Ember: A prequel to Firelight, Page 2

  Miranda looked up at Alice at last. “I can’t. I haven’t the money.” It all went to Father. She couldn’t fault him for taking it, not after what she’d done. She stifled a familiar shudder.

  The older woman snorted, the action lifting a lock of steel-colored hair from her worn brow. “Take it, and pay me at week’s end. Surely yer father will give you some blunt then.”

  Miranda’s fingers curled around the heated mug to keep from reaching. “I’m saving what I can. For a dress,” she added without thinking. She should be saving for practical things, yet she needed this one luxury. She didn’t understand the compulsion, but it was strong. Just one thing of beauty for herself. Just once.

  Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh-ho? A wedding dress, perhaps? Your beau finally come up to snuff, has he?”

  How irritating that at the age of twenty, Miranda could still be subject to blushes. Alice laughed and edged the muffin closer. “I’m thinking Hector doesn’t know.”

  “No. I’ll not tell him until…” Truth be told, she’d rather not tell her father until she walked out the door. She did not want to hear how she ruined his life, lost his fortune. Miranda took a bracing sip of coffee before speaking. “If you wouldn’t mind…” Miranda shouldn’t have opened her mouth. The thought of her father finding out about her engagement made her ill.

  “Say no more.” A toothy smile, gray and shiny, flashed. “Now, take the muffin, will you? Consider it a present.”

  “A present, you say?” came a lighthearted masculine voice. A warm hand snaked around Miranda’s waist and gave a squeeze, while another hand reached over her shoulder and caught up the muffin.

  Miranda smiled as she turned in time to see Martin Evans take a bite out of her muffin.

  “A present for me.” She took back her muffin. “Get your own.”

  His grin was wide as he chewed. “From what I heard, it was an engagement present, which would imply that the gift was for both the intended bride and the groom.”

  “Very logical deduction.” She ate the rest of the muffin before he could take it back. In some ways, Martin still treated her like the girl he had played pirates with before her mistake had nearly gotten them killed and ruined everything.

  In other ways, well, she wouldn’t think about those other ways in front of Alice the coffeemonger.

  Martin’s golden-brown eyes twinkled. “Come along then,” he tossed Alice a copper, “let me take my best girl for a walk.”

  Miranda thanked Alice, then took his proffered arm. “Lud, you make me sound like a dog.”

  “A very beautiful dog,” he said solemnly before chuckling. His gold curls moved when he laughed as if the whole of him were caught up in the act.

  Happiness and light filled her heart when walking along with him. She had pockets to fleece, a dress to make a down payment on, and a supper to scour up for her father, but this little bit of joy would be hers first.

  “Haven’t you a job to do?” she teased.

  Martin had acquired a coveted position as a clerk at one of the shipping companies that operated out of the vast warehouses, much like the one her father had once owned.

  “My supervisor gave me the first Saturday of every month off as a bonus for my diligence.”

  He did not know of her job, if one could call thievery a job. Martin’s father had been one of her father’s major investors. Martin’s family had lost everything as well that night, but he had never blamed her. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to face his disappointment. They had all fallen from grace, but she couldn’t let him see how far she’d gone.

  “Now, no more questions.” He tweaked her nose, and his eyes went smoky topaz. “We’ve only got the hour.”

  Heat washed over her cheeks and down her neck. She knew she’d soon find herself in the far reaches of Hyde Park, nestled under the thick shrubs as Martin whispered love words in her ear. Someday, she thought as he hurried her toward the park, there would be a bed. Someday they would be able to slow down and really enjoy lovemaking.

  Someday soon they would be married, and it wouldn’t be furtive fumbling in clandestine places. She looked forward to that day. Perhaps then she wouldn’t be plagued with dreams of a strange man she’d only met once.

  Egypt, March 1,1879

  As thieves went, Basim was not particularly large or menacing. In fact, he had the open, pleasing expression of a Byzantine saint. Even his eyes held little guile. A nice trick, Archer mused, and one that had most likely led many a man to his death. Those large brown eyes were on Archer now, holding an expression of open friendship as he recounted what he knew of Daoud’s death. Indeed, those eyes were at present trying to lull Archer into believing the man only wanted to help Archer, that he had no real hand in foul play this time.

