of his throat worked. “I came as soon as I heard. It was too late for Mama, Claire… They were gone and buried by the time I arrived. Rachel soon after.”
Only the flutter of his lashes betrayed any movement. Miranda felt his pain in her own heart. A thought occurred to her. “You said you had four sisters, save you named only three…” She trailed off as his eyes lifted, and the anguish in them drove the breath from her body.
“Elizabeth…” It was a dry husk of an answer. “My twin.” Archer closed his eyes. “Her mind was my mind. We never needed to use words between us. I knew her thoughts as my own. Mother said we used to turn at the precise moment when sleeping in our cots, though we did not share one. She was… I could not…” He broke off with a choked sound and then stared listlessly into the distance.
“She died in my arms. At times, I feel as though I am missing a limb… something…” A shimmer of tears pooled over his eyes before he blinked them away. “Her loss was a pain not easily endured,” he said softly. “After that, the thought of death terrorized me. I dreamed of being trapped in moldering tombs with only her body to keep me company.” He glanced down at his stitched side. “I am shamed at what I’ve become. That she should have to see this horror…” He snapped his mouth shut with a wince.
Miranda moved without thinking and knelt before him to clutch his dry ungloved hand. “Don’t keep this burden to yourself. Take off the mask and let me see what troubles you so.”
He looked at her, his great body stiff. “I don’t want your pity.”
“Do you believe that is why I ask?” she whispered.
A sad smile ghosted over his lips. “No,” he said after a moment. “But I cannot. Not even for you, Miranda Fair.” The tired resolve in his voice made her heart ache.
“But why?”
His long fingers curled over her. “You look at me. Me.”
She knew now what that meant to him. No one looked at Archer. They saw only the mask. To the world, he was an effigy, not a man.
The gray depths of his eyes reflected the painful truth as he spoke with weary regret. “That would not continue should I indulge you.”
“Do you think so little of me?”
The fire snapped and crackled behind the grate. Orange light flickered over his golden skin, highlighting the fine grains of black stubble that covered his jaw and the red gash upon his lip. “It is not you who falls short of the mark; it is me. I am a coward,” he whispered thickly, then looked away, his chin set and stubborn.
“You are no coward. You are so very brave—”
“Everyone promises to stand by me—” His jaw clenched, pain flashing in his eyes. “Always in the beginning. But none of them do.” He swallowed hard, arranging his expression into dispassion with force of will. “I cannot risk it with you. Not you. None of the pretty words your sweet mouth weaves will change that so please don’t try.”
Chastised, she drew back. Though she understood him, his refusal did not hurt less. Archer lay prone, his skin gray and sweating, and she found herself wanting to fuss over him, wipe his brow, tuck him into bed. But he would not allow those things, she knew. She settled for covering him fully with the rug and adjusting the pillow under his head. He watched her sleepily through the thick fan of his black lashes. The boyish vulnerability in his unguarded look made her want to curl up alongside him.
“I should not have manhandled you the way I did.” His lashes fluttered and then lifted. “It was uncalled for.”
She sat back on her heels by the couch. The memory of his big hands upon her returned and with it a heated ache. How shocked he would be to know how close she had come to turning around and begging him to push up her skirts, to push into her. It shocked her more than she cared to admit. She tried to find her voice.
“It was not an assault, Archer.” She flushed but forced herself to look at him. “We both know that.”
His gaze warmed. “I meant before,” he said thickly. “Shoving you against the wall…”
“You were angry.”
His smile was lopsided. “I was angry,” he repeated, mocking himself. “I was terrified. And it is no excuse.” A