Meredith had to bite her lips to keep from screaming. They were well-chosen words, but they could mean nothing to her, could not be allowed to penetrate the scar tissue around her heart. She had felt his caress even in the angry grip that still burned on her arm. “There is no possible way I can begin to answer your question. It is a rare thing to be able to tell the truth about the past.” She shook her head. “How long do you propose we stay here? On
The Brigand
? Until I change my mind, perhaps? And begin to believe and trust you?” As though the enforced proximity could make any difference.
“You came with me willingly.” His features tightened. “You wished a confrontation, or so you said, and now you have it.”
He spoke the truth about suspicions she could not easily lay to rest. “Very well,” she said, hating the fleeting satisfaction that shot through her, almost as much as she loathed her instinct to follow his lead. “Let me put this as clearly as I can, sir. As I have already stated several times since I have met you, my life has recently been a series of mishaps.” The images roiled in her mind. “First Rashid, then Rotten Rowâ”
He leaned over the table toward her. “Rotten Row?”
She had no choice but to answer him. “A rider whom I encountered when I was alone. It was probably nothing, but nonetheless disturbing in my present state of mind.”
His voice was deadly quiet. “And you suspect me. That I am somehow behind all these encounters, including last night outside Burlington House.”
The challenge tumbled from her lips. “Tell me that it doesn't make a strange kind of sense.”
“Whatever reason would I have to hurt you?”
“I don't know. That's the problem.” It was difficult to trust. The old wounds beneath the fine cambric of her sleeves ached.
He bit out, “You should have told me, Meredith. About Rotten Row.”
She had to lower her eyes when his burned hotter than the sconces surrounding them. “Whyever should I come to you with anything, Archer? When there is nothing between us, no past, no present and no future. And most of all, when you have yet to answer any of my questions honestly.”
“I have done so, repeatedly.”
“Hardly to my satisfaction.”
“You still don't believe that I care for you. Aside from my connection with Rushford.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “That is a ludicrous claim and you well know it. We barely know one another and we couldn't be more different in temperament or interests. Further, I am hardly of an age ...”
Archer loomed forward in his seat, forcing Meredith deeper into hers. “You are disingenuous in the extreme, as you well know. I am a man, hardly immune to your charms, much though you would like to deny them.”
She waved away his statements, turning her eyes towards the glowing brazier.
He continued unabated. “Even you cannot deny that there is something between us. Your head won't let you believe it, but your body tells a different story.”
Damn him. “I don't have to listen to this.” She gripped the edge of the table. “I wish to return to London.”
“Yes, I believe you would, because you seem intent on inviting disaster. You can only tempt fate for so long, Meredith, before it catches up with you. And yet you wish that I set aside every thought of protecting you.”
She closed her eyes against his words. “For the last time, I don't require protection, least of all from you.” Who was she running from? Faron? Archer? From herself? She didn't know anymore.
“Don't fear me, Meredith,” he said. “I'm the only safe haven you have at the moment.” His words sounded more like a threat, a last warning. He drained what remained of his wine. His large hand dwarfed the crystal, seeming to make a conscious effort not to crush it in his long fingers.
She thrust her chin up at him. “We are getting nowhere with this conversation. I don't believe your protestations of affection, which places us at an impasse.”
Archer set the crystal on the table, presenting her with his strong profile. “I may have something that could help us with this impasse, much as I regret having to use it.” He turned and stared at her with such intensity that she again sat back in her chair. Just as she'd feared, he had somehow maneuvered her into a corner.
“So you have threatened repeatedly. It causes one to wonder why you are so reluctant to produce whatever evidence you have that you feel certain will change my mind.”
He arched a brow. “I've little doubt that it will produce the desired effect.”
“Which is what precisely?” she asked.
He paused for an imperceptible moment. “Convincing you that Faron is somehow behind the attacks on your person.” His voice was smooth, yet something simmered there, just beneath the surface. Something that sent a chill through Meredith.
Faron was dead. “I have nothing to say on that topic.”
His eyes glittered. “Perhaps not at this moment.”
Meredith's blood pounded. “Do not play with me, Archer.”
“This is far from a game.”
The breath became trapped in her chest. Beneath her booted feet the floor of
The Brigand
seemed to tilt again, despite the fact that they were in port.
Archer withdrew a small bundle of red silk from the inside of his jacket and placed it on the table between them.
For a moment, it appeared like a glistening stain of blood. “What is this?” Meredith clutched a hand to her abdomen, unable to bear the impenetrable look on Archer's face.
“I did not wish to hurt you. Believe me, Meredith.”
“Believe you?” she breathed, wishing to back away from the table and the blot of crimson amidst the discarded dishes.
“This might be the only way of convincing you that you are in danger. And not from me.” The ship groaned and a piece of coal fell with a hiss in the hearth. With efficient movements, Archer unfolded the silk.
She had never thought to see it again. Copper, with mother-of-pearl inlay, and so innocent, it was the kaleidoscope from the nursery at Claire de Lune.
She nearly tipped her chair, rising abruptly. Tears stung hot at the backs of her eyes, and she gritted her teeth against them. In an instant, Archer was by her side, holding her so close that their chests pressed together with each breath they drew. Memories roared through her mind, a storm of images. Visions of Faron taking her in his arms, of Julia settling Rowena on their beloved rocking horse in the nursery, the fire devouring everything she held dear.
“Where did you get this?” she said into Archer's shoulder, unable to look away from the table.
“I wish none of this had been necessary,” he said his eyes pinning hers.
