My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Where did you learn to ride without a saddle?” he asked to distract the train of his thoughts.

  “Gray.”

  It seemed Lord Northridge had taught his little sister all manner of strange pursuits. Distracted by windblown movement across Briannon’s slender nape, Archer inspected the scattered strawberry-blond tendrils of her hair that had escaped from her tweed cap. He had an indescribable urge to wind his fingers through the strands, but of course, kept his hands firmly on the reins. Archer eased back on them, Briannon’s own hands fisted lightly in the mare’s chestnut mane, and their mount slowed. There was no rush to return her to her family just yet.

  “May I inquire as to why you chose to dress as a man for this morning ride of yours?” he asked.

  She was already sitting as inflexible as a maypole, but right then he felt her stiffen even more.

  “I did not think I would meet with anyone.”

  And riding astride would have been impossible in a skirt, Archer guessed.

  “What will your mother say, I wonder, when you return home in your brother’s clothes with a man upon your horse?”

  He couldn’t help himself. Teasing her gave him a strange sense of pleasure. He had never been much of a tease, not with the women he’d known in the past. Those sorts of women did not demand conversation. They demanded money and jewels, and Archer had happily given them from time to time, believing it a much wiser decision than mixing with married, or worse, marriageable, women of his own sphere.

  However, Briannon did not react to his goading remark the way he wanted her to. She kept her chin down and her eyes trained on the well-beaten path through a field, just out of the woods.

  “She will surely thank you for your assistance,” she replied.

  “I’ve done nothing at all. You shot that boar, not I.”

  She turned her ear toward him, just enough so that he could see the thick fringe of her russet lashes and the gently sloped curve of her cheek. “Please do not say as much. She would murder Gray for teaching me to shoot.”

  “On the contrary. She would have to admit that your brother had done you a service.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps. Though not until after Gray’s funeral.”

  Archer smiled. She had a wry sense of humor. This he could appreciate.

  The slate rooftops of Ferndale’s majestic manor house rose into view. It was far more modern than his own stately home, which had been constructed well over a century before. He meant to make some improvements to Worthington Abbey, once a few of his ships returned to port and the most recent investments he’d made paid out. Investments, he thought as the manor became more visible, that he required to maintain their lifestyles—especially that of his father.

  “It is still early,” Archer said, aware of the need to protect her reputation despite his earlier teasing. The reason for her agitation was understandable—his mere presence would be compromising. “We may be able to reach the stables without anyone learning of it. I’ll borrow a mount to see me home and have it returned before anyone notices it is missing.”

  “Vickers, our stable master, will notice,” Briannon replied.

  “Stable masters are not usually prone to gossip.”

  “Perhaps not at Worthington Abbey,” she said under her breath.

  No. Not at Worthington Abbey, thanks to Brandt, and for that Archer was beholden. He was now stable master, having taken the position after Montgomery’s death two years before. The thought of his passing still made Archer’s chest and throat feel tight. It had taken much longer than that for the sharp blade of his own mother’s death to dull to something bearable. It was a sort of hollow sensation, like a hand grasping into thin air, reaching for something it couldn’t quite touch.

  The fire had broken out in one of the many rambling tree houses he and Brandt had built in the Worthington woods when they’d been boys. The duchess had been out on a solitary ride through the fields that morning. It had been pieced together later that she must have spotted the smoke and rushed her mount toward the woods. She’d found the burning tree house, and likely believing her son inside, had climbed the rope ladder to search for him.

  Archer had not been inside, though. He didn’t know how the fire had started, but by the time servants from the main house arrived, the duchess was dead and a young Eloise, who had arrived minutes before the servants, had been burned severely, attempting to pull her adoptive mother’s unconscious body from the tree house.

  Archer missed his mother, but the ache had faded with time. It was Montgomery he still mourned. He only hoped it wouldn’t take years for the pain to lessen.

