Quash it. Fix this. He knew what he should do. To protect himself. To protect Brandt. Lord in heaven, how had things turned so bloody complicated?
“A scrape, nothing more,” he dismissed, not missing Briannon’s odd expression as if something astonishing had occurred to her. “Forget my leg. I’m more interested in your fond memories of the Masked Marauder. His voice, his eyes. One might say you recall them with remarkable ease.”
“Fear causes memories to sharpen,” she said, though the excuse rang false.
Archer grinned. “You were not afraid.”
They were four simple words, and as good as a confession. He’d said them before he could think. Or maybe he’d intended to say them all along. Archer truly didn’t know.
Briannon’s eyes went round and wide, her back ramrod straight. A rush of color flooded her cheeks. “My god. I’d thought…when you donned the mask and you looked so much like him, but…” Her mouth tightened. “You assaulted Lord Maynard and his coachman? And that poor horse.” She bristled with confused fear as she stood, her hands trembling. “But…but you love horses. How could you?”
The fury he’d felt when he’d learned another man was impersonating him returned with new force. He hated Briannon thinking, for one moment, that he could have been so cruel, so despicably violent. It hurt him, he realized, that her opinion of him would be so low, so base, and that alone was the basis for his next words.
“Culling the excess from privileged fops is not the same as beating a man senseless and murdering his horse. What I’ve done in the past is nothing like what this cowardly pretender is doing for his own gain.”
The things he was admitting to could not be undone. He knew this. Knew it was rash. And yet he could not stop himself.
“What you’ve done in the past,” Briannon repeated slowly. “So it was you, then, who stopped my coach? Robbed me.” Archer swallowed hard and nodded. “But…why?”
Her eyes were disbelieving orbs, fascination and fear warring in their depths.
He had never anticipated the need to explain himself to anyone, or to answer that question. Why? He had promised himself and Brandt that he would be meticulous and stealthy, careful and precise. He would take trinkets and coin purses from those who would be able to return home and replace what had been taken, and he would give every last farthing to those who needed it most—men, women, and children, struggling to put food on their tables, coal in their stoves, clothes on their backs, and shoes on their feet.
There was one thing separating the masses from the ton: a title. Something that could not be earned by honest, hard work, but by birthright. To see the privileged take what had been handed to them at birth and ignore the other side of London, the side that depressed them because of how dirty and poor it was, infuriated him.
“I do not keep the little I take,” he said finally.
“Little?” she scoffed, her voice shaking. “You took my grandmother’s pearls. Priceless heirlooms that cannot be replaced. You pointed a pistol at me!” He stepped toward her, and she stepped back, the bench at her calves trapping her. “You are nothing more than a thief and a scoundrel.”
“Heirlooms are things,” he said, the word bitter on his tongue. “Which have since been redistributed to those in need. Widows, orphans, the poor, and the ill. Trust me, they need food more than you or any other heiress need adornment. And my pistols, I’ll have you know, were empty.”
She opened her mouth and closed it. Archer stared at her flushed face, her chest heaving with the force of her emotion as she weighed his words for truth. The air fairly crackled between them, and she was fighting it. Fighting him and that same raw connection that had formed between them that night on the lane—the spark of sexual desire he’d felt from the very first moment his gaze had crashed into hers. He could see fright in her eyes, but there was something else there, too.
He wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to kiss the fear from her eyes and make them cloud with passion instead. Despite reason, he stepped closer. She inhaled sharply.
“Don’t you dare,” she said in alarm, throwing her hands between them as if to ward off his approach.
“Dare what?”
“Come any closer. I’ll scream.” Briannon’s eyes darted to the closed door.
“No, you won’t,” he said gently. “You won’t for the same reason that you wore those rubies. And I was right, wasn’t I? So better suited to you than dreary pearls.”
Her tone dripped condescension. “Did you steal those, too?”
“No. I bought them for you.”