She looked up at him, disbelieving. “I never took you for a cruel man.” She choked on the bitterness that coated her tongue. His hands fell from her as if he'd been burned. She drew a step back beneath his regard, but perversely wished to feel the strength of his arms around her again.
He said with deceptive softness, “There was nothing else I could do. To convince you.”
Meredith could hardly still the trembling in her hands, a nauseating combination of rage and fear burning in her chest. “Again,” she said hoarsely, “you are denying me answers. For once tell me where you found ...” She could not complete the sentence, gesturing at the table. The glowing embers of the brazier forced her to close her eyes. She so feared stirring the coals in her heart, searching for that clear spark of hatred and vengeful determination that she knew was there. For Faron, the two-headed Janus.
Odi et amo.
I love and I hate.
Fleetingly, she saw Faron's face, his passionate black eyes, his wide, humorous mouth, his hair the color of a raven's wings. And for an instant her skin remembered the feel of his hands on her body, the assured touch of a first love who had known the deepest recesses of her soul. Pain washed through her as harsh as a knife's blade, robbing her of her breath.
She was back in Archer's arms. “What is it?” he whispered into her hair. “Tell me.”
She shook her head with effort, her eyes clouded. One hand came up to his chest to clutch at his waistcoat. Her fingertips hooked over the edge of the fine linen of his shirt with desperation. She struggled to form a sentence. “Please tell me where you got this.”
He pulled her closer still. “The Arab. At Rashid,” he said.
Meredith groaned, the sensation of her pistol back in her hand, the memory of raising it and releasing the hammer. She tilted her face up to his. “Where could they possibly have found it? From whom did they get it?” The question was laughable and she knew it before it was out of her mouth. She wondered whether Archer felt her pain in his own body, transmitted through the skin that burned beneath his hands.
“Dear God,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Will it never be over? I thought it was over... .” She repeated the words like a litany. The smoke enveloping the nursery, the rocking horse, the kaleidoscope, the crackling of the flames overtaking Julia's plaintive cries.
And even now, almost two decades later, she could still not reconcile the fact that the fire had been set by Faron, the man she had thought she loved. “Sometimes,” she whispered into Archer's shirt, the words echoing in her mind, “I think his scent still lingers on my own skin, his taste on my tongue, his laughter ringing in my ears.” And she needed to make him go away, drive him from her blood like a disease that had been held at bay only to come rushing back with full force. She slid her arms around Archer's neck.
He stiffened, suddenly stone beneath her hands. Nonetheless, his hands moved slowly down her body, soothingly, comfortingly, until they gripped her hips. Desire began as a low pulse, rising steadily, the urge to press her lips to his was overwhelming. She was taken by a sudden desperate need to feel his stroking tongue filling her mouth. He looked down at her and she was captured again by the blue of his eyes.
“Just this once,” she said. “Just this one night.” To make it all go away. She needed to be all body and no mind: she wanted the purity of physical desire and no painful memories threatening to pull her over the edge.
Archer pulled her closer to the hardness between his legs, impatient now. “I'm hardly flattered,” he said, his voice low. “You do know that you're not doing this for the right reasons.”
She stiffened slightly. “Are you turning me away?” Her eyes shuttered and she put one hand up to his chest and pushed him back a fraction of an inch.
“I didn't say that,” he said, pressing close again, his hardness riding against her abdomen, clear proof of his inclination. His gaze was searing and she wondered what it would take to appease his pride. “Don't pretend that you don't know what it is you do to me.”
“Do to you?” Her eyes flashed.
“I know exactly what you're doing. And I should feel offended.” He cupped her jaw, ran his thumb along her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin. He dropped an openmouthed kiss on the skin just below her ear. “You are using me, Lady Woolcott.”
She shivered when he bit her softly on the neck, teeth grazing flesh. It was true. And there was little she could do about it. “Forgive me,” she said weakly, breath shuddering out of her, along with the memories. All was blotted out save for the hard muscles under her hands and the skylit blue of Archer's eyes burning into hers. He brushed her chin with his before tonguing her earlobe and then moving on to her mouth. “I need this,” she breathed against his lips.
Archer just smiled and kissed her lightly, knowing she had nothing more to offer than her desperation, first proffered not so long ago under a desert sky and on the hard ground in Rashid. “My pride smarts, madam. So I surely can ask for a fair trade.” He pulled back slightly, just enough for the cooler air of the room to rush between them and rob her of his warmth. “Remain with me here for twenty-four hours,” he said brusquely.
Her hand locked on to his lapel. “That is patently unfair to ask.” She was desperate with need, and she wanted to drown in the blue of his eyes. There was something in the depths that she couldn't read, something of an intensity at odds with the lightness of his tone that sent renewed chills over her skin. But it was simple passion that she wanted, anything to override the legacy of memories that threatened to engulf her.
“Fair or not fair. It's what I demand,” he replied with a challenging glint in his eyes. He pushed her farther away from the table toward the brazier that lent a dull glow to the room. A single candle burned on a gleaming shelf. He put one hand out to her, beckoning, and pulled her toward the alcove hidden in the shadows. His eyes never left hers, confident of her response.
The bed was mounded with pillows and a fur rug. The room suddenly seemed too still, too quiet. Wrenching her gaze from his, she began removing her pelisse, still fully clothed, and watching him. In their movement, her skirt had ridden up, revealing her stockinged calves, and outlining a slender thigh that glowed in the dim light. She had not worn stays, but even her camisole felt suddenly too tight beneath the high-necked lace of her shirtwaist.