  “I wish to apologize, Lady Briannon,” he said as he started to direct Apollo toward the grand stables, set kitty-corner to the manor’s wide approach. But she stalled his hands, and took the reins, directing the horse in the opposite direction.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “If you are seen with me dressed in this manner, I won’t live down the scandal of it. The gossipmongers’ tongues will wag, you will be forced to marry me, and we would make each other miserable for the rest of our lives. I am saving us both from a ghastly union.”

  He stifled yet another laugh. Briannon turned her head again, this time affording Archer a better view of her profile. The small lobe of her ear was especially tempting, but it was her fine brow, arched in preparation for another dose of his sarcasm, that he paid attention to. “Ghastly?”

  Briannon nodded firmly. “Oh, most definitely. I wish for a husband who can smile without looking as if it pains him, and I’m sure you wish for a wife whose wardrobe is more…conventional.” She paused. “You were saying something about an apology?”

  Archer was torn between incredulity and amusement at her veiled snub, but he conceded to respond. “I made a careless remark at the duke’s ball,” he said, as she led the way down a small hill that took them once more out of sight of the manor. His fingers skimmed the soft material at her waist, but did not quite grip her body. She pulled the horse to a smart stop in front of a small abandoned cottage covered in tangled vines, green ivy, and new roses, their petals still closed.

  “Hmm, a deserted cottage,” he said, wanting to turn the tables. “But what of my reputation?”

  A blush of color spotted her cheeks, but she did not respond to his teasing comment. “You may wait outside while I change.”

  He grinned and swung down, and though he regretted the loss of Briannon’s body—the spooning press of her legs against his, her straight spine against his stomach and chest—Archer was glad to dismount. He hadn’t ridden a horse without a saddle in…well…ever. It hadn’t been as comfortable, nor as effortless, as she’d made it seem.

  He held his hand up to Briannon to help her dismount as well. She ignored it and, holding on to Apollo’s lithe neck, swung herself down with swift competence. The soft, butter-colored buckskin breeches clung to the lines of her thighs and the flare of her backside. They must have belonged to her brother years ago to fit her with such form-fitting accuracy. He could see every curve, leaving very little to the imagination. And yet he did imagine. Her bare skin would be more velvety than that buckskin, he wagered. Warm and yielding.

  Briannon disappeared into the house, and he stood outside as she had instructed, waiting the minutes while she changed. Flashes of movement through the windows grabbed his attention. Picturing Lady Briannon nude just behind that single flimsy door made his breath catch. He forced himself to admire her horse instead and then found himself thinking about the way she had ridden him, which led to other, far headier, fantasies.

  By the time Briannon emerged, clad in a yellow muslin dress, her hair flowing loosely around her shoulders, Archer was in a cramped state at the heated turn of his thoughts. She appeared nothing like the ragtag hellion from before, and she had, ostensibly, left her pistol in the cottage. But all the same, she managed to look just as appealing, if not more. Her color was heightened, no doubt from having to undress with him standi
ng outside, waiting. It pleased him to think that she had been as bothered by the awareness of his presence as he had hers.

  “Yes,” she said, resuming their earlier conversation. “You were quite rude at the ball.” She rubbed the horse’s coat in brisk strokes before tugging on the reins to lead him into a walk beside her. “But I fear you were also correct. As you could see by my attire this morning, I am the furthest thing from a lady’s fashion plate.”

  “I assure you, Briannon,” he said, knowing it was too familiar of him to drop her title, and yet not caring. He matched her stride as they walked back the way they had ridden. “Men do not care for fashion plates.”

  She quit rubbing Apollo’s coat and faced him. “What, then, do they care for?”

  “In a woman?” Archer asked, a question that pinkened her cheeks. “I can’t speak for every man, but I know that fashion plates bore me. Most women do.” Watching her carefully, he added, “You are not most women.”

