My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  He needed time alone at Worthington Abbey to come to terms with all the things Eloise had revealed in her final minutes. Everything had unfolded so quickly that when the authorities had arrived at Hadley Gardens and inquired what had happened, Archer had not felt guilty in the least for lying. Preserving his sister’s memory and honor had been his foremost goal, and thankfully Brynn, her lady’s maid, Lana, and Northridge had gone along with the story Archer had quickly concocted:

  The Masked Marauder had set upon the carriage taking Lord Northridge, Lady Briannon, and her lady’s maid to the Kensington Ball, and Archer had simply chanced upon the attack. They had all been forced back to the Hadley Gardens mews for safekeeping while the bandit scoured the main home for the loot he’d had to leave behind on his last visit—the visit where he had beaten and killed the Duke of Bradburne. Eloise had interrupted the bandit in the mews, and she had been shot. Northridge had wrestled free of his restraints, gotten ahold of the bandit’s second pistol, and had shot the bandit, though not before a lit candle had set the stable on fire.

  That story had been the one printed on the front page of every major newspaper in the city. It was the one that had run like wildfire through the ton. And it was the one Archer wished were true. The truth was ugly and complex, and much more difficult to understand. He doubted he ever would. Archer also owed Northridge a debt that could never be repaid, not over any lifetime. His quick thinking and unflinching courage had saved Brynn. Had saved him.

  As the rooftops of Worthington Abbey came into view, Archer gave his mount a nudge. He wanted to get home and start with the tasks that needed seeing to. Clearing out his father’s and sister’s rooms would hurt, but it was better done straightaway rather than let it hang over him like a shroud. He had sent his staff ahead, and things should be well underway.

  A horse and rider sat in the middle of the lane up ahead, just before the twin pillars that marked the entrance drive to the abbey. He knew the slouch of the rider’s shoulders, the low pulled brim of his hat, and, more recently, the stiff hold of his right leg.

  “I’ve been sitting here for an hour,” Brandt called. “Your lack of sympathy for my injury stings, Hawk.”

  Archer withheld the grin fighting to bow his lips. He hadn’t seen Brandt since his release from Newgate the morning after the mews fire. Thomson had nothing on Brandt worthy of facing the magistrate to begin with, and now with the “Masked Marauder” dead, there had been no point in keeping him imprisoned. Brandt had sent a message to Hadley Gardens saying he was free, but that it would be best to keep a safe distance from Archer for a little while at least.

  The sight of him now was a sorely needed balm. Archer wouldn’t let on, of course.

  “One pistol wound to the thigh and three days in the Stone Jug has made you quite an old hen, my friend,” Archer said, reining in his mount.

  “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. You whined like an old lady over yours, if I recall.” Brandt laughed, tipping back his head and shaking it. “Remind me to never take a bullet for you again.”

  They sat atop their mounts in silence for a few moments, the good humor evaporating like morning mist.

  Brandt squinted against the sun. “I read the Times.”

  Archer shifted uncomfortably. He’d ridden straight through since London, and his body ached from the hours of travel, but he’d welcomed the distraction. This variety of pain was preferable to the kind he could not cure.

  “Do you want to tell me what really happened?” Brandt asked.

  “Not particularly,” he answered. But he directed his horse through the pillared gates and recounted everything he knew anyway. Brandt deserved nothing but the truth, and he may well provide some fresh insight. Archer could use it.

  Unable to approach the main house just yet, he rode with Brandt to Pierce Cottage. Once they’d worked together to rub down and water their mounts, Archer had finished the true version of events. He’d kept emotion out of it, but laying it bare made everything he’d buried deep inside ache.

  Brandt hung their saddles and tack without a word while Archer waited. He crossed his arms, nerves jumping, as his friend finished stabling the two horses. If he hadn’t known Brandt so well, he’d have been growling with impatience. But Archer knew he was only carefully choosing his reply to everything he had just heard.

  “You are a good brother,” Brandt finally said, leaning against the frame of the stable doors. He crossed his arms and ankles and stared into the paddock, the ground still muddy and puddled in spots where the spring rains had not yet dried up.

  “Did you hear a word I said?” Archer asked.

  He had not expected an ounce of praise, that was for certain.

  “You made certain Eloise’s character remained unblemished and unknown by those who did not love or care for her the way you did.”

  Archer frowned, averting his eyes to the bales of hay stacked in the back of the stables. He had not allowed tears since the night Eloise had taken her own life. They threatened to brim now, however.

  “Archer,” Brandt said in a way that made it clear he’d noticed. “You know as well as I that there cannot be great hatred without some fragment of love burning there to fuel it.”

  Archer leaned against the opposite stable door jamb and faced Brandt.

  “I believe Eloise hated herself, not you. She needed someone to bear the brunt of that hatred, because she could not accept it upon herself,” Brandt said. “I think she just chose the strongest person she knew.”

  Archer swore under his breath. Strong? He didn’t feel it in the least. “How the devil do I get on from this? Every time I think of her and what she suffered…the lies she told to me, to everyone…”

  He couldn’t finish. For the past two weeks he’d been searching his memory for the hints he had overlooked of her hatred for him. The only thing he could determine for certain was that she had been a superb actress.

