them still.
“Harder?” he groaned against her skin before sucking it.
“Yes.”
Pleasure boiled within. Her lips parted on a cry. Frantic, she rocked against him, shivering despite the white heat rolling over her. Cruelly, he pressed himself against her, not letting her move as he worked her, faster, harder. Her body tightened like a bow and then she broke, coming apart with small, pained cries.
Archer’s teeth sank into her neck. Holding her there as the world fell to pieces and then slowly came back together.
She returned to herself on a shudder, his hand already slipping away to hold her hip gently. His lips brushed her bruised flesh once as if to soothe her. They were silent for a moment, both of them trembling, their chests lifting and falling in unison, then she felt the realization wash over him. He drew in a sharp breath and stepped back, letting her skirts fall as he went.
Miranda sagged against the wall. She could not face him. Not yet. The ghost of her cries hung in the air between them. Her body still throbbed from what they had done. What he had done to her. Her cheeks suffused with fresh heat.
She felt him watching. Regretting? His silence was a cold presence against her back.
“Go on, then,” he whispered. A deep breath sounded in the dark, and his voice gathered strength. “I’ve done you a wrong. Turn me into cheese on toast.”
She went utterly cold. Cheese on toast. She’d only used that threat once in her life. In an instant, she spun round. “You mock me?” she hissed at his retreating form.
Archer straightened his ascot with false nonchalance; she saw the tremble in his hand. “Never.” He looked down at his bare hand as if he couldn’t quite place it. Miranda glanced away from those skilled, long fingers. The sight of them perplexed her as much as it did him.
“I have thought about having you against a wall since the day we met,” he said without looking up.
“Oh. I… Oh. Then…” To say any more would expose too much of herself. She turned to face the dark cavern of the alleyway. Goosebumps rose over her skin as she thought of flashing knives and Archer falling. “That man. It almost appeared as if you knew him. Did you know who it was?”
“I rather thought it was our killer.”
She opened her mouth to retort but stopped as she saw the sheen of sweat along his cheek. The moonlight cast his skin marble white. For a moment he looked almost ill. Catching the direction of her gaze, he turned abruptly and strode down the alley, leaving her to follow at a trot.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
A hack rattled before them, stopping at Archer’s command. Archer walked through the curling mist kicked up by the coach and opened the door before handling her up like a sack of grain. She landed hard on the leather seat as he swung his bulk inside. As soon as he sat, the coach lurched forward. Her thighs were damp, her flesh tender. The thought of what they had done licked over her like a flame. Well, she would throw reason over it like iced water. Don’t look at him. Speak of something else.
Archer glanced at her and smirked. “I don’t suppose you will tell me just how you intended to turn those young men who attacked you that night into luncheon?”
She sank back into the shadows, away from his keen stare. The weak lamp above their heads swung like a pendulum, moving Archer’s dark form in and out of shadow as the coach sped down Great Russell Street toward Piccadilly. “Perhaps when you have told me what Father had done to earn your wrath that night.”
Cold and unhinged, she crossed her arms in front of her for warmth. Their cloaks were in the museum.
“What does it matter?” He tried to shrug out of his suit coat but stopped with a marked wince.
“Of course it matters. I—” The cab passed under a streetlight, and she saw the black glimmer of blood that darkened his silver brocade vest. “You’re hurt!”
She moved in close, and he shifted as far away from her as he could, which wasn’t very, considering the size of the cab and the size of him.
“It is nothing.” Despite his protest, he pulled the cravat from round his neck and pressed it hard to his side.
“Good God, you’re bleeding like a skinned cat.”
“Really, Miranda, you are the most colorful speaker at times.” A smile ghosted over