Page 20 of My Rogue, My Ruin
She clutched at the man’s shoulder and nearly toppled off Zeus as his weight slid against her. His head sank into the groove of her neck and shoulder. His clean scent of cedar and smoke struck her again, as it had the first time they’d met. Part of her wanted him to smell, well, like a highwayman should—grimy and unpleasant. She couldn’t seem to focus with him smelling so blasted appealing.
Brynn fought a wave of self-disgust as she pushed him off her. She couldn’t just leave him here to die. But where could she go? She looked around in a panic. There were trees and more trees, and a road that led south, nearly an hour’s coach ride to the village, or north to Worthington Abbey. She was sure that Hawksfield would be anything but thrilled to be roused past midnight from his bed. Or perhaps he wouldn’t be asleep if he was anything like his degenerate father as Gray had suggested. The thought made her inexplicably furious.
“Where do you live?” she snapped.
His eyes slanted open. Brynn could tell that he was disoriented, either from the blood loss or perhaps from some low-lying tree branch when his horse had bolted. “Shot me, boy.”
“We’ve already established that. Do you live nearby?”
“Cottage,” he gasped and pointed through the woods. “Ten minutes th’way.”
She groaned in frustration. The way he was butchering his speech, he wouldn’t stay conscious another two minutes, most likely. But it would take far longer than that to get back to Ferndale. Gritting her teeth, she made a decision, and looping his bridle in hers, steered the horses in the direction he’d pointed. She hoped that he wasn’t delirious already and giving out flawed instruction.
After about fifteen minutes, she could see a light in the distance through the thicket, and her heart leaped with relief. Tying the horses to a nearby post, she dismounted. She was either insane or entirely too gullible to be escorting a known criminal into a strange cottage. No. She’d take him in and leave immediately.
“Wake up,” she said, her eyes on the windows. Only one room appeared to have a fire going, otherwise the place looked asleep. “We’re here.”
The bandit grunted and half slid, half fell off the horse. Brynn braced herself as he leaned his weight against her, and they hobbled into the cottage. She hoped he truly was as weak as he seemed and not playacting, otherwise more than her reputation would be on the line. She held on to the fact that he still thought her a boy, and ushered him inside. The interior was empty and dim but for a low fire built into the hearth.
The man stumbled to a cot set up by the fire and collapsed on it with a belabored moan. She stared at him for a moment, transfixed by the black scrap of silk that hid his features from view. He was a gentleman; she was sure of it. No common bandit spoke as he did, or looked as he looked. She eyed his trim length, draped halfway on the too-small cot. His boots were scuffed but made from fine leather. The cut of his cloak was tailored, the stitching fine. He was a man of means, and yet he stole. Despite herself, she was intrigued.
It would be so easy to lift the silk and unveil the man behind the mask. Brynn’s fingers itched to do just that, but she fisted them tightly at her sides.
Did she truly want to know?
A part of her screamed yes, but another part—the smarter, logical part—urged her to put as much distance between herself and this gentleman bandit as possible. Brynn turned to leave, but his wheezing voice stopped her at the door.
“Boy. Need to clean. Infection…help. Please.”
That last word stalled her.Please. He should have been cursing at her for shooting him in the first place, but here he was, begging nicely for her assistance.
If she didn’t at least bandage the wound to stop the bleeding, he could still die. She exhaled and pressed her head against the worn wood of the door. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed? Tossing restlessly until dawn would have been preferable to this madness. But as abominable as the man was, she couldn’t walk out the door and rush home. It would be heartless and cold, and for heaven’s sake, she had been the one to shoot him!
“Fine,” she muttered out loud. She’d patch him up as best she could andthenleave. Besides, like the ladies in the carriage had been, the bandit seemed to be under the impression that she was indeed a young lad. Which meant she was safe. Somewhat. She hoped.
Brynn pulled the brim of her hat lower, until she was certain the top half of her face at least would be concealed, and then turned around. Blood had drenched his pant leg, turning the black fabric an even darker shade of ink. A small pool of it had already formed on the floor where his injured limb was hanging off the cot.
He rolled his head side to side, appearing delirious. No, she could not abandon the deuced man.
She approached the cot, thinking furiously as to what to do next. She was no healer, and had most certainly never mended a gunshot wound before. First, she supposed she needed to see the actual injury. Brynn touched the blood-soaked trouser leg, thinking she would find the hole made by the bullet. But the man grunted in pain as she poked and tugged, and he made a clumsy swipe of his hand to push her away.
“Off,” he groaned. “Take off.”
She stared at his masked face, incredulous. His eyes were shut, and the black silk fluttered where it had shifted to cover his lips.
“Off?” she repeated, forgetting to alter her voice. She coughed. “You want me to—”
“And whiskey. O’er there,” he panted, his head flopping to the side. Brynn followed the direction of his eyes and saw a ceramic jar in the center of a trestle table.
She rushed for the jug first, her mind still tripping over his suggestion that she remove his trousers. She could notundresshim! He was the Masked Marauder! A criminal of the worst ilk.
And yet he was still a man who’d been shot. She did need access to the wound, something that would be much easier done without his trousers on. Much easier still had she truly been the boy she was pretending to be. But she wasn’t. She was a woman. A lady, at that. She had never dreamed she’d find herself in such an improper and scandalous position.
Well, she’d always craved a good adventure, and here it was. It was her own fault, and she had to face the consequences, no matter how…provoking they were. Brynn’s heart drummed while a strange and unexpected grin touched the corner of her lips. Good Lord, she was losing her mind.
“Lie still,” she ordered, returning with the whiskey and setting it on the floor beside the cot, far from the pooling blood.
Her fingers shook again as she reached for his waist.Pretend he’s Gray. A brother. Nothing more.And men wore smalls, didn’t they? It wasn’t as if he’d be entirely undressed the moment she wriggled his trousers down. At least, that was what she continued to tell herself as she worked the buttons at the front of his trousers. Once the narrow fall came loose, she peeled it down, and her breath stuck like honey in her throat.