  Archer knew better.

  “What did you find upon the body?” he asked.

  Basim’s expression did not change. “A billfold, a hundred pounds English currency within. Gold pocket watch, English made.” His nose wrinkled a bit as if to project his disapproval of a Muslim man dressing up in English kit.

  Daoud had been half-Egyptian, half-English. It was a life always lived on the outskirts, and one Daoud had struggled to find his place in. Sadness clenched Archer’s chest for a moment. His friend had finally seemed content with his lot in life, only to be murdered soon after.

  “Go on,” he said.

  Basim blinked up at him. “Go on, effendi? But that is all.”

  The corners of his eyes tightened a fraction. It was all Archer needed to see.

  Archer leaned in, using his considerable height and bulk to intimidate. “Before, I might have played this game with you. But I am tired, and I will have my answers now.” At his confession, the thieves surrounding him perked up, as if his stating a weakness would give them an advantage. He laughed, low and deep.

  Basim’s spine straightened at the sound. Behind him,

  Amar’s eyes narrowed.

  “You have no idea with what you play.” Archer’s hand moved up to the kafiyah wound around his head. He let the cloth slip to reveal his face.

  All the color leached out of the men’s faces. Archer lashed out, grabbing Basim by the collar of his gallibaya and yanking him close.

  “Ifrit, ifrit,” babbled Basim in helpless horror as his cohorts ran off screaming.

  Archer grinned. “Call me that, if it pleases you.” He didn’t mind being thought of as a demon. It wasn’t far from the truth. “But you will tell me all. I know it was you, Basim Awad, who killed my man. “Who was it that sent you to do this deed? Tell me. Or shall I tear out your heart and show you its color?” Basim convulsed. “Shall I eat your soul for my dinner?” Even as Archer said the words, he turned ice cold, his insides quaking, for part of him whispered that he should. Archer gave Basim a brutal shake, the rage and helplessness building inside him until he feared he might tear the man’s head off.

  Basim gagged before he found his voice. “I do not know who, effendi. Only that he was English. He stayed in shadows and paid us well. Gold coin. Strange coins.”

  Archer’s teeth ground. “What coins?” But he knew the answer, and the pit of his stomach grew heavy.

  “Coins with the face of the moon upon them,” Basim said in a rush.

  Archer’s will deflated. He tossed the man away, turning his back on him as the thief scrambled off into the night.

  West Moon Club. It always went back to that, didn’t it? Try as he might to forget the mistakes he had made there, someone wouldn’t let him.

  Yes, Egypt had been a colossal waste of time. Now what?

  London, March 1,1879

  Twigs dug into her back, a leaf scratched at her cheek, and the queer clenching feeling within her belly slipped away. It was a feeling that always came when she and Martin were together yet it never seemed to quite rise to the height she wanted. Something within her whispered that one day that feeling would overwhelm her, and she would shatter from the force of it. And love every moment.

&nb
sp; Martin eased off her and rolled onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

  Putting himself to rights, Martin watched her with a soft smile. “I cannot wait until we are married.”

  They had only just started doing this. For the longest time, they were merely friends. Then one Sunday, not so long ago, while walking along in Hyde Park, Martin had pulled her close and kissed her. It had stunned Miranda. Indeed, for one awful moment, it had felt wrong, as though she were kissing her brother, but his lips moved over hers, insistent and needy, and it became lovely and sweet.

  Kissing grew into something of an obsession with Martin, and he sought to do so often. But on the night he’d asked her to marry him, they’d gone beyond kissing. After all, he’d murmured as he inched up her skirts, they’d be together always. It had hurt that first time and felt awkward, not at all something she wanted to repeat, but the act had gotten better. Now she was as eager as he to see how good it could get.

  Miranda turned on her side and touched one of the curls at his temple. “It would be nice to do this in a bed, and without clothing.”

