My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  She chewed the corner of her lip, tightening the girth around Zeus’s muscular belly. In private, Hawksfield had seemed nothing like the man Gray and everyone else talked about. He’d even seemed different from how he’d presented himself at the Bradburne Ball. He was solemn, certainly, but he did have a boyish sense of humor when he chose to use it. He was also a surprising flirt.

  But he’d cared that she’d been in danger from that boar. She had seen it in his eyes. Eyes that had been like liquid silver in the morning sunlight…serious and somber, but not cold. No, that was where he smiled, she realized. His lips would never betray his humor, but his eyes did.

  Brynn shook her head and pursed her lips in exasperation. What was she thinking? Lord Hawksfield was the last man she should be mooning over. Seeing to the chivalrous, if unnecessary, duty of escorting her home had clearly put him out. She’d practically heard him grinding his teeth in annoyance the minute he mounted the horse. Brynn sighed. Really, she had more important things to worry about than Lord Hawksfield’s poor temper…or his disingenuous smiling eyes.

  For one secret moment, though, Brynn allowed herself to think about what it had felt like to have a man riding behind her on Apollo. The heat of his lean thighs and the bracing power of his chest against her back had been shocking to say the least, but exciting, too. The masculine lines of his hard frame had cradled hers with such intimacy. Warmth flooded her lower abdomen, making her limbs feel utterly useless. On the horse, she’d fought with every bone in her body to keep herself motionless, but now, she wondered what it would have been like if she had just let go—leaned in to him, felt every inch of him clinging to her. Her breath drew to a shuddering, indelicate stop.

  Flushing deeply, Brynn banished her unvirtuous thoughts as she finished saddling the horse as quietly as she could. She didn’t want to risk waking any of the grooms. Then again, Vickers was more than used to her midnight excursions, and never once had whispers, carried on the lips of a servant, reached Mama or Papa. Vickers could be trusted to turn a blind eye.

  She led the horse outside, and pulled herself up onto its back. Zeus pranced nervously beneath her as the moon peeked out from a patch of clouds, riding high in the sky and gilding the surrounding hills with silvery touches. Brynn inhaled deeply and urged the stallion into a canter—a rousing, brisk ride was exactly what she needed.

  She’d tossed and turned for hours before deciding she couldn’t remain in bed one minute more. Mindful of the hour, she had dressed all in black, piled her hair into a bun, and tucked it under a wide-brimmed hat. At the last moment she had decided to bind a cloth tightly around her breasts. If by chance she came upon someone, they’d think less of a boy being out past midnight than an unchaperoned young woman. Not that she expected to run into anyone else at this ungodly hour, but if she did, Brynn had made sure she could protect herself—her pistol was loaded and tucked into the waistband of her breeches.

  Riding Zeus took almost all of her skill and concentration. The horse was certainly faster and less mature than Apollo. It took her a while to get used to his gait and to make him understand that she was in control. Every once in a while, he’d try to get the bit into his mouth, but Brynn was a competent rider and held him firmly in check. It was challenging work but exactly the kind of exertion she had hoped for. She wanted to tire herself out so she wouldn’t have to think.

  Hanging low over Zeus’s neck, they raced like the wind over Ferndale’s rolling hills. She felt free and unfettered, the normally stalwart rules of the ton as yielding as water or air. It was right at that moment that a bloodcurdling scream cut through the darkness. It made Zeus rear up, nearly tossing Brynn from the saddle. She held on for dear life as he bolted through the woods—toward the sound of the scream.

  Brynn fought for control as another scream rent the air. It was distinctly female, and it was close. Someone was in trouble. She tightened her hold on Zeus’s bridle and dug her thighs into his flanks, soaring over the three-foot estate fence line with ease. She pulled the brim of her hat low and thundered onto the main road where a coach stood at a dead halt in the middle of the lane.

