Page 9 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Gray ripped off his mask. Damp waves of golden hair crashed around his sweaty temples. “It is the honorable thing to do while fencing, Brynn.”
She rolled her eyes. Honestly. Men and their honor.
“However,” Gray continued, dropping his foil to the dusty, bare, board floor. “In the event of a true fight, I expect you to bedishonorable and lunge first.”
She smiled, dropping her own foil and pulling up her mask. “Most gentlemen would advise a lady to run and scream.”
Gray arched one of his golden brows at her while unfastening his gloves. “Most gentlemen would be wiser than to teach their little sister swordplay. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Fencing is for men, not girls—and not poorly ones at that.”
Poorly! She scowled at him. “You always say that, and yet here you are. Fencing, no less, with a poorly girl!” Brynn said with a grimace, unlacing the ties along the side of her protective vest. “And losing, might I add.”
She smiled brightly to cover up the twinge that slid up her back once the fabric released. Her heart was thudding more rapidly than usual, yes, but only because of the exertions of the last hour. Good, healthy, robust exertions.
The corner of her brother’s lips twitched, betraying his amusement.
“How are your lungs?” he asked, as if inquiring about a person’s lungs was commonplace.
She chucked her padded vest at him, which he easily sidestepped. He had only been teasing her this time. It wasn’t always so.
Brynn’s lungs might as well have been another member of the family for all the attention they were given. As an infant, Brynn had suffered from all sorts of health ailments surrounding her lungs and heart: a weak pulse, an irregular heartbeat, and the occasional shortness of breath. It had been years since her last bout of pneumonia, however, and she hadn’t been short of breath for ages. Last spring, during one of her secret countryside rides with Gray, if she were to be exact. Thank heavens. She detested feeling like an invalid, and it was even worse being treated like one.
Brynn had been cosseted all her life, but she couldn’t fault her mother for it—the two babies she’d birthed between Gray and Brynn had both died of the same mysterious respiratory ailments brought on by complications of croup. Brynn had the good fortune to survive and had been smothered ever since.
Mama was the worst of them when it came to fretting over her daughter’s health, but Gray did worry. Brynn noticed it in the careful way he’d inspect her whenever they slowed their horses to a walk while riding Ferndale’s grounds. It was in the sharp looks he sent her whenever she coughed or wheezed during one of her usual winter colds. Or like now, when he took a furtive glance over his shoulder to assess the coloring of her cheeks.
Brynn caught him and shook her head. “I’m sweaty as a wildebeest, Gray, and not in any danger of fainting. Honestly, stop worrying that I’m going to swoon any second. I’d never hear the end of it, would I?”
He grinned, displaying the dimple in his left cheek that the two of them shared. Brynn had always thought it suited him better than it did her.
“I don’t think wildebeests are excessively sweaty creatures,” he said.
“Is that what they taught you at Oxford?” she cut back.
“Actually, we studied the elusive pygmy marmoset.”
Grinning, she swatted him on the shoulder as they placed their fencing gear in the room’s small closet. Her brother liked to tease her, and she liked to pretend it vexed her, when really it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Brynn shut the door and hoped none of the upstairs maids would be sent on a mission to clean out this part of the attic. If Mama were to hear of fencing gear being discovered in a closet, it would not take her long to ferret out the reason. Gray had been the one who’d taught Brynn to ride, too, and when Mama had learned aboutthat, the tongue thrashing had been unforgettable.
Gray made a first inspection of the attic corridor before opening the door wide.
“Our escape route is clear,” he said in a dramatic voice that might have rivaled a stage villain. She faltered a moment, remembering the quick, expressive tempo of the masked bandit’s voice. Perhaps he was indeed an actor, trained to modify his voice from role to role. She shook her head. It didn’t matter now.
They started for the attic stairwell, Brynn’s day dress slightly wrinkled from the protective vest she’d been strapped into. She tried to smooth the linen but to no avail.
“Mother said he spoke to you.”
Brynn turned to her brother, who had turned completely serious.
“The Masked Marauder,” he prompted. “Mother said he ordered you out of the carriage and then closed the door.” Gray slowed his pace and took her elbow in hand, an ominous warning in the press of his fingers. “Did he touch you?”
“No, of course not. I was unharmed, I assure you.” Brynn considered her words with care, knowing that if she told him the truth, Gray would explode. “He was…not at all what I expected of a bandit.”
She recalled the gentle way the masked man’s fingers had skimmed across her exposed nape and the tender skin of her throat. Yes, his eyes had undressed her with barely concealed fervor, but even that, she had determined after thinking on it multiple times, had still been done…well…gentlemanly, she supposed. Though that did not seem the correct word for it.
No common bandit would have such smooth fingers or polished manners, either. She flushed at the recollection, and then noticed her brother’s eyes darting to the sudden bloom of color in her cheeks.
“What is it? Are you unwell?”
