Chapter 7
ALICE
His words linger, follow me back to my room and into bed, where I lie staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t said more, but he hadn’t needed to.
He’s a criminal. A desperado, like one of those dreadful novels come to life. A man who robs and fights and boasts of it. He expects me to be revolted, and perhaps I should be. Yet the danger of him only makes him more magnetic.
What’s the matter with me?
I squeeze my thighs together under the quilt, hating myself for the ache that builds there.
That man is temptation made flesh. The work of the devil, surely.
And yet, he has never said an unkind word to me.
Never raised a hand, though he’s had cause and opportunity.
Wounded, shackled, cornered—yet he hasn’t struck out.
So what if he’s robbed and brawled? Men on the right side of the law have given me more grief than any outlaw ever could.
Once the day of the Astral Society’s conference arrives, Fred guides coaches onto the lawn and unloads trunks.
Gideon and Lucas lead horses to the livery, where extra hay bales, oats, and buckets of water have been laid out.
The inn hums with order and noise—rooms scrubbed, glasses polished, cellars stocked with the Society’s favored brandy.
But I feel removed from it, my thoughts caught elsewhere.
Joseph is too busy shaking hands, clasping shoulders, and making introductions to every man of consequence within reach to dwell on his prisoner. We haven’t exchanged more than a few words since morning. Still, curiosity gnaws at me, burrows deep as a worm in an apple.
“Have you seen the humidor key?” Joseph asks suddenly, patting his waistcoat with irritation. From one pocket, he pulls a heavy iron key, a square-cut bit meant for a sturdier lock. I nearly gasp. I know that shape—the lock that chains Arch to his bed.
Joseph frowns at it, slips it back, then checks another pocket. “Ah. Here it is.” He holds up a smaller brass key with a satisfied grin. “Fetch the cigars for me, will you? The gentlemen are expecting them.”
I dip my head and hurry toward the case.
The first key. He must keep it on him. Always. If I slipped it from his pocket, what might it mean? A chance to end this insanity once and for all? Freedom for Arch, or ruin for me? Yet the image of that key lingers.
The racket of the Astral Society carries faintly through the walls, but the house itself is hushed. I slip into the room with a pitcher of water in my hands.
Arch stands beside the bed, fingertips touching the glass as he peers through the curtains. “You’re hosting quite a shindig.” He turns toward me, the sunlight catching along the lines of his features—broad shoulders, strong jaw. All of him shaped like he was built to step out of the light.
“Largest of the year,” I say. “And how are you feeling?”
“Strong,” he says, seemingly mesmerized by the activity outside.
I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “I’m glad to hear it. May I see how your wounds are healing, Mr. Archer?”
He nods slightly with a curious smirk, calloused hand rising to the top button of his shirt.
“You’re awful formal this morning.”
The comment makes me acutely aware of my own stiffness—the way I hold myself, rigid and upright, as if a single slip might betray my thoughts. Maybe it is the realization that any daydream I have entertained about Arch is just that: a fantasy. A futile mirage conjured by Satan.
Still, my hands struggle to remain steady as I help him. I loosen the bandage wrapped around his side, peel it away slowly, watching his face for any flicker of pain. He doesn’t flinch, just offers the same tenderness that makes me lose my train of thought.
I dip a clean cloth in the basin and press it gently to the wound. He breathes in sharply through his nose, but says nothing.
There’s salve in my apron pocket—phenol and lanolin.
I set the cloth aside and fish it out as I examine him.
The swelling has eased. The angry, raw edges have softened.
Dipping two fingers into the ointment, I spread it over the gash in careful, circular strokes.
It bites the back of my throat with its tang of burnt wood and medicine.
Surveying the expanse of him—broad chest, narrow hips, muscles carved like stone—I pause at the line of hair below his navel, that subtle trail disappearing beneath the low waistband of his trousers.
A path no decent woman ought to follow. And yet my thoughts slip there all the same, warmth rising in my cheeks before I force my attention elsewhere.
“I’d tip you for your fine nursing skills, but I think that husband of yours took all my money.”
A soft, surprised sound escapes my lips—too quick to stop. It catches me off guard, light and sincere in a way I hadn’t meant to reveal.
He smiles. Not his usual smirk or flash of teeth. This one comes slower, unguarded, unsettling in its softness. A hint of warmth ghosts across his features, and he holds me there with it. For a heartbeat, it feels like we’ve spoken without a word.
“You know my name ain’t William Archer,” he says softly.