  She squinted into the shadowy darkness, the carriage’s single lantern hardly bright enough to read a book by, let alone dash decent light over the road. But just then, the crest of the moon better exposed the scene in horrifying detail: a masked man on horseback, his pistol pointed into the open conveyance. A second pistol was trained on the coachman lying in the dirt. Brynn’s breath caught on a flood of rage—it was him. The bandit. The despicable scoundrel who had tainted her thoughts and toyed with her by sending those blasted rubies!

  She didn’t stop to think as the man raised his head in her direction. All she could see was his hand, drawing her grandmother’s pearls from her neck. All she could feel was defeat and frustration, and by god, the man had robbed her! Pointed his gun at her person!

  Brynn pulled her own pistol, took aim, and without a moment’s thought or hesitation, fired. Zeus immediately pulled to a stop, and the bandit’s mount reared up before bolting into the woods, but she was certain that she had seen him clutch at his thigh before being spirited away. In any case, he was gone for the moment.

  She took Zeus abreast the carriage, seeing the two cowering women there. They must have been on their way home from some function. Perhaps the same musicale her parents had attended that evening. Thank heavens this was not their carriage. She was quite certain her mother’s nerves would not survive another incident.

  “Is the man gone, boy?” the older of the two women asked in a shaky voice. Most likely the younger lady’s chaperone, Brynn supposed.

  “Yes,” she answered, holding her tone low. “He’s gone, milady.”

  The younger woman looked like she was about to swoon. Brynn squinted. It was the eldest daughter of Viscount and Viscountess Perth, her neighbors several estates over. “You saved our lives,” the young lady said faintly as the older woman held a vial of smelling salts to her charge’s nose. “Who knows what that evil man would have done? We are in your debt.”

  Bobbing her head, Brynn pulled her hat low and called out to the driver, keeping her voice as gravelly as she could manage. “You there, get up and get your mistress to safety.”

  He hauled himself up and mounted the coach, taking off in a swift cloud of dust. Zeus pawed the earth beneath her as she stared after the coach, watching as it rounded the far end of the lane and disappeared.

  The moon had withdrawn again, shrouding the road in shadows and making Brynn’s skin prickle stiffly. A coolness had descended, causing her breath to puff like mist. With a sigh, she wheeled Zeus around, stopping at the edge of the road. She’d shot the man, and while she had meant only to wound, what if the bullet had done serious damage? Scourge of mankind or not, if he died, his blood would be on her hands.

  “Blast it,” she swore and led Zeus into the woods where she’d seen the bandit’s horse disappear. It didn’t take her long to find both horse and rider, motionless in a nearby glade. The man was slumped over the neck of his mount. Panic struck her like a lance. Was he dead?

  “Sir?” she called out. There was no response. Her heart sank to her toes.

  She inched closer, clicking gently to the bandit’s horse so it wouldn’t bolt and hoping that Zeus would behave himself. Nearly alongside his mount, she prodded the man with the muzzle of her pistol. An inarticulate groan was his only response, but at least he was alive and she wasn’t going to end this foolhardy ride as a cold-blooded murderer.

  Brynn had three options: she could leave, knowing in good conscience that she’d found him alive, and hope he wouldn’t bleed to death. She could wait until he was conscious enough to fend for himself. Or lastly, she could take him back to Ferndale and call the constable. The last option would see her locked in her chamber for the rest of her foreseeable life. And she wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink should she choose the first. No, she’d take her chances right now with the second—and safest—option.

 
; “You there,” she prodded harder, and the man groaned again. Her eyes searched for where she’d shot him, but even by the light of the moon filtering through the trees, she couldn’t see his leg clearly. His black clothing didn’t help. “Wake up!”

  The man pushed himself into an upright position, staring woozily at her. Once again, that damned mask obscured his face. But she was sure it was him, and she wished she had brought the rubies so she could throw them at him.

  “You shot me,” he said in a slightly slurred voice, wrapping his hand into the horse’s mane as if fighting to keep himself erect. “In my leg. Could’ve killed me, boy.”

  “If I meant to kill you, you’d be dead,” Brynn muttered. The bandit groaned and pitched forward. “No, no, no. You need to stay awake.”

