Page 88 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“Drop your pistol,” Brynn said, her wrist shaking from the tension up and down her raised arm.
“Give me the diamonds,” was his reply.
“Brynn, step aside,” Archer said, his voice deadly calm.
She did, moving closer to the coach.
“Now, you lecherous bastard, I suggest you—”
Archer’s sentence was cut off, just as Beckett’s had been, with a grunt and the sound of a commotion behind her.
Brynn made the mistake of spinning around to see what had happened to him. Her eyes had barely taken in the sight of Archer, unmoving on the ground with a hooded figure standing over his body, when a hand clamped over her mouth. The imposter’s arm hooked her waist and sealed her body against his, pinning her arms to her sides. He squeezed her wrist until a sharp pain cracked through the small bones, forcing her to drop the pistol. Her muted screams filled his palm instead of echoing out to passersby as she thrashed.
She did have one weapon left, however, and by all that was holy, she would use it.
Brynn opened her mouth and bared her teeth, biting into the meaty flesh just under his thumb. It tasted like salted cod and dirt, but she continued to clamp her jaw until the man released her with a howl. She stumbled away and tried to run to Archer and the shorter, hooded man, but the imposter grabbed her arm, pulled her to a stop, and spun her to face him.
She saw a hand flying at her head. Felt an agonizing blow to her cheek and nose that rattled everything in her skull.
And then nothing more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Archer’s eyes creaked open and then closed once again at the excruciating pain pulsating through his head. He blinked gingerly as waves of nausea followed. It took him a full minute to get his bearings, and then awareness came rushing back. En route to the Kensingtons’, their plan had worked. He’d had the masked imposter at the end of his pistol, but some unseen assailant had attacked him from behind. A blow to his head.
Oh god.
Brynn.
His eyes searched for her in the darkness and settled on a dim shape at the far side of the room. The emerald silk dress lay like a shroud around her, but he could see the slight rise and fall of her shoulders. She was still alive. He exhaled, relief swamping him. If that bastard and his accomplice had hurt her, they wouldn’t have lived to see the light of day.
He blinked again, his eyes adjusting to the shadows of the room. The smell of horses and dung permeated the air. They were in a mews, but where, he did not know.
Forcing himself to think clearly, he assessed the situation. His hands were bound behind his back and something filthy was pulled tight across his mouth. A damp and sticky wetness coated the skin of his brow and made his eyelids heavy. Archer knew it was blood, even though he could not feel the sting of an injury. He could smell its rusty and metallic odor. What he didn’t know was how bad the wound was, and whether or not he could free himself and rescue Brynn before their unknown assailant came back. For now, they seemed to be alone.
Archer took in his surroundings, looking for weapons or anything sharp that he could use to loosen the ties around his wrists. If they were in a mews, then where were the grooms? Someone should be here. But there were no sounds except for the gentle nicker of horses in the neighboring stalls. His head still felt cottony, and his tongue pushed against the disgusting rag in his mouth as he attempted to swallow.
He assumed that they were still in London, but there were hundreds of carriage houses to choose from. His eyes narrowed on the rows of tack. Archer frowned, his stare traveling in reverse to stop on a familiar saddle, polished to a burnished shine.
His own saddle.
At least, it looked like his. Was this Hadley Gardens? As he squinted around the stall another time, his befuddled senses clearing, he was certain it was. His relief was short-lived as he realized why the carriage house was empty. No onewashere. This was one of the few nights during the week the grooms were off. Normally Brandt would be hanging about, but, of course, he was stuck facing a nightmare of his own in a dank cell. And if Archer didn’t free himself and Brynn, his friend would stay there for the rest of his days.
Archer renewed his struggles, scooting backward until he came to a center post. He pushed through the rabid throbbing of his skull and sawed at his ropes using the post’s splintered edge. Once he felt them loosening, he increased his efforts.
“Archer?” Brynn’s voice was muffled, and he realized her mouth was also bound.
“Here,” he managed, limited by the gag, watching as she pulled herself into a sitting position.
Her hands were tied, as well, but lay on her lap instead of behind her. Having adjusted to the dim light, he saw a trickle of blood under her nose and a flowering purple bruise on the side of her temple. Archer’s fists clenched, and his earlier vow to beat their assailants into a fine mash returned. She lifted her hands to tug the dirty brown cloth from between her lips.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Hadley Gardens, I think.” He hoped she could understand his muffled words.
“Are you hurt?” she asked and then gasped as her eyes, too, adjusted to the gloom. “You’re bleeding.”
“A scratch.”