“I didn’t think it was.”
He angles his face away, almost bashful, a quiet huff of a laugh escaping him. When he faces me again, his features are disarmingly earnest.
“It’s Archibald Randolph. But my friends call me Kodiak.”
“Kodiak?” I echo, glancing back up. An exhilarating shiver chases down my spine.
“Like the bear,” he says. “Big, mean bastard from up north. Biggest there is, far as I know.”
The bear.
Ursa Major.
The constellation I traced, whispering to it beneath the stars. The protector in the sky. The guardian. A wish I almost forgot I made.
And now, here he is.
Could it be real?
Could the stars truly send someone?
“Kodiak,” I say again. The name feels different now. Sacred.
“I’ll admit, I like hearing you say it better than Mr. Archer.”
I open my mouth, but the words catch. The air feels changed somehow. Dense, expectant. Like a great star straining at the edge of its life, ready to burst and scatter fire into the heavens. The way his presence narrows toward me dims the rest of the world until only this room exists.
He reaches down slowly. His fingers brush an errant lock of hair from my forehead, careful, tentative. “I don’t know what your husband’s got planned,” he says, brushing knuckles down my cheek.
I let him. I do not for a moment intend to protest, even as he lifts my chin, holding my jaw with two rough fingers and the pad of his thumb.
“But I figure the reason he’s kept me breathing this long is ’cause I’m worth more alive than dead.”
“What do you mean?”
He pauses, then his hand slides lower, settling at my waist; his palm, firm and broad, anchors me. I should shove him away. Slap his hand. But his touch is so gentle my wits are useless.
“I mean there’s a price on me. Big one. Thousand, last I heard.”
He doesn’t say it with pride, just fact. And with the ease of a man explaining something plain—practical and somehow sweet, with a touch of warmth beneath the grit—like a farmer chatting about planting season and not crimes worth hanging for.
“Ain’t just for robbin’ trains, though that’s part of it. Some folks got real upset when I stopped their freight from making it where it was supposed to go. Truth is, I’ve caused trouble for men who don’t like bein’ embarrassed. Real high-up men. Railroad men.”
His palm rests against my hip, the smallest motion of his thumb stroking lazy circles there.
“I ain’t innocent, Alice. I’ve done bad things. But this ain’t about right or wrong. It’s about makin’ a show. Somebody’s payin’ good money to see me hang.”
“Why?”
“’Cause they can. Joseph and that other son of a bitch who ambushed me, they knew that. You said this is the biggest event of the year, which means once this big shindig of yours is done and the stargazers ride home, I’ll be headed to a rope.”
My chest aches with all I cannot give. All I have are words that taste like defeat. “I don’t have the key.”
His other palm moves to my nape, warm and steady, a quiet claim. The weight of his focus roots me to the spot. “Don’t you fret, darlin’. I’ve got an idea.”
He leans close, voice a hush meant for me and no one else. “Your husband thinks he took everything. He didn’t. There’s more than what he lifted off me.” A pause, the faintest smile. “Men like him climb stairs for gold. Put that thought in his ear and he’ll come to me—alone.”
The sheer audacity makes me go still. To bait Joseph with treasure. To make him walk willingly into a trap. It’s madness—and delightfully clever. I can already see the gleam that would kindle in Joseph’s eyes. I press my lips together, heat rushing through me—not fear, but the thrill of strategy.
“And if he comes?”
His eyes fix on me, steady as stone, yet soft. “Then I’ll make sure he sees sense. He gets his gold, I get my freedom.” His thumb strokes my jaw, coaxing. “That’s all, little lamb.”
The name sweeps through me, tender and possessive at once.
He draws me in with a single, confident motion.
My front collides with his bare chest, his heat seeping through my corset.
The rosemary soap lingers, mixed with his faint masculine musk.
It’s intoxicating, and I find myself swaying closer to breathe him in.
He leans forward—slow enough I could move away, but I don’t. I cannot. His lips brush mine, a ghost of a kiss, faint as smoke, and it rushes through me like the first light of spring spilling across frozen ground. He lets out a long, slow exhale; the low growl of an animal warning others away.
When he draws back, his hand lingers at my cheek, thumb rough against my skin. I feel branded. Marked. My body betrays me, pulsing with a desperate, slick ache that makes my most secret flesh quiver.
The steady beat under his skin thrums against my hand when I touch his chest and wander upward, curling in the dark hair at his nape. It’s soft as it tangles around my fingers.