Archer had been born into the ranks of the first sort of man, but he had been raised by the second. Brandt’s father, Montgomery Pierce, the former stable master at Worthington Abbey, had been more of a father to Archer than the Duke of Bradburne had been. It was Montgomery who taught him that though he was noble-born, true nobility came from one’s deeds. It was a lesson Archer never forgot, and one that fed his distaste for such privileged men, including his own sire, who lived lives of wanton excess while others at their doorsteps died from hunger and disease. They disgusted him.
As he threaded his way through the forests now, the morning sun not yet having crested the tops of the elms and firs, he was glad to be alone. Brandt had noticed Archer’s distraction the last couple of mornings they’d spent tracking together, and though he hadn’t yet said a word, Archer knew him well enough to anticipate that he’d have his questions ready today. He could lie to most anyone, but not to Brandt, and he wasn’t prepared to tell his oldest friend about the two things that had been weighing on his mind since the ball. First, the anonymous note declaring his secret was known. And second, the utterly irrational and idiotic thing he’d done for Lady Briannon Findlay.
For the first, Brandt would likely call for a cessation of any future raids. Excessively practical, he would insist they hunker down and wait for things to blow over. Something Archer was not in the least disposed to do. And for the second, he would have accused Archer of feeling guilty for the raid on Dinsmore’s carriage. Guilt, however, had nothing to do with the ruby and diamond necklace Archer had sent to Ferndale the afternoon before. He did not regret the robbery, nor the spirited exchanges he’d shared with Briannon both during the robbery and at the ball. He did regret insulting her dress and causing her to run off, cheeks burning with humiliation, though neither of those were the reason he’d sent her the rubies.
He sent her the rubies because he was a complete fool.
And because he hadn’t spent a single moment since the night of the ball without the memory of her slim neck in the forefront of his mind. Of the warmth of her skin when he’d removed the old-fashioned pearls, her bright, clean linen scent, and the barely contained fire smoldering in her direct glare.
A smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he stepped carefully through the shadowed brush, his bow at the ready, so as not to startle any concealed creatures. He wished he’d been able to see her expression when she opened the box. He grinned into the woods, imagining her perfectly bowed lips parting in soft surprise, furious color rising to her cheeks and ear tips. Archer would have wagered good English coin that she’d even stomped her foot in frustration.
As planned, Brandt had directed his cousin to take the booty from the raid on Dinsmore’s carriage up to Scotland’s borderlands the day after the house party guests had quit Worthington Abbey. Before departing, Archer had given Brandt another pouch of silver—his own money, not plundered, and set aside for much needed repairs to the pump house. Repairs that would now have to wait. He’d told Brandt to find a ruby necklace fit for a duchess instead. Brandt had pressed one of his dark brows in response but had only nodded at this extra duty.
Archer crouched and ran his gloved fingers over the muddy swath of bark on a sapling elm. Still wet. The boar had come through here, rubbing against the bark, not long ago. Tracking he enjoyed. Taking down the targeted prey, not so much.
He stood up and shouldered the bow once again. An indistinct rustling jerked his attention in the direction from whence he’d come, and Archer ducked behind a tree. His prey was close. He slid the bow off his arm in a precise, carefully honed movement. He nocked an arrow to the string, pulling it back so that the feathers brushed his cheek, and rounded the tree.
There it was, all five hundred pounds of it, and not a stone’s throw from the stream. Archer braced his body against the tree, hunching so he could get a better shot. His thumb twitched on the shaft and released—just as a loud yell cut through the early morning air, startling both him and the beast. The arrow thumped into the wet earth as the beast took off charging into the dense underbrush and toward the sound of the shout. He frowned. Normally, wild animals would run away from potential threats. It had to be defending something. Its young, perhaps.
“Damnation.” Archer took off at a fast run. Whoever had screamed would be in danger. The shout had sounded like it had come from near the river. Leaping over some boulders, he skidded through the mud as the icy rushing water came into view. There was no sign of the beast, but he could see someone in the distance, a young boy it appeared, floundering up the steep banking of the rushing river.