  She clutched at the man’s shoulder and nearly toppled off Zeus as his weight slid against her. His head sank into the groove of her neck and shoulder. His clean scent of cedar and smoke struck her again, as it had the first time they’d met. Part of her wanted him to smell, well, like a highwayman should—grimy and unpleasant. She couldn’t seem to focus with him smelling so blasted appealing.

  Brynn fought a wave of self-disgust as she pushed him off her. She couldn’t just leave him here to die. But where could she go? She looked around in a panic. There were trees and more trees, and a road that led south, nearly an hour’s coach ride to the village, or north to Worthington Abbey. She was sure that Hawksfield would be anything but thrilled to be roused past midnight from his bed. Or perhaps he wouldn’t be asleep if he was anything like his degenerate father as Gray had suggested. The thought made her inexplicably furious.

  “Where do you live?” she snapped.

  His eyes slanted open. Brynn could tell that he was disoriented, either from the blood loss or perhaps from some low-lying tree branch when his horse had bolted. “Shot me, boy.”

  “We’ve already established that. Do you live nearby?”

  “Cottage,” he gasped and pointed through the woods. “Ten minutes th’way.”

  She groaned in frustration. The way he was butchering his speech, he wouldn’t stay conscious another two minutes, most likely. But it would take far longer than that to get back to Ferndale. Gritting her teeth, she made a decision, and looping his bridle in hers, steered the horses in the direction he’d pointed. She hoped that he wasn’t delirious already and giving out flawed instruction.

  After about fifteen minutes, she could see a light in the distance through the thicket, and her heart leaped with relief. Tying the horses to a nearby post, she dismounted. She was either insane or entirely too gullible to be escorting a known criminal into a strange cottage. No. She’d take him in and leave immediately.

  “Wake up,” she said, her eyes on the windows. Only one room appeared to have a fire going, otherwise the place looked asleep. “We’re here.”

  The bandit grunted and half slid, half fell off the horse. Brynn braced herself as he leaned his weight against her, and they hobbled into the cottage. She hoped he truly was as weak as he seemed and not playacting, otherwise more than her reputation would be on the line. She held on to the fact that he still thought her a boy, and ushered him inside. The interior was empty and dim but for a low fire built into the hearth.

  The man stumbled to a cot set up by the fire and collapsed on it with a belabored moan. She stared at him for a moment, transfixed by the black scrap of silk that hid his features from view. He was a gentleman; she was sure of it. No common bandit spoke as he did, or looked as he looked. She eyed his trim length, draped halfway on the too-small cot. His boots were scuffed but made from fine leather. The cut of his cloak was tailored, the stitching fine. He was a man of means, and yet he stole. Despite herself, she was intrigued.

  It would be so easy to lift the silk and unveil the man behind the mask. Brynn’s fingers itched to do just that, but she fisted them tightly at her sides.

  Did she truly want to know?

  A part of her screamed yes, but another part—the smarter, logical part—urged her to put as much distance between herself and this gentleman bandit as possible. Brynn turned to leave, but his wheezing voice stopped her at the door.

  “Boy. Need to clean. Infection…help. Please.”

  That last word stalled her. Please. He should have been cursing at her for shooting him in the first place, but here he was, begging nicely for her assistance.

  If she didn’t at least bandage the wound to stop the bleeding, he could still die. She exhaled and pressed her head against the worn wood of the door. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed? Tossing restlessly until dawn would have been preferable to this madness. But as abominable as the man was, she couldn’t walk out the door and rush home. It would be heartless and cold, and for heaven’s sake, she had been the one to shoot him!

  “Fine,” she muttered out loud. She’d patch him up as best she could and then leave. Besides, like the ladies in the carriage had been, the bandit seemed to be under the impression that she was indeed a young lad. Which meant she was safe. Somewhat. She hoped.

  Brynn pulled the brim of her hat lower, until she was certain the top half of her face at least would be concealed, and then turned around. Blood had drenched his pant leg, turning the black fabric an even darker shade of ink. A small pool of it had already formed on the floor where his injured limb was hanging off the cot.

