Firelight by Kristen Callihan Page A

man in his early twenties.
    “Have you been abroad all this time, Lord Archer?”
    He sat back, resting one arm on his chair. “I haven’t lived in England for many years. I returned briefly three years ago and then set back out to travel the world over.”
    “It sounds exhausting.”
    “At times. Though I did settle in America for a decade before I began to roam again.”
    A light came into his eyes that Miranda recognized. “You liked it there, didn’t you?”
    “I like it here better,” he said softly, and Miranda’s skin went tight and warm. They stared at each other for a slow moment before he cleared his throat and spoke in a lighter tone. “I like Americans. They do not think as we do. A man is what he makes of himself, and should he make a name for himself, the journey that brought him to his fortune is very admirable to Americans. They praise achievement, not the past. I took the idea to heart.”
    She eyed him speculatively. “You became a man of industry.”
    “Of oil and steel,” he said.
    Food forgotten, she leaned forward, almost afraid to ask, but compelled. “How fortunate were you?”
    His eyes flicked to hers. “On last accounting, I am worth fifty-two million dollars.” He gave a little laugh. “Ten years in America and I irrevocably think of money in terms of dollars. Hmm… I did not factor in my English revenue. So perhaps it is more to the effect of seventy million…” He looked at her in alarm when she made a strangled gasp. “Are you quite well?”
    “God in heaven,” she managed at last. The room spun for a moment. She pressed a palm to her heated cheek. “Yes… I’m all right.” She looked up at him. “Seventy million? I cannot begin to fathom.”
    “It is rather daunting.” He poured her some white wine before drawing away. “Though I can assure you, our wealth comes nowhere near that of some of my associates. Mr. Rockefeller and Mr. Carnegie, for example, are much more voracious in their quest for capital.”
    That he tried to downplay his achievement made her smile.
    “At any rate, I have decided to retire from my American activities.” He hesitated. “Er, that will increase our holdings a bit when I sell things off,” he said wryly.
    Her laughter felt unhinged. “A bit, eh? You might as well be Croesus.” She looked at him sharply. “ Our holdings?”
    “Of course ours . You are my wife.” He gave a little bow of his head. “What is mine is yours.” His casual stance on the chair shifted to stiffness. “You are making a face,” he remarked.
    She touched her cheek again. “Was I?”
    “The idea of us being so linked does not appeal to you?”
    Miranda shook her head to clear it. “To tell you the truth, I find the whole idea rather mercenary on my part. It hardly seems fair that I should gain access to your fortune simply for speaking a few vows in a church.” She took a sip of tart wine. “I think you got the short end of the stick in this venture.”
    He threw his head back and laughed. “I believe you are the first woman in history to think so.” He laughed again. “And you are quite wrong.”
    Their eyes met, and that spark of something hot and sharp ripped through her again. Awareness. It took a moment to realize, but that was it. She was utterly aware of him. Of the breadth of his shoulders, the deep even way he breathed, the force of his gaze. Bloody hell, but she was beset by the craving to touch him, test the strength in those shoulders.
    “Should you continue to be merely half as entertaining as you are tonight,” he said with a voice like heated cream, “then I shall have received the greater bargain in this venture, Miranda.”
    Unaccountably flushed, she set her attention to the lamb. “I think you’re cracked, but whatever you wish to believe, Lord Archer.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” His voice was still soft but there was an edge beneath it.
    She looked up to find him glaring down upon the empty place in front