“Boy!” he shouted, but the sound of the water took his voice downstream. He swung around as a crashing noise in the woods surrounding him, and the short grunt of a creature that wasn’t too far off. His eyes caught movement through the dense trees. The beast was close, too close. If the boar felt threatened, it would attack, and that young boy wouldn’t have a chance in hell of escaping. Archer was too far away, and he couldn’t quite tell if the boar was closer to him or the boy.
He’d take his chances. He scrambled down to the bank in case the boar decided to charge, and Archer had to make a hasty leap into the frigid water. He then started to make his way quickly upstream. As he drew closer to the boy, who was still struggling up the sloped banking, he could hear him shouting a slew of colorful curses that would have made any bawdy sailor proud.
Archer squinted, the rising sun nearly blinding him. The boy slipped, and his hair came loose of its cap. It tumbled in long, sun-scorched tresses down his back, and it was at that moment Archer realized it wasn’t a boy at all. His breath wadded up in his throat. It was the earlier object of this thoughts…Lady Briannon herself, climbing the side of the gulch. And wearing men’s breeches! He ignored his immediate and visceral response at the shape of her slim thighs in the form-fitting attire, and focused on his brewing anger instead.
What the devil was she thinking?
He bit back a shout, his cooling anger turning to worry at the sight of the raging boar twenty paces ahead of him. It stood at the top of the embankment, directly in her path. She could not see it, not with her chin tucked, and her eyes pinned to the earth at her feet as she continued to climb. Archer nocked another arrow, but with the curve of the river and the interspersed trees and shrubbery, he didn’t have a clear shot. He started running and shouting, trying to draw the boar’s attention and gesticulating madly for her to stay down.
“Lady Briannon! Stop!”
Briannon’s face turned up to see him. Her eyes went round with recognition and then shock, and she started scrambling hard up the gulch as if he posed a greater threat than the wild animal still out of her view.
Archer ran harder, his heels kicking up clumps of dirt, his boots and clothes soaked from the mist of the river. His ankle twisted as a protruding root nearly made him fall headfirst into the reeds. Righting himself, he ignored the sharp pain and kept her in his sights. He didn’t miss the terrified look she threw him over her shoulder. She was running straight into the creature’s path, but if she would only stop. Only listen. Archer wanted to throttle her almost as much as he wanted to shield her.
Time slowed and came to a standstill as Briannon finished her climb and came face to face with a crazed mother boar defending, Archer could now see, the three piglets behind her. Her mouth froze open with shock—and the sow rushed her with an angry grunt. But what shocked him was the way she stood fierce, her back ramrod straight, and then pulled something from the belt tied around those indecent breeches. A cracking shot rang out. The sow crumpled to a dead stop not five yards in front of her.
Archer felt his breath leave his body in a wild rush of astonishment. A pistol. The woman had been carrying a pistol. He stared at her, half impressed. The other half, surprisingly aroused.
Briannon, though covered in mud, seemed to be unharmed. The fury he’d felt before returned in full force as he made it to her side in several brisk, painful strides. His ankle thr
obbed something fierce.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded, grasping her arm. “Are you injured?”
“Unhand me,” she responded, not meeting his eyes. “I am fine. My horse spooked, probably by that beast, and threw me.”
“Where is your horse?” Archer asked, searching for anything to distract him from the sight of her covered in dirt. Oddly enough, even with his vast experience with women dressed in sumptuous ball gowns to transparent peignoirs, the sight of Lady Briannon in a mud-splattered white cotton shirt and men’s breeches, pistol in hand, made his pulse accelerate and his groin tighten. Archer swore under his breath, furious at his body’s unexpected—and unwelcome—response.