  He rolled his head side to side, appearing delirious. No, she could not abandon the deuced man.

  She approached the cot, thinking furiously as to what to do next. She was no healer, and had most certainly never mended a gunshot wound before. First, she supposed she needed to see the actual injury. Brynn touched the blood-soaked trouser leg, thinking she would find the hole made by the bullet. But the man grunted in pain as she poked and tugged, and he made a clumsy swipe of his hand to push her away.

  “Off,” he groaned. “Take off.”

  She stared at his masked face, incredulous. His eyes were shut, and the black silk fluttered where it had shifted to cover his lips.

  “Off?” she repeated, forgetting to alter her voice. She coughed. “You want me to—”

  “And whiskey. O’er there,” he panted, his head flopping to the side. Brynn followed the direction of his eyes and saw a ceramic jar in the center of a trestle table.

  She rushed for the jug first, her mind still tripping over his suggestion that she remove his trousers. She could not undress him! He was the Masked Marauder! A criminal of the worst ilk.

  And yet he was still a man who’d been shot. She did need access to the wound, something that would be much easier done without his trousers on. Much easier still had she truly been the boy she was pretending to be. But she wasn’t. She was a woman. A lady, at that. She had never dreamed she’d find herself in such an improper and scandalous position.

  Well, she’d always craved a good adventure, and here it was. It was her own fault, and she had to face the consequences, no matter how…provoking they were. Brynn’s heart drummed while a strange and unexpected grin touched the corner of her lips. Good Lord, she was losing her mind.

  “Lie still,” she ordered, returning with the whiskey and setting it on the floor beside the cot, far from the pooling blood.

  Her fingers shook again as she reached for his waist. Pretend he’s Gray. A brother. Nothing more. And men wore smalls, didn’t they? It wasn’t as if he’d be entirely undressed the moment she wriggled his trousers down. At least, that was what she continued to tell herself as she worked the buttons at the front of his trousers. Once the narrow fall came loose, she peeled it down, and her breath stuck like honey in her throat.

  An audible sigh parted the quiet at the sight of a pair of white linen smalls. But as she started to wrench the trousers lower on his hips, she couldn’t help noticing just how thin the linen was. Dark hair showed through the near-transparent cloth, which was made more see-through in the play of the firelight. And there was no mistaking the explicit swell of his…his…very male body.

&
nbsp; Either Brynn’s arms grew heavy, or the bandit’s trousers had become snagged, because she could no longer tug them lower. And she could not avert her eyes, either. Brynn had never seen anything so…so foreign. Or so fascinating.

  The clinging linen accentuated the curved shape. It was long—and knowing the little she did about what occurred between a man and a woman in the marriage bed, larger than she expected. Cordelia had told her that her aunt had said that when a man took a woman, it hurt the first time, and that was it. Brynn supposed the taking had to do with what lay hidden beneath those flimsy smalls.

  Curious, her eyes examined the indecently outlined length, and she felt a frightening rush of heat in her legs. Her pulse shook like the earth in a stampede. Her breasts, even bound as they were, tingled, and something warm and liquid spread through the shivering core of her body. She tore her eyes away and weakly attempted to compose herself. Good heavens, she was losing her mind.

  The bandit moved and groaned, jerking Brynn out of her lewd distraction. She hurried on with her task, yanking his trousers the rest of the way down. His smalls were cropped a few inches above the knee, and that was where she saw the neat, dark gouge in the muscle of his outer thigh. Not truly a graze, but not a killing shot, either. The wound leaked blood, though a quick inspection told her the bullet had not lodged in his flesh. He would live, but first she would have to make sure it did not become infected.

  Brynn pulled the hem of her shirt from the tightly buckled waist of her brother’s old trousers and tore off a good portion of it. Wrapping the ragged strip tightly around the man’s thigh, just above the shallow wound, she tried not to notice the way his lean corded muscles rippled underneath his skin. And when she reached for the jug of whiskey and poured it over the wound, she also tried not to notice how a splash that landed on his smalls had taken the nearly sheer linen to purely see-through.