constantly change.”
Miranda sighed and blinked up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t believe any of this.” Scorn laced her voice, yet part of her whispered to listen well. “Why… why is someone killing these men?” She glanced at him. “Does he want the secret? Is he trying to torture it out of the victims?”
“And risk the same end as Archer?” Mckinnon frowned. “But there is another way—one that even the club considered, although it was ultimately deemed too horrific even for them.” He shifted and watched her carefully. “There are those who believe that by imbibing a man’s flesh, one absorbs the victim’s power and his soul. I didn’t say I believed it,” he protested, catching her skeptical look. “But it is an accepted practice, performed as far back as ancient Egypt. I happen to know that Archer himself translated several hieroglyphs on the subject.”
“Ridiculous.” It was a strangled gasp. “Eating flesh simply makes one a cannibal. You’re trying to frighten me. Immortality is a myth.”
“Does it matter?” Bright blue eyes held hers. “Whether or not Archer became an immortal isn’t the point. Those men believed they’d found immortality—unequivocally. Forgive me, my dear, but you have no notion how powerful an inducement belief can be for one who is desperate for a cure—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “To evade death, cure disease, whatever the motivator may be, someone out there is hacking these members up and taking their hearts—the known house of the soul. Personally, I think it is quite clear. Someone is hell-bent to gain immortality any way he can.”
He leaned forward, and his warm breath caressed the curve of her cheek. “If that is the case then he really ought to leave the rest alone and dine on Archer.”
Incensed, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. His skin was shockingly warm, as though fevered, yet he appeared in perfect health.
“Know this,” she said in harsh tones, “if anyone should find my husband”—she swallowed past a lump of nausea—“appetizing, should one hair on Archer’s head be harmed, I shall leave little more than ash of that unfortunate fellow.”
To make her point, she turned her gaze to the hearth. The densely packed coals, burning a steady orange, appeared to swell, going vermilion and then white hot before exploding within the grate.
A trickle of sweat rolled along Mckinnon’s brow, but he smiled. “How very protective of you.” He turned toward the parlor windows where the setting sun had painted the sky purple with streaks of gold. “It appears Lord Archer has returned.”
All was quiet, then the soft clips of hooves sounded on the gravel drive. Mckinnon set his eyes upon her. “Shall I stay and discuss things further?” A devilish grin pulled at his cheeks as his thumb moved to caress her wrist where they were still joined.
She released his wrist with a jerk and was composed when the front door opened. Mckinnon, however, got to his feet with practiced insolence. And as Archer strolled into the parlor, dreadfully unaware of his presence, Mckinnon made great show of straightening his clothes.
Blood drained from Miranda’s face. She knew how it must look and hated that she had put Archer in a position of vulnerability in his own home. He stopped, framed in the open doorway with his feet planted wide, his large hands curled into tight fists as his broad chest heaved.
“Ah, and the man behind the mask gives us a tantalizing peek.” Mckinnon’s smug barb cut through the silence, and she winced at the realization that Archer had left off his outer mask, a further humiliation in his eyes.
For a moment, simply seeing him again caused her heart to flip, then she noticed his expression. Rage, rage like nothing she’d ever seen colored his flesh, made his eyes blaze. The tip of his nose and lips stood out bone white.
“Archer…” She trailed off as his eyes flicked to her. And the rage yielded to such unmitigated hurt that her heart squeezed tight.
“Get out.”
His words were a knife in her heart. But his eyes looked past her.
“Get out of my house,” he said again to Mckinnon.
Mckinnon gathered his gloves and top hat from the side table. “I shall take my leave here.” His eyes took on a sudden twinkle, making Miranda wonder if irritating Archer had been Mckinnon’s true purpose all along.
Mckinnon caught her hand before she could move. The weight of Archer’s eyes bore into her as the devil leaned over her hand and kissed it. It snapped her