He bridged the remaining gap between them, forcing her hands to press into his chest. She fisted them, almost pulling away, but kept them there like a shield. “Please, my lord, move away,” she said, her eyes huge. He wanted to drown in them, so clear they looked like pools of honey.
His fingers brushed her cheek, his voice gruffly tender. “I should have bought you topaz to go with those magnificent eyes. They look like molten gold with this dress.”
“And when I wear brown, my eyes look like mud, so your money would have been wasted.”
Archer smiled at her attempt to diffuse the escalating tension between them. He lowered his voice a notch and ratcheted it back up. “And what if you are wearing nothing at all?”
Briannon’s eyes flared with suppressed desire, and he grinned with satisfaction. She could deny their attraction all she wanted, but what he saw there spoke volumes. “Lord Hawksfield, please,” she began. “You cannot say such things.”
“Archer.”
She swallowed, her lip trembling. “Archer—”
The sound of his name on her tongue was a siren song. With a strangled groan, he bent his head, though halted within an inch of her mouth. Archer wanted so badly to kiss her, but he needed her to want it, too. Their breaths met and mingled as he shifted his palm up her spine. Blinking in confusion, her eyes lifted to his, her body straining toward him, and what he saw there made his pulse seize. Deep hunger shone from those rich, tawny eyes, and it was obvious she felt the attraction between them as keenly as he did.
“A moment ago you wanted me to move away,” he said quietly. “Do you still wish me to?”
Twin flags of color lit her cheeks, but she closed the gap to graze her lips against his. Their touch was so light he would have thought he’d imagined it if it weren’t for the violent reaction of his body. The shock of the intimate contact made his blood race, and his hands shook as he spread his fingers over her shoulders. Drawing her pliant length against his, Archer set his mouth to hers. Her lips were warm and soft, and tasted of lemon and spun sugar.
He plied her mouth further, using every ounce of his experience with the opposite sex to make her melt. He kissed her jaw, the taut column of her throat, and returned to her mouth, sliding his lips between the crease of hers until she opened sweetly for him. He swept in, relishing the swift retreat of her tongue.
Groaning at her shyness and the heated response it elicited in him, he continued to kiss her, reaching deeper, until her tongue made a timid return for one more decadent touch. Her fists wound into the lapels of his dinner jacket. He didn’t have to coax her now. Despite her sheltered innocence, the natural passion he had sensed lying just beneath her surface rose ardently to meet his. Archer’s arms curved around her, splaying one hand at her back and the other caressing the bare skin at her shoulder as hers hooked around his neck. There was nothing separating the heat of their bodies but a few layers of cloth and silk.
He dropped his lips to her bare shoulder, his tongue tracing a hot path on her skin. It tasted nearly as good as her mouth had. His mouth continued its exploration, tugging on the fabric that covered her breasts. She protested vaguely, a few incoherent words, but when his hand boldly caressed her breast, she gasped and fell silent. Archer couldn’t help himself—he’d been consumed by the thought of repeating the act since the Gainsbridge Masquerade. His hand slid past the ruched silk of her bodice, his tongue tracing a hot wet path
toward her earlobe. She wore no stays, and the realization enflamed him.
Greedily, Archer sought her warm flesh, cupping her breast as his mouth found hers once more. Briannon’s breast swelled against his palm as his thumb rolled across the hard point of her nipple. She moaned into his mouth, and Archer deepened the kiss. The soft, pliant feel of her nearly made him lose hold of himself. He groaned low in his throat, his tongue delving and retreating in imitation of the act he was beginning to crave with desperate longing. God, he couldn’t get enough of her—her taste, her scent, her skin. He wanted it all.
Archer broke away, and her eyes sprang open as his aroused body stood flush with hers. Her storm-tossed eyes were wide with shock, her mouth swollen and rosy, and all he wanted was to devour her.
“We have to stop,” she said, pushing lightly against him—and then spreading her fingers to touch and explore the breadth of his chest as if she couldn’t stop herself.
He couldn’t stop touching her, either, sliding his hands against her back, her shoulders, winding in the softness of her hair. “Why?”
