Page 15 of My Rogue, My Ruin
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 outon 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.”