  Brandt stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder before turning for the cottage. “You get on like we all do—put one foot in front of the other, then the next.” He paused, looking back. “I saw the second notice in the Times, too, the one postponing your wedding.”

  Archer stayed where he was and slammed the back of his head upon the weathered wood. He did not want to remember that announcement, even though it had been a necessity. Thinking of Brynn and remembering her touch, her lips, and the desire she stirred within him had been his only source of comfort these last wearisome weeks. And yet, thoughts of her had worn on him as well.

  “Have you seen her?” Brandt called from where he’d limped to the cottage’s front door.

  Archer turned to follow him. “Who?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. I heard one of the house staff saying Ferndale was being readied for Lord Dinsmore and his family. They thought to take a break from London for a time, as well.”

  Ensconced in the country for the summer, it would be a place where her parents would not have to weather any direct embarrassment from the broken betrothal. He stepped into the cottage, shaking his head. It had to be done.

  He’d never intended to marry at all. The act had simply been a necessity, and it had been easy to stomach, considering the girl knew the game. And she’d been one hell of an ally. Everything about Briannon had impressed him—her courage, her humor, her indomitable nature. She was everything any man could ever want. But Archer did not deserve her, this he knew. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her, of crushing that incredible spirit of hers. What if he turned out to be like the late duke, just as her own brother had feared?

  “You are frowning,” Brandt commented.

  “Canceling the banns was the right thing to do. My reputation would ruin her good name.”

  Brandt didn’t make a reply, though the crinkled forehead and frown spoke it for him. He didn’t believe Archer.

  “So what will you do with your time then, Your Grace?” he asked instead, dipping into a cartoonish bow. His wound mus
t have pained him because he hissed and straightened his back without putting weight on his right leg.

  “You deserved that,” Archer muttered. “And I will fill my time easily enough.”

  “The Marauder is dead?”

  Brandt’s question had nothing at all to do with the man Eloise had shot. His name had turned out to be Mr. Gregory Barnstead, the third son of a late baron from somewhere up in Cumbria. Barnstead had come to London with the little inheritance he’d been afforded upon his father’s death and had gambled it away within a week at a gaming hell.

  All of London had determined the man had been desperate and had resorted to becoming a highwayman to make a living. He’d been bred from the gentry, and perhaps that was why he’d been polite—at first. He must have become desperate, the papers had opined, and had taken out his anger and frustration upon his victims.

  Archer, however, figured Eloise had found the wretched cad and had offered him a fine sum for his assistance. What Barnstead had said, about being someone no one cared to notice, made sense if he was a bitter third son of a baron.

  No, what Brandt meant to ask was if Archer’s marauder was dead.

  “I do not know,” he answered honestly, trying to sort through the mess of his thoughts. “It’s all I have. It’s all I’ve ever been able to offer to anyone.”

  “That’s hogwash and you know it,” Brandt said. “You’re afraid to give up the Marauder, Hawk. You’ve been using that identity as a shield for so long you’ve forgotten how to exist without it.”

  Brandt’s words hit with barbed accuracy. Damn him.

  “I should go,” Archer said. Not that he wanted to. Pierce Cottage, at least, felt as comforting as a home ought to.

  But it was time.

  Archer went for the door.

  “They are said to be arriving today, you know.”

  Brandt said it to his back, and yet the words hit low in Archer’s stomach. “Don’t.”

  “You love her. Admit it.”

  Archer grasped the doorknob and pulled it wide, the warm spring afternoon gusting into his face. She smelled this way—fresh and clean and with the barest hint of moss. The memory of her scent was enough to unhinge him. The girl had gotten under his skin and deep into his senses. But none of that mattered now.

  “What if I turn out to be a bastard like my father was? What if I love her now, want her now, but the feelings fade with time?”

  “So you do love her.”

  Archer clenched his fists, despair filling him. “Did you not hear the rest of what I said? What if one day the feeling ends? What if I can’t explain it or stop it from ending?” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, gritty from road dust. “I can’t stand the idea of hurting her. Of disappointing her.”

  Brynn had given so much of herself to him. She’d risked her life pulling that stunt with the Bradburne diamonds, and when Archer had been forced, bound and gagged, to watch Barnstead put his hands all over her, he’d wanted to murder the impersonator and then flog himself for being the one who put her in danger to begin with.

  Archer wanted to wrap her in his arms and fight off the rest of the world. He’d indulged a vision of her for these last few weeks, of her buried under the blankets of his bed in Worthington Abbey, deep in slumber, her silky curls strewn over his pillow. There, beside him, he would keep her safe. He would cherish her and ravish her in equal measure. He would do everything he could to make her smile and laugh. To make her happy in every possible way—just as he had promised her brother.

  I love her.

  “You’re right,” Brandt said, interrupting the sudden awareness that had wriggled into Archer’s head. “You would disappoint her. You’re certainly not good enough for her. Especially as the Masked Marauder with your heart under lock and key.”