“Because…this is…wrong.”
“Is that your opinion?” he asked, twisting her curls around his fingers and feeling the weight of the silky mass in his palm. “Or does it belong to the dozens of people downstairs who would judge you should they discover us alone like this?”
Entangled. Entranced. She fit so perfectly against him. Her curves teased the length of his body, creating an exquisite friction.
“But we could be discovered,” she said. He did not miss how she had not quite answered his question. It was not her opinion, then. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“Is that not part of the thrill?” he murmured, with a laughing growl.
“Is that why you’re doing this?” she asked, pulling back. “Mere thrill?”
He paused, unthreading his fingers from her hair and lifting his mouth from where it had been nuzzling her temple. Archer gazed down at her and saw raw, honest curiosity in her expression.
“No.” His throat closed off as soon as the answer slipped out. Not thrill. Not solely. Kissing Briannon gave him something else, something he couldn’t quite articulate. Her innate sensuality, her naive inexperience…they drove him to distraction. Never had some girl fresh from the schoolroom had such a paralyzing effect on him.
“I’ve wanted to do this again since that night at the masquerade. Kiss you. Touch you. This feels right,” he continued, his thumb caressing the point of her chin. “Tell me you don’t feel the same.”
Her lips parted, as if she lacked the strength to keep them pressed shut. When she said nothing, and the tip of her tongue darted out to touch her lower lip in thought, Archer could not resist. He sought her mouth again, sucking the tip of her tongue and holding it firm as he held her against his body. Lost as he was, she moaned and wrapped her palms around his upper arms, clinging to him as tightly as he did her.
A sensual haze engulfed him then, pulling him down and threatening to drown him in the sweetly seductive taste of her. Hell, how was he going to force himself to stop? She wasn’t prepared for the wicked things coursing through his mind: his fingers, tugging the golden gown from her shoulders, dropping it into a cloud at her feet. His body covering hers on any surface that would accommodate them. Her moans intensifying as he satisfied their desires in every possible way.
As if Briannon had been able to see his fantasies, she broke the kiss, alarm notching her brow.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There’s someone coming,” she whispered. “He called your name.”
Sure enough, Archer heard the sound of footsteps. A fist rapping on another door down the corridor. Bloody hell. With reluctance, he stepped away from Briannon and adjusted his clothing. His groin throbbed, and he hoped she was too distracted and alarmed to notice his arousal. If it was the duke coming down the corridor, or Lord Dinsmore, appearing in the door incontestably tousled—and hard—would only do Brynn’s reputation more injury. Damn it, what had he been thinking keeping her up here for so long?
Archer composed himself, opened the door, and let out a gratified breath as a footman rounded a nearby corridor. He stepped out and shut the door softly behind him. “What is it?”
“My apologies, my lord, but I have been searching for you. I understand it is quite late, but the stable master has strongly requested your audience. It seems your gray is favoring a leg. I apologize again, my lord, but—”
“It’s perfectly fine, do not apologize,” he replied, though he couldn’t rid the scowl etched upon his face that grew deeper by the second. “Where is he?”
“The kitchens, my lord.”
The last thing he wanted to do was to leave Briannon on her own to dwell upon his confession to being the Masked Marauder and to regret their kiss, but he had no choice. Brandt would never disturb him at the residence unless it was urgent. Archer dismissed the footman with a brisk nod. “Tell him I will be down in a moment.”
He reentered the room, watching as Briannon rearranged her mussed hair and fussed over the folds of her dress. Her eyes met his, and his breath caught. She looked thoroughly kissed and so wildly beautiful that it took all his strength not to haul her back into his arms and keep her there. Instead he cleared his throat and willed his body under control.
“I’m needed elsewhere, but please—do not leave. I won’t be a moment. You’ll stay?”
She hesitated, that delectable mouth of hers slack, her lips likely throbbing as his were. But then she nodded, her agreement soundless, her bright gaze fairly smoldering. Whatever Brandt wanted, it had better be damned important.