  Martin grinned, his blond brows wiggling. “Mmm… What do you imagine occupies my thoughts every night?”

  They laughed together, but Miranda’s laughter felt forced. She would not think about— who—occupied her nightly thoughts. It felt like a betrayal.

  “I’m serious, Martin.” She ran her fingers through his curls again. “I cannot wait until we are together as man and wife. You are my truest, dearest friend. You are like home to me. And… well, I want to make you a home you’ll be proud of.” To hold her head up high, to know with absolute certainty what her place was within world, could there be anything better?

  “Of course I’ll be proud.” Martin kissed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured. The rough tips of his fingers traced the spot he kissed as though he’d laid claim there.

  “Like a china doll.” He kissed her mouth, then sighed. “I’m going to make something of myself, Pan. Then I’ll buy you lovely dresses and show you off to the whole world.”

  Something inside her knotted. “I don’t need that. I just need you. Laughing with me like always.”

  “But you do. You’re more beautiful than any of the flash women promenading here.” His curls bounced as he tossed his head in the direction of the fine ladies and gentlemen strolling far off in the distance. The angry look in his eyes eased. “You know you are.”

  “What does that matter?” she asked. “My face has never gotten me anywhere but into trouble.”

  He smiled. “One day it will get us the world. With your beauty, and my brains, there is nothing we can’t do.”

  “And if I lost my looks? If this all fades? What then?” She said it lightly, but a sudden feeling of fear made her breathless.

  “My beautiful rose.” He touched her face again. Really, he had the most extraordinary ability to block out her end of the conversation when he got on a tear. “I don’t know why you won’t let me call you Rose.”

  “You know why.” Her insides twisted harder. “I don’t like it. And it isn’t even my name.”

  “It’s part of your name!” He leaned in. “Rose.”

  “Don’t, Martin.”

  She looked away and blinked up into the patchwork of sky and evergreen needles overhead. Nearly two decades of distance could not dim the pain of her grandmother’s long-ago words.

  “We cannot continue to call her Rose,” Grandmother said. She had come to town after Mother's funeral, wanting to see for herself what had become of her stepdaughter's children. Miranda's mother had never liked the woman.

  Miranda did not like her either.

  “Why not?” Father asked in genuine confusion.

  Miranda squirmed in her hiding place behind the Chinese silk screen in the drawing room.

  “Have you paid no notice to the child?” she retorted irritably.

  “Of course I have, Lillian. Only eight and she is a beauty. I’ve never seen her equal.” He laughed lightly, nervously. Grandmother always made Father nervous.

  “I fear beauty is all she has. She does not possess Poppy’s common sense or Daisy’s gift for conversation. She’s odd enough as it is, what with…” Grandmother sucked in a breath.

  Father made some noise of protest, while a black ink pagoda wavered before Miranda’s eyes.

  “Enough discussion, Hector. I’ve set my mind to this. We shall call her Miranda. It is her true name after all. Remember, Hector, vanity is a sin. Miranda’s sins are great enough as it is.”

  Miranda pressed her lips together and firmly shut out the memory. “Just do not call me that.” She ought to tell him why, but could not make her lips form the words.

  Martin scowled but got to his feet easily enough. “Sometimes, I don’t understand you.” He held out a hand. “Have you any other orders for the day or may we go?”

  She’d hurt his feelings. It seemed she was quite adept at hurting feelings. Miranda let him help her up. “No more orders,” she said softly, then kissed his cheek. “Just that.”

  His expression turned warm. “Well ’that’ is very nice indeed.”

  Chapter 3

  Central Mexico, March 15, 1881

  He was a shadow of himself now. Searching, searching, always searching. For a cure. Archer squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the view of yet another desert. The urgency within him had not diminished, but had strengthened until it held his muscles in a tight bond. He craved to run, punch, slash, anything if only it would ease this need. But there was nothing. Nothing except to keep going.