  Archer turned and eyed his stable master. “What?”

  “You’d make all sorts of mistakes, I wager.”

  He crossed his arms and stared at Brandt, guessing his game. “Would I?”

  “You’d cheat, that’s for certain. You’d lie to her, too. About everything. Including your marauding ways.” Archer held his tongue as his friend went on. “Not to mention, the way you’d stop admiring her. But why wouldn’t you? She’s going to become a boring ninny. They all do.”

  She would not, Archer thought to himself, half annoyed by Brandt’s teasing. But it had made him pause. Lying to Brynn, cheating with other women…he could not envision it.

  Those were the things his father had done. But had the duke ever felt for Archer’s mother the way Archer felt for Brynn? Had he ever loved her with a force that felt utterly unstoppable? A force that made him feel full to bursting, so just the idea of losing her was enough to make him feel empty, bereft of any purpose or joy?

  Just as he felt now.

  Not even the idea of continuing his raids as the Masked Marauder could fill that gaping void. It would not be enough to fill him, he knew. It would be nowhere near enough to make him happy.

  There was only one person who could give him that, and she could never be a part of such a dangerous and secret life. He didn’t want her to be a part of it. Hell, he didn’t want that life any more at all.

  He wanted only her.

  “The Marauder is dead,” Archer said, and repeated it more firmly as the decision took root. “He’s dead. It’s over, Brandt.”

  Now that he held control of the dukedom’s finances, he would be able to begin repairing the damage that had been done. His investments, as risky and vulgar as they might seem to other members of the peerage, would turn a profit. He would soon be able to help those who truly needed it without living the dangerous double life of a highwayman.

  Brandt nodded before stoking the fire in the cookstove, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin. “I’m relieved to hear it. I’m weary of saving your arse.”

  “You could have been killed,” Archer said, all seriousness. “I was selfish and stupid, and I will never put anyone else I care about in danger like that again.”

  Brandt put on a pot of water to boil. “Apology accepted. Though, I wouldn’t reject an additional offer to pay my tab at the village tavern.”

  Archer laughed. “You’ll sink me before I’m afloat again.”

  He rested his hands on the back of a chair at the long supper table, a sense of peace descending upon him. Pulling out the nearby chair, he felt too restless to sit and turned back for the door. He’d feel restless until he stepped inside Worthington Abbey as its master for the first time.

  Until he entered its grand foyer and felt how completely and utterly alone he was there. Then again, with Briannon he would never be alone. Unlike his father, he knew he could be a worthy husband. He also knew he’d do whatever it took to make himself worthy of her.

  “So,” Brandt said with a knowing laugh as if he could see right through him, “when are you planning to tell the lady of your intentions?”

  His answer must have been written all over his face because Brandt grinned and clapped him on the back.

  “Go get her, Hawk,” he said.

  He knew he must.

  Archer left the cottage with a fire under his heels.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The evening sun descended beyond the rolling hills of Ferndale, spreading rose-tinged fingers across the meadows and dusting the countryside with a golden sheen. A few dark clouds threatened on the horizon, but they only added to the beauty of the burgeoning twilight.

  Brynn tore her eyes from the windows and watched as the footmen cleared the last of the dinner plates, her gaze locking with her mother’s fraught one across the ornately set dining table. Though it was only a quiet family dinner, Brynn longed to escape to the solitude of her chambers—and from the fretful eye of her mother. Lady Dinsmore had taken it to heart that both of her offspring had been in mortal danger, which had propelled her motherly devotion to new heights.

  Surprisingly, she had taken the postponement of the banns well. The reasoning—that the n
ew duke was far too consumed by grief over the deaths of his father and sister—was beyond reproach. However, that did not stop her from treating Brynn as if she were made of eggshells, about to crack at the slightest pressure. As such, Brynn’s health had been the subject for most of the dinner conversation, despite Gray’s Herculean efforts to steer it elsewhere. Brynn swallowed her sigh of exasperation at her mother’s suddenly acute stare.

  On cue, Lady Dinsmore’s eyes narrowed. “You look quite pale, dear. Are you about to have a spell?”

  Brynn stifled a sigh along with the tart response that she was weary only from all the smothering. “Mama, for the thousandth time, I am fine. My lungs are fine. I am not sick or in any immediate danger of becoming sick. I am pale because I have not been outside in days, and that is because you are convinced I will collapse at the slightest puff of wind.”

  Her veiled sarcasm was entirely lost on the countess, however. Lady Dinsmore tut-tutted. “No, no, there’s a distinct quiver in your voice. You need to get some rest.” She signaled to one of the hovering footmen. “Summon her maid at once. Lady Briannon wishes to retire.”

  She felt her face grow hot, and an irrepressible need to be taken for her word, to be trusted and undisputed, drove her to her feet.

  “I do not,” Brynn snapped. “Enough, Mama. Please.” She gentled her voice, seeing her mother’s displeasure and forestalling the forthcoming explosion. “I love you, but I am not a child who needs to be put to bed. I am a grown woman, and I need a reprieve from this constant mothering. I am going out.”