Firelight by Kristen Callihan Page B

of him.
    “What? Lord Archer?” she asked, surprised.
    “Yes.” He moved to touch his brow, but finding the mask upon his face, flung his hand down. “It is too formal. You are my wife, not an acquaintance. Husbands and wives are partners in life, are they not? The one person who will support you when all hope seems lost.” He blinked suddenly, as though he hadn’t meant to speak such things aloud, then straightened his spine. “Or so one hears.”
    Emotion clogged her throat. Partners . She’d always been alone. Something tender and precious welled up within her chest, and she fought the urge to clutch her hand to her breast to hold onto the feeling.
    “Well, in that case,” she said when she could speak again, “I suppose I had better think of something more suitable.” She worried her lip considering. She ought to call him Benjamin. But it was too intimate, too soft.
    “My lord?” she ventured, only half serious.
    “Good God, no.”
    She bit back a smile. “Husband?” She took a sip of wine.
    He grunted. “Are we to become Quakers?”
    Miranda set her glass down quickly, nearly choking. His eyes crinkled at the corners, a sure sign of him smiling. She sat back in her seat.
    “Archer, then.” Something queer went through her. A lock had been turned, as though her use of his name had unleashed something untamed inside of her. She wanted to say it again. If only to revel in the odd little thumps it elicited in her heart.
    He was quiet for a moment. “Archer sounds well upon your lips.”
    She took a hasty bite of curried lamb. Perhaps she had drunk too much wine.
    Behind him, the fire snapped, the warmth of it heating her bare arms. He must have been positively flushed sitting so close to it, but he didn’t seem so. His long frame subtly stretched back toward it, like a cat luxuriating in the heat of the sun.
    Fire: her greatest comfort and source of her deepest shame. The great log in the middle suddenly snapped in half, and the fire flared hotter for one brief instant. Immediately, he uttered a nearly soundless sigh, his stiff shoulders easing a touch. Yes, he craved the warmth of the fire. It sparked an odd feeling of kinship.
    Indeed, for the first time in memory, she felt… not comfortable, precisely—he affected her too much for her to relax into that emotion—but safe. She felt she might say anything she wished and not be ridiculed for her opinion, nor forced to justify her existence or usefulness. The sensation was a breath of clean air in the deepest of London fogs.
    “Does watching me eat entertain you?” she murmured when she felt his eyes upon her.
    “Yes. You do so with such hedonistic abandon.” His gaze went hot. “It is rather stirring. Perhaps I should bid you to forego the silverware, if only to see how you use your hands.”
    A breathless laugh escaped her. “I do believe you enjoy unsettling me.”
    Which she was loath to admit he was rather good at doing.
    The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I want to understand your mind. The best recourse is to engage your defenses.”
    The man had cheek, to be sure. Should she wither under such boldness, he’d have her under his thumb in short order. Miranda’s fork clinked against the china as she set it down. “I shall keep that tactic in mind.”
    Holding his gaze, she reached out to select a thick white section of pear. Soft flesh sank beneath her fingers, the fruit cool and wet against her lips. Archer shifted in his chair, and she took a bite. The fruit burst in her mouth, tasting of warmth and sugar. Giving a little moan of pleasure, she swallowed it down, then slowly licked her lips to catch a bit of juice that ran over.
    With the suddenness of a cat leaping upon its prey, he leaned forward and caught up her wrist. “Tread lightly, Miranda Fair.” His thumb moved lightly over her fluttering pulse, as she stared with her mouth assuredly hanging open in shock, her heart beating furiously within her breast. “You know, it’s