out of her shock, and she wrenched her hand free. “Oh, do get out!”
He laughed lightly as he sauntered by Archer, who stood like granite in the doorway. Mckinnon paused before him, and the men stared at each other for an agonizing moment, while her blood rushed like wildfire. Archer’s eyes trailed over Mckinnon, pausing at his hands as though he would like nothing better than to rip Mckinnon’s gloves from his grasp and hit the man with them. Something wild gleamed in Archer’s eyes for a moment before it was snuffed out, and his gaze returned to Mckinnon’s face. A dead calm went over the men, and she tensed, ready to push between them, saving Archer from having to act, but Mckinnon put on his hat and slipped past.
“Good evening then,” he called lightly in the hall.
The door slammed shut with a reverberating crack, and then there was silence.
“Archer.” It came from her lips in a rasp.
He looked at her for one long moment, his face devoid of emotion, his eyes blazing like stars, then he turned and quietly walked away.
Archer had disappeared as if made of ether. Facing empty rooms, Miranda headed toward the stairs when Eula’s voice stopped her.
“The Prince of Darkness is in the greenhouse.”
Miranda paused, her hand upon the newel post. Greenhouse? In all her wanderings, she’d never happened upon a greenhouse. The housekeeper saw her confusion and snorted. “Take the back stairs to the top. You’ll find it.”
“Eula,” Miranda fought a smile, “you’re helping me? I’m touched.”
“Pish.” Eula stomped off, waving Miranda away as if she were an insect. “It’s either that or have you run amok messing up my house.”
The narrow back stairs wound up four stories, the air growing more dense and heated as she ascended. At the top, a black door stood closed against her. Slowly, she turned the knob and pushed into a world of green and the warmth of summer.
Above her, the black hand of night was stayed by sheets of glass held together by a grid of white-painted iron. The greenhouse itself ran the length of the house, a cavernous jungle of languid ferns, fragrant orange and lemon trees, and clusters of velvety roses. Roses everywhere, a kaleidoscope of color.
Gaslights hissed in the quiet, reflected off the panes of glass. Humid air enveloped her in a rose-scented kiss as she moved forward, past an iron chaise and into the thick quiet. A scuff of a shoe brought her round a corner.
He stood before a marble-topped work counter, his capable hands busy filling a large pot with soil. Just under the graceful sweep of his jaw, his pulse beat visibly. That sign of life, the column of his neck working as he swallowed, sent a shiver along her skin.
The way he breathed, the singular angle of his head when he bent it—they were as familiar to her now as her own reflection. More so because she could not grow tired of watching him. Was this an immortal man who stood before her? It could not be. It was the stuff of legend. A cold shudder took her. And if by some mad reasoning it were true, he would leave her behind. Because she was most assuredly mortal.
She took a step toward him but stopped short at the sight of the potted rose on the counter. “Oh my.” Her breath caught. It was utterly lovely, so white that it was luminescent in the dim light. Silver veining laced its petals, caressing its edges. The enormous bloom stood erect and alone in its little pot. “It’s gorgeous,” she said.
Archer inclined his head slightly. “You’d think differently were you a rose. Should I pot it with the others, it would take all of their nutrients. Within hours, they would wither on the vine. Wasted to give the silver rose its strength.”
Miranda moved to touch it but a sudden wariness stayed her hand. “If it is so deadly to the others, why do you keep it?”
Braver than she, Archer reached out and gently touched the glinting silver edge of a petal. “Sentimentality, I suppose.” Something in his voice made her heart squeeze.
“Only one bloom?” Deep-green leaves sheltered the single flower like a mantle.
“It cannot produce more than one bloom at a time. New buds compete for the light and only the strongest remains.”
He said no more, but ripped open a sack of rich black soil. “What did he want?” The quietness of his query did not fool her. The trowel in his hand