinning wheel stopped. What was once a blur suddenly came into sharp focus. Archer bending over Victoria. Why are you here?