  Her lips parted under the scrutiny of his gaze. She averted her eyes as they walked into view of the manor house. “You are too bold. Go, and quickly. I don’t hear Vickers just yet. Take Apollo.” She thrust the reins toward Archer, her short sentences showcasing her flustered state.

  She was offering her own horse? Clearly she wanted to be rid of him. He’d said the wrong things, then. So be it. It was at least the truth. Despite the physical discomfort of his perpetual state of half arousal over the last hour, he’d enjoyed their banter and regretted having to part ways. The only person he ever felt at ease with was Brandt. Certainly no women—other than Eloise, of course. Briannon was an anomaly, one that intrigued him.

  Archer bowed and eyed the unsaddled mount with an inward groan. “Thank you. I shall have him returned as soon as possible. A good day to you, Lady Briannon.” He accepted the reins and pulled himself astride once more.

  Archer clicked to Apollo and the stallion took off, full tilt, back the way they had come. He intended to field dress the boar and bring the beast to Pierce Cottage. It would be a waste to leave the carcass to rot. After, he would see to his already swollen ankle.

  He glanced over his shoulder as he rode from the manor. Briannon was no longer behind the stables. The girl was dangerous. Good with a pistol, strong on a horse. Damn fine in breeches. And completely intoxicating. A woman like her could make him forget his purpose and ignore what drove him. He could not risk that. A marriage and family would put an end to this secret part of his life, and it was far too early for that. And especially with the new threat of discovery on the horizon.

  Archer hadn’t set out to be an outlaw thief. He’d wanted only to help the poor and the sick, as his mother had in her lifetime, and at the tender age of eleven, an epiphany had struck him. It was a year to the day after her tragic death in a fire when the idea of reappropriating his father’s wealth had taken root, both as punishment and benefaction. Montgomery had said that a man’s deeds were the things that defined him, and Archer would be the one to uphold his mother’s legacy.

  Archer knew his father would not suffer to continue Lady Bradburne’s charitable contributions, even though the duke was the very reason she had been so compelled in the first place. There were few secrets in a manor like Worthington Abbey that a boy could not unearth by listening to servant gossip, and it was not long before Archer learned that when Lady Bradburne had found Eloise’s pregnant mother, a maid from another household who had been cast aside, not only by the duke but also her employer, it had been too little too late. The woman had been ill before Eloise had been born and had died shortly after. Archer’s mother had taken in his father’s bastard daughter as her ward.

  At the time, he was also old enough to discern what the gossip meant and why his mother had been so driven in her tireless work to help the sick and the needy. And the older Eloise became, the more Lady Bradburne had thrown herself into such efforts, as if to atone for a sin she had not committed.

  No, the sin was squarely upon his father.

  Archer remembered vividly the day he had made his decision. Yet another ostentatious ball at Worthington Abbey had been in full swing, and his father had been distracted with his guests.

  Distracted. Always distracted.

  That time, however, the duke’s disregard had worked in Archer’s favor. He’d slipped past his eagle-eyed governess, hoping she would not notice his disappearance from the upper balcony before the next set began.

  Tiptoeing into his father’s lavish dressing room, he rifled through the duke’s belongings and pocketed the first coins he could see: five gold sovereigns. A small fortune. Brandt had told Archer about an orphanage in the neighboring village that very morning. He and Montgomery had helped build a paddock for the orphanage’s milk cow. It had been sad, Brandt said, that they had but one milk cow for dozens of children.

  Archer knew of the orphanage in question. He’d visited it a few times with his mother. Lady Bradburne had been generous with both her funds and her time, but at the age of eleven, Archer had only a small allowance.

  However, he knew where his father kept his own coin.

  The duke wouldn’t miss the money, not when he lost far more at the betting tables. Even at that age, Archer had been aware of the gossip surrounding his sire. His father’s love of gambling, pretty women, and dancing was already as ingrained in Archer as were his mind-numbing lessons of arithmetic and Latin.