“Apollo! Where are you?” Briannon whistled a short note, and within moments a fine-looking Hanoverian trotted out of the bushes. “Oh, you sweet thing,” Briannon murmured, dropping her pistol to the ground and running her hands down the horse’s flanks, checking for signs of injury. The horse’s ears flicked nervously toward Archer, but it dipped its velvet nose into its mistress’s palm. Unmindful of her present company, Briannon bent over to check Apollo’s hooves. Archer’s breath ground to a pained halt as her breeches pulled tight over her backside.
Archer looked away and swallowed hard, focusing on the corpse of the boar she had so luckily dispatched. His brows shot to his hairline as he studied the bullet wound. It was right between the boar’s eyes. A precise shot, not a lucky one at all. Once more, she’d surprised him.
He cleared his throat. “Who taught you to shoot?”
“Gray,” she said, standing tall but remaining near the horse, as though it were safer there.
“You’re a fine shot,” he said.
“I wouldn’t count it as a victory. Those poor piglets are now motherless.”
Briannon turned in the direction of the three piglets, but they had already scattered.
“They are hardy animals,” Archer said. “And you should count it as a victory. That animal would have killed you.”
She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to argue, but then closed it. Something like defiance flashed across her features. He could see the wheels turning in her head, searching for some suitable excuse as to why she was dressed the way she was. Instead, she eyed him, as if daring him to broach the subject. Briannon crossed her arms over her chest and his eyes darted there, drawn by the movement. She let them slip to her sides, which of course drew his eyes in that direction as well.
“Why are you out here at this ungodly hour?” he asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she replied. “As well as why you are trespassing on private property.”
Archer smiled at her tone and leaned against a nearby tree, easing the weight of his injured ankle for the moment. There it was—the brief glimpse of the woman he’d met in Dinsmore’s carriage, not the quiet mouse he’d waltzed with. “Ah, but I believe this tree, right here,”—he slapped the trunk with a rakish grin—“marks the dividing line between my estate and yours. So technically, I’m on my property and you are on yours.”
Her eyes narrowed at his teasing before plucking up the tweed cap from where it lay on the ground and tugging it back into place upon her head. She then picked up the spent pistol and tucked it into the narrow, single holster gun belt looped around her waist. “No matter. It’s hardly any of your concern why I am out on my own land. Go on your way, and I’ll be on mine.”
His jaw dropped as she wound her fist into the horse’s bridle, loosely slung around its neck, and pulled herself deftly up onto the horse’s back. She sat astride in a way that made his pulse shorten. “Where is your saddle?” he managed.
She eyed him imperiously. “I don’t like them, not that it’s any of your business.”
“It isn’t safe,” he ground out, surprised by his sudden irritation.
“I’ve been riding without a saddle since I was a child,” she shot back. “I’m safer without one than I am with one.”
“As you were before you got thrown into the river?” Archer couldn’t resist taunting.
Her jaw jutted forward, a mutinous look in her eyes. She pressed her lips together, likely to stop herself from uttering something completely inappropriate. Perhaps one of the colorful words she’d been using while attempting to climb out of the gulch.
“And what if you were attacked by the masked bandit—again?” he continued. “Or haven’t you had enough danger for the time being?”
“I can protect myself,” she said.
“What with?” he asked before he thought of the clean hole in the boar’s forehead.
Briannon sighed dramatically. “Why, with my knitting needles, of course.”
Struck again by her lightning-quick wit, the short bark of laughter left his lips before he could contain it. “Pray, where was your pistol the other night when you were robbed?”
“In my knitting reticule, where all ladies’ pistols are kept,” came her tart response. “I assure you, if I had my pistol, the outcome of that robbery would have been quite different.”
After seeing her shoot the boar with such controlled skill, Archer didn’t doubt her expertise for one second. There was always a chance that one of the travelers he waylaid would have a pocket pistol, or perhaps something larger, to fight him with. He knew the risk and accepted it for what it was. But he was certainly relieved Briannon had left her weapon home the night of the Bradburne Ball.