  So he was here, in a strange desert in Mexico, following yet another well -paid guide and a band of indigenous Indians in search of their holy land. His new guide, Michael Smith, was a conundrum. Unlike his other guides, Smith did not seem to have any agenda other than living from day to day. Hell, Archer might have paid the man half the amount, and Smith would probably have taken the job anyway. When Archer had first approached him, Smith was lounging in a seedy cantina, nursing his way through a bottle of tequila and playing chess with a Mexican Indian.

  Warm air had drifted through the outdoor bar, bringing the scent of fried cornmeal and roasted chilies to Archer’s nose. The hum of cicadas mingled with the melancholy song of a lone guitar. As Archer had approached Smith’s table, the guitarist began to sing, as mournful and warbling as the desert coyotes that haunted the area.

  The bar was nearly deserted. The only occupants other than Smith and his companion were the rotund barkeep lazing against the bar and a Mexican eating soup at a nearby table.

  Both men looked up and kept looking as Archer passed. Perhaps it was their surprise, more than Archer himself, that had Smith lifting his head as Archer approached. Archer got the impression that Smith, while aware of his surroundings, didn’t give anything much regard unless he wanted to.

  Smith eyed him not with terror or shock, but with a sort of thoughtful fascination.

  “Good evening,” Archer said as he stopped before him. “You are Michael Smith, are you not?”

  The American was said to have lived in Mexico since President Andrew Johnson had sent troops in to aid the Mexicans during the Franco-Mexican war back in ’65.

  Smith, then a sergeant, had done his duty, then promptly deserted.

  Smith’s thin mouth kicked up at one corner. “So my beloved mama tells me.”

  Archer glanced at the man who’d been playing chess with Smith but now stared at Archer with unblinking eyes of black. Archer looked back to Smith. “Might I have a word with you?”

  Smith gave a nod to his companion, and the man slipped off. Archer took the man’s seat as Smith leaned back in his creaking chair to appraise Archer.

  He moved with the languor of an old man, yet appeared fit and trim. Pale yellow light from a swaying oil lamp overhead painted the man’s dun-brown hair a greenish color. “That’s quite a costume you got there, friend.”

  Archer had tried to dress to fit in, donning shapeless togs of cambr
ic and cotton just as Smith wore. But fitting in was an impossibility when one must always hide one’s face.

  He’d made do with wrapping his face in linen bandages and pulling a worn, wide-brimmed hat down low on his head. His hands he’d kept hidden beneath thin leather gloves. At least it was dry and cool here, not like the humid hell of the Brazilian jungle. Archer would rather not remember that trip.

  There were places of fear, and there were places of nightmares. The Amazonian jungle was the latter.

  “Believe me,” Archer said, “it is better I wear this than show what hides beneath.”

  Smith’s expression remained impassive. “What can I do you for?”

  Archer resisted the urge to curl his fingers tight. “I’ve heard you can facilitate a meeting with the Huichol.”

  Smith made a sound of amusement as he poured himself a glass of tequila. An empty, used glass sat before Archer, and Smith filled that, too. “What do you want with them?” Smith asked.

  “I have heard they possess great magic.” He felt foolish even speaking the words, but desperation had a way of slashing pride to pieces. “Great enough to perform the impossible.”

  Seconds ticked by. The rise and fall of song and the braying of a passing donkey filled the silence as Smith stared at Archer with an impassive expression. Archer

  stared back, not flinching. Finally, Smith waved his hand, the smallest of motions, but a cut nonetheless.

  “Can’t help you. You’ve been misinformed. Go back to England.”

  “I’ll find another guide.”

  “Who will get you nowhere.” Smith took a hearty swallow of his drink. “Even if the Huichol could help you, they won’t. Not some gringo outsider.”

  “Perhaps they might consider my plight a challenge?”

  “Doubt it, my friend.” Smith rubbed a palm over his night beard, the rasp audible. “What you got? Leprosy? The pox?”

  It was Archer’s turn to laugh. “If only.”

  Archer looked at the greasy glass before him for a moment, then grabbed it and downed the contents in one gulp. Viscous fire slid down his throat and spread in his belly. He kept his gaze on Smith but he knew the exits, knew how much time was needed to escape should Smith attack.