  Coins in hand, he’d raced out of the rooms and slipped down to the kitchens. He didn’t stop until he was at the stables, where Brandt had been finishing his chore of mucking out the stalls.

  “Here.” Archer had shoved the coins into Brandt’s hands. The other boy’s eyes had widened. “Take it. I must go or the dragon governess will have my hide.”

  “Hawk, this will feed that orphanage for months,” Brandt said. “Won’t you get a thrashing for stealing?”

  “I’m not really stealing,” he’d answered with a plucky grin. “I’m giving it to the needy. There is a difference.”

  “Like the ballads of King Richard’s Robyn Hode?” Brandt asked. “The outlaw thief who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. Have you heard the songs?” Archer had shaken his head, and Brandt grinned. “Remind me to teach them to you. He was the champion of the poor.”

  When Archer returned to the ball, a seed had already started to root deep within his belly. As he stared down at all the extravagantly dressed guests through the spindles of the balustrade, he’d thought about the children at the village orphanage with their single milk cow. He thought of the sick his mother had dedicated her last days to helping. She had sworn to Eloise to make up for what had happened to her mother. And Archer would do the same.

  A few shillings, or even a few sovereigns, were nothing to his father’s friends. They had everything. He had everything. All because he was the son of a duke. It had made him angry, though he couldn’t quite determine with whom, or what he could possibly do to cure it. But then he’d thought of what Brandt had said in the stables about the champion outlaw, and a fledgling idea had been born—he would be their champion. Brandt would help, and his mother would be proud.

  Now, as a grown man, Archer doubted Lady Bradburne would have patted him on the back for becoming a thief, nor would Montgomery have approved of his misguided nobility. Both the duchess and the stable master would surely turn in their graves. After all, what Archer was doing wasn’t in the least bit noble. He stole. But he stole from those who wouldn’t miss the little he took—a purse of gold here, a signet ring there—while those on the receiving end would have the chance to eat or buy medicine. Archer didn’t condone his actions, but he didn’t fault himself, either. If his so-called peers judged him to be a criminal, then so be it. He knew and accepted the risks. One of them being that he might eventually be rooted out.

  The anonymous note nagged at him again as he descended into the sloping field. If someone had indeed seen through his disguise, another note was certain to follow. One that would demand a price for sil
ence, he assumed. Archer clenched his fists around the reins, annoyed with himself. Had he somehow, somewhere, let down his guard? Slipped in his performance? The raid on Dinsmore’s carriage was a fine example, he supposed. Thinking back, not once had he looked up or down the lane to see whether or not another conveyance or horse and rider approached. He had not thought to listen for unwanted company, either. The only thing he had been able to focus on had been the fascinating surprise of Lady Briannon.

  He had made himself vulnerable by being careless. It couldn’t happen again. As he directed his borrowed mount toward Worthington Abbey’s grounds, Archer decided he would not approach Lady Briannon. Not as a marquess, and not as the masked bandit. She had diverted his attention enough this last week, and others depended on him. She was different from other society women, yes, but she was still one of them. He would not—could not—let himself forget that.

  Chapter Five

  Standing in the dimly lit stables as she saddled Zeus—one of Gray’s newer and more high-spirited stallions—Brynn cursed herself yet again for allowing Lord Hawksfield to ride off on her horse earlier that morning. He had sent word that the stallion was favoring his right leg and was being tended. Though she worried for Apollo’s condition, she knew Hawksfield was known for his expert horsemanship and love of horses. The stallion would be well taken care of at Worthington Abbey. But Brynn still regretted not making the arrogant man walk or borrow another horse. Like this one, for example, that had already tried to take a bite out of her arm.

  She’d spent most of the day fighting a raging headache. And, though she was loath to admit it, thinking about Hawksfield—who was likely the root cause of the pain in her temples. Thankfully, no one had caught her sneaking into the manor that morning, or before, while riding unchaperoned with a man who wore his surly reputation like a badge of honor.