He pushed off the tree and approached the chestnut Hanoverian. Like its owner, it shied away from him. He made a soothing noise under his breath and drew his hand along the horse’s nose. Briannon watched him incredulously, her mouth agape. “He’s magnificent,” he said. Much like his mistress, he added silently. “Why do you look surprised?”
“Apollo doesn’t like anyone. I’m shocked he didn’t bite your hand off.”
“Oddly enough, horses seem to like me,” he said, rubbing its velvety chin. He glanced at Briannon and grinned. “I’m skilled with all manner of wild creatures.”
He was rewarded with a deep flush of color in her cheeks. God, she was so easy to bait. It gave him an odd thrill whenever he made her blush, if only because it prefaced such provoking, if wildly inappropriate, conversation.
However, a mask dipped down over her features, composing her reaction. Ah, yes. There was her ice, falling into place like clockwork.
She bowed as if she was wearing the most elegant of dresses. “I bid you good day, my lord.”
“Briannon,” he said, grasping the bridle. Her eyes widened at the familiar use of her name.
“Release my horse at once,” she said.
His fingers tightened on the reins. “As a gentleman, I cannot in good conscience allow a lady to ride home unescorted in such…charming attire. I must insist on escorting you.”
He watched her struggle to gather an immediate response, which would have most likely been as salty as the look on her face. She took a deep breath, and though Archer kept his eyes locked with hers, he still enjoyed the heave of her chest.
“Fine,” she managed to grind out through clenched teeth. “Where is your horse?”
“I don’t have one.”
“But you’ve injured your ankle, and we’re miles away from either of our homes. How do you mean to—” Her voice broke off as she took his meaning. “Oh. But it’s…well, it’s indecent.”
As if riding a horse bareback in men’s breeches was not.
“Very well. If you wish me to hobble along on my one good ankle…” Archer began with purposeful melodrama, warming to his ploy.
“Of course not,” Briannon quickly said, worrying her bottom lip. It was luscious and full, and Archer had to force his gaze elsewhere as a sudden desire to tug that lip between his own overtook him. “But…but as you’ve pointed out, I don’t have a saddle.”
“I don’t require one, either,” Archer said, enjoying her most fiery blush yet.
What he was suggesting was highly inappropriate, but there was no chance in h
ell Archer was going to allow her to go riding off alone looking like that. These forests might have been divided between their two estates, but that didn’t mean there weren’t trespassers from time to time.
“And as far as indecency, I’m sure I don’t need to provide you with a lesson on decorum. I think it’s safe to say that we are now far past that. Frankly, I am injured. I turned my ankle trying to get to you before that boar. You would be doing me a great service, and I would be in your debt.”
Everything inside him warned that this was a terrible idea, but his body buzzed with excitement at the scintillating prospect. “It will be faster. You won’t come to any harm, I promise you. Think of it as us waltzing. It will be over before you know it.”
Briannon seemed unconvinced, but eventually, she nodded. “Fine. But if you fall off, I am not responsible.”
Fall off. If he managed to do something that inept, he had better split his head on a rock and be done with it.
“Agreed.”
He pulled himself up behind her rigid body and Briannon turned the reins expertly, the horse cantering toward the thick wood. Archer tried to hold himself away from her, but the minute the horse’s natural gait took over, the space between their bodies disappeared. He was going to fall off if he didn’t hold on to something. It was either going to be her or the horse. Mindful of the situation, he slid his arms below hers and grabbed hold of the reins.
She twisted to see him. “What are you doing?”
“Would you rather I put my hands about your waist?”
If it were possible, her body grew more rigid as she faced forward again. “They are fine where they are.”
He almost grinned at the prim comment, but then Briannon clicked at the horse, and they were flying through the woods, jumping fallen logs with ease. She rode with the natural ease of a born athlete, Archer noticed, her movements fluid with those of the horse…and with him. His body rocked in tune with hers as they soared over the jumps, and he fought to keep himself from responding to the seductive motion of her trim hips bracing against his thighs. Archer ground his teeth together, suppressing the immediate carnal response of his body.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 6
