Page 99 of My Rogue, My Ruin
The gruff and sensual timbre of his voice made her pulse scatter. She could sense him looking at her and felt herself crumbling beneath his gaze. Her battered heart could take only so much, and seeing him now, being with him…sheer will alone was holding her together.
Be strong, Brynn reminded herself.You have to let him go. It’s what he wants.
But heaven help her—allshewanted was to hurl herself at him.
“I’m glad,” she blurted out. “You are a far better man than any father could have hoped for. I’m so very sorry about Eloise, but your name has been cleared, and you can finally put this mess behind you. You can move on with your life.”
“Brynn.”
“And you needn’t worry about me,” she continued, ignoring the weight of his searching gaze. “In time, the gossip will die down, and people will replace it with the next new scandal that comes along. I will be fine.”
“Brynn.” Archer turned her firmly to face him, but she stared determinedly at his shirtfront. “I don’t want you to be fine.”
“You…you don’t?” He shook his head, and she frowned, looking up at him.
“I want you to be happy. Deliriously happy,” he said. “And I want the chance to be the man who makes you so.”
Another rumble of thunder cut into his reply. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. His words didn’t make sense. “But you called off the betrothal. You don’t want this…me.”
“You think I don’t wantyou?” A strangled sound erupted from his mouth. He grasped her shoulders, his eyes dark. “Are you mad? You are the only thing I think about. All day. All night.Especiallyat night. I can’t get you out of my head. I put that notice in theTimesbecause…it turns out, Iama coward.”
“You’re not,” she whispered, her heart threatening to erupt from her chest. “You’re the most courageous person I know. You save sick orphans and widows and bring hope to the hopeless.” She smiled through the rush of emotion threatening to choke her. “Though I do question your methods, it’s clear your heart is in the right place.”
Archer’s thumb grazed her chin as if he were touching something infinitely precious. “I’m not worthy of you, Brynn. But I want so much to be. I…”
With an inarticulate groan, his mouth swooped down on hers as the first drops of rain fell. She gasped at the sweet urgency of his kiss. It reached deep into the very center of her body, Archer’s hunger sudden and fierce, matching hers breath for breath. Unwilling to leave a sliver of space between them, he fitted her body against his, his hand rounding her buttocks and pressing his thighs flush against hers. The possessive touch was her undoing. Brynn moaned and clung to him, winding her fingers in his coat, unwilling to let him part from her. She arched against him, her hands climbing up around his neck to draw him closer. She couldn’t hold a single thought in her head as his mouth pushed harder against hers, his tongue claiming hers with desperate need. They stood there, devouring each other, as the rain drenched their bodies and lightning cleaved the sky.
Apollo reared up wildly as a peal of thunder shook the earth. The sudden motion drove her and Archer apart, Brynn managing to grab Apollo’s reins before he spooked, and Archer doing the same with his horse. Water ran into his face and down his body, making the shirt beneath the open panels of his jacket stick to the muscled planes of his chest. Even in the rapidly falling darkness, the sight of him, illuminated by a streak of lightning, made Brynn quiver with want. Archer stared at her in a similar fashion, his eyes consuming her as greedily as hers devoured him. She gathered her breath, realizing the thin white shirt she wore wouldn’t offer much in the way of coverage. Her body burned at Archer’s ravenous gaze.
There were two choices open to them: he could go back to Worthington Abbey and she to Ferndale.Or…she could throw away every shred of decorum she had left and give in to the demands of her body—and her heart. She wanted him. She’d wanted him for so long, even before their encounter at Bishop House, when his hands and fingers had touched her to her soul. Brynn’s chest heaved with the force of the storm brewing inside of her. It surpassed the very real one howling about them. It was a storm only Archer could appease. Brynn closed her eyes and exhaled.
She climbed astride Apollo. “Follow me. My cottage. It’s not far.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Archer stoked the fire while Brynn changed behind a screen. He had tied the horses into the attached stall on the far side of the cottage, stocked with fresh hay and water for her horse’s use. Apollo didn’t seem to mind sharing his bed with a stranger.
The flames lent the inside of the cottage a warm, welcoming glow. He hadn’t been inside before, but everything about it felt like her. The cottage itself comprised a single room dominated by a bed on one end and the vestibule on the other. Books were crammed onto the bookshelves along one wall, and whimsical paintings graced the others. A tiny wooden table and a single armchair stood in one snug corner.
He shrugged out of his wet jacket, but kept the rest of his clothes on. Despite her suggestion of using the cottage to weather the storm, Archer didn’t want to make any assumptions. He wouldn’t touch her unless she invited him to. Because one touch, one taste, and it would be over. He wouldn’t be able to resist her, and he knew she, too, would give herself to him. Archer didn’t want her to make that decision in the heat of the moment, when her mind and her heart were in tumult. If Brynn wanted him the way he did her, he wanted nothing but her sober, self-possessed permission.
“There should be water in the kettle,” Brynn said, emerging from behind the screen. “For some tea.”
She had changed into a simple linen shift, a heavy blanket pulled around her shoulders. The sight of her made his breath catch. Like a barefoot duchess, she was fresh and innocent and completely beguiling. She joined him by the fire and combed her fingers through her damp hair. Catching the light, the wet strands gleamed like flame in her hands. Resisting the urge to gather her in his arms and bury his face in her hair, he did as she asked instead, boiling the water for tea while she sat upon a stool before the fire.
“Are you well? How are your lungs?” he asked, handing her a steaming mug. He remembered her draped in his arms, unconscious at the engagement ball, and a frisson of worry shot through him.
“The chill won’t take if I am warm and dry.”
Archer took another stool and moved to sit behind her. Her eyes flared at his nearness, but he did nothing more than run his fingers through the silky burnished coppery gold waves, holding them out toward the warmth of the fire.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He smiled. “Drying your hair.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
