shook under his tight grip as he filled the bottom of a larger pot with soil. A soft snort came from his lips. “Never mind. I know.”
The trowel hit the counter with a clang, and she flinched, the stays at her waist cinching tight as she waited for the imminent explosion.
It did not come. He simply stared down at the scattered soil as though trying to make sense of the mess. And a queer feeling tilted her insides, watching him retreat instead of turning to fight. Shame washed over her. Mckinnon and his blasted horror stories. She was no better than a calf-eyed fool for listening to him. Perhaps the club sought immortality. Perhaps not. But Archer was her husband. The man who protected her with his life. He did not deserve wild speculations.
“He told me about—”
“West Moon Club?” Archer’s mouth curled in a bitter smile when she started in surprise. “You have my coin. You are a busybody of the first order. It doesn’t take a mystic to know that you’d have discovered all you could about West Moon Club.” He stabbed at a pile of soil with his trowel. “You might have asked me, instead of him.”
She drew herself up. “And you are cagey and evasive at best. Am I now to believe you would have answered?”
A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Ask me now and see.”
Heart in her throat, she forced herself to speak. “Mckinnon believes you were looking for the secret to immortality.” It sounded ridiculous to her ears, yet he did not start in surprise. Instead, he merely glanced down at the soil, unseeing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, detached. “Immortality was not the goal, though I suppose by prolonging life, one is evading death.” Carefully, he lifted the exposed ball of soil that held the rose and settled it into its new pot. “This rose you see here is our most successful endeavor.”
Miranda blinked at the silver rose trembling delicately as Archer filled soil around its roots. “You expect me to believe these murders are about a rose?”
“No.” A wry smile touched his mouth. “However, knowing you will march headlong into danger, do you expect me to tell you whom I think responsible?”
A breath of frustration left her. “Thus you force me to seek answers elsewhere.”
Archer tensed but would not face her. “You already have, though, haven’t you?” A clump of soil flew into the pot with a thud. “I hope your time with Mckinnon was worth the knowledge gained. The question is, what did you exchange for his stories?” The trowel scraped over the counter, hacking through the pile of soil. “I know that dog well enough to understand he would not give away anything for free.”
“It appears you know both of us quite well,” she said without thinking.
The trowel clattered to the slate floor. Archer took a bracing breath, then clenched the sides of the counter. “I’ve work to do, Miranda. Please go.”
Slowly she went to him, conscious of her feet on the floor and the hammering of her heart. He did not move nor turn as she came up behind him, close enough to feel the tense energy that surrounded him. “You’ve no reason to be jealous.”
His head remained bent over the pot. “Is that what I am?”
Her breath hitched, but she could not move away. She knew the feel of his body now. The hardness and the power it held when he’d pressed up against her in the alleyway. And she craved it. Her head fell forward, coming just short of touching the space between his shoulder blades. She stared at the black suitcoat before her and the gentle rise and fall of his back.
“His endeavor failed.” Her pulse tattooed against her throat in a painful staccato.
He stirred, a tiny shift of movement away from her. “Not for lack of trying.”
“No.” She took a breath. “But as a woman, I thought it easier—quicker—to let him ask…” The be-gloved hand upon the table curled into a tight fist, and she spoke firmly. “Then send him on his way.”
He grunted with indifference. Her hand hovered at his shoulder, the need to touch him warring with caution. He tensed as though preparing to shrug off her touch, and her hand fell to her side. She closed her eyes and shifted forward so that they were closer still. Just to be near him. They stood in silence, breathing the same rhythm, slow and deep and steady. The heat of his body mingled