Archer closed the door behind him and took several long breaths to cool the ardor in his blood before striding toward the kitchens.
Chapter Thirteen
Brynn stared at the closed door, collapsing onto the window seat with all the grace of an ox. She wasn’t in the least bit incapable of speech. She’d wisely chosen to nod for fear of what would come flying out of her mouth.
Oh sweet Lord. It was him.
The Marquess of Hawksfield…Archer…was the Masked Marauder.
Brynn couldn’t reconcile the vivid images of the bandit lying half naked on that cot in the cottage with the autocratic gentleman who’d stood in front of her. She recalled the way Archer had favored his leg and how his hands had touched the injured spot—right where she’d shot him. She closed her eyes, wishing away the disturbing, utterly arousing recollection of his bunched, muscular thighs, and crumpled against the cushions.
Her body felt like it was being held together by the threads of her dress, and nothing much else at all. One touch of his fingers, his lips—oh god, his tongue—and she’d been rendered into a useless, brainless, mass of sensuality. His kisses had consumed her, and in the moment, being devoured by him had seemed like a perfectly wonderful way to disappear.
Suddenly breathless, she clenched her fists and turned toward the bookshelves. “Stop it,” she hissed to herself.
What did it matter if she’d seen him half naked? He was the Masked Marauder. Lord Hawksfield, the future Duke of Bradburne, was a highwayman. She paused. He wasn’t the one who had hurt Lord Maynard and his coachman, however. He’d said there was another—the one who had killed the horse—and Brynn believed him. None of that, however, changed the fact that he was a thief and had been stealing from his peers. Whether he gave the spoils to those in need or not, he was not in the right. He was nowhere near the right.
She twisted on the edge of the cushioned seat. The window behind her was draped to block the view of either the street or the side lawns; she didn’t know which. Truthfully, she didn’t quite know where in Hadley Gardens she was right then. Just that she’d been away from the other dinner guests far too long. She couldn’t stay here, waiting for Archer to return as he’d asked. But he’d left it so that she couldn’t leave, either, walking around the duke’s private residence alone without a servant, and risk getting lost.
&n
bsp; Flustered, she paced the room, her feet making little noise on the thick, luxurious carpet. Walking to a dresser on the far side of the room, she stared at herself in the mirror, noticing her swollen lips and flushed, rosy cheeks. She did not look like someone who had left to have her dress mended by a maid—she looked like…like…a woman who had been thoroughly ravished by a lover. She had to make herself look respectable before she set one foot from this room. She patted her face and smoothed the curls of her hair into normalcy. Her fingers trailed to her lips of their own volition. She could feel the phantom press of Archer’s still lingering there. God, she didn’t want to think about Archer or his blasted mouth, or what she already knew lay under those yards of superfine.
Searching for a distraction, her eyes fell on a starched piece of needlepoint still in its wicker frame, lying in a place of honor at the very center of the dresser. A sailboat had been painstakingly sewn along with a name embroidered in bold blue thread—Archer Nathaniel David Croft. Her thumb slid along the embroidery hoop as she imagined a dark-haired little boy sitting at his mother’s feet, composing this very project. Her heart constricted a little, but Brynn shook herself, placing the hoop back where it belonged. Archer wasn’t an innocent little boy. He was nothing but a blackhearted, conniving thief, and she’d do well to remember that.
What on earth was he thinking? A highwayman! If he were to be caught, he would be hanged.
“It would serve him right,” she muttered before stalking toward the door. He’d stolen her grandmother’s pearls and Lord knew how many other jewels that held sentimental value. She bristled at the memory of his mocking tone when she’d called them priceless heirlooms. Just because Brynn had returned home to a jewelry chest filled with other accessories did not mean the pearls would not be missed.
If he so desperately wished to help the poor and needy, why didn’t he just dump the money from his own bloody coffers into their palms? It was baffling to even consider. He was a peer of the realm, for heaven’s sake. She’d had enough…of him, his demands, and this room. Of her own insufferable weakness where he was concerned.
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