Page 18 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“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.Hehad 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—hewould 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. Hestole. 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 silence, 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
