Page 35 of My Rogue, My Ruin
She relaxed into the rocking movement of the carriage and tried not to think about what her future held. Perhaps there was still hope that her mysterious highwayman would appear and whisk her away from it all.
Suddenly the carriage jolted to a stop. Brynn’s heart skipped a beat as Gray hopped from the conveyance with a look that said she should stay put. She did. For a moment. If it was indeed the masked man making yet another attack, she would never forgive herself for hiding in a carriage simply because her brother had wanted her to.
Brynn descended the steps. There was no Masked Marauder demanding no displays of heroism. Instead, another conveyance up ahead lay on its side. Brynn’s eyes widened, her hands clasped to her mouth. A man leaned against one upturned carriage wheel for support, while another sat upon the edge of the path, his head clasped between his hands. Gray stalled her with a raised hand, but Brynn wasn’t to be stopped. She approached the man who was standing, his hands clutching his head. Recognition was swift. It was Earl Maynard, one of her father’s oldest friends. “Lord Maynard, what happened here?”
The aging earl cleared his throat and blubbered the words Brynn was dreading…the ones she already knew he would say. “It was the Masked Marauder. He beat Berthold unconscious. Shot my horse! Nearly shot me, too.” He turned toward her, and in the light of her footman’s torch, Brynn almost vomited.
His face was covered in livid wounds, his eyes puffy, and his mouth split. Blood dampened the white of his cravat. Her gaze returned to the motionless horse in the road, and the strength drained from her body. It was just an animal, but she couldn’t stop the shuddering sobs from creeping up in her chest.
Brynn slumped down. The thief she had fantasized about had done this. She had imagined him kissing her, rescuing her. She had dreamed of his touch. Her skin crawled with revulsion and shame.
The rubies weighed unnaturally heavy around her neck as another thought occurred to her: when Hawksfield had left the masquerade he’d been angry. Had she been wrong to dismiss him?Couldhe be the Marauder? Was he capable of such cruelty?
Brynn recalled the chilling look on his face as he’d left, and shivered. But how? It was common knowledge that Hawksfield loved horses, prided them. He’d returned Apollo to Ferndale as promised, groomed, fed, and happy. She could not claim to know the enigmatic Marquess of Hawksfield well, but surely his integrity would never allow him to sink to such callous violence.
No. It was clear now that the masked bandit was nothing more than a lowbrow thief. Cold-blooded and vicious. And she had been a blind, overly romantic fool to ever consider otherwise.
Chapter Ten
Archer reigned in Morpheus as he came upon Pierce Cottage. The two-story stone and timber home and barn were quiet and sleepy in the early Sunday morning light. There was still a chill in the air. Morpheus’s hot breath clouded with every pant, but Archer didn’t feel the cold. His body had alternated between mild and sweltering heat since hearing the news a half hour before, when Archer’s valet had entered his bedroom.
“There has been an incident,” Porter had said, causing Archer to sit up and push the fog of sleep away.
His valet, ever efficient, had relayed the attack on Lord Maynard’s coach the night before in as few words as possible.
“It is being called the work of the Masked Marauder,” Porter had finished. However, Archer had already been up and pulling off his nightclothes to get dressed.
He was wrapping Morpheus’s traces around a post when Brandt opened the cottage’s front door.
“You look like hell,” he greeted with his usual lopsided grin. “How’s the leg?”
“Fine,” he snapped. He’d been lucky, Archer supposed, that the shot had been so shallow. It was healing at a fast pace, though it still oozed from time to time, especially when he moved too briskly.
Archer stormed past his friend into the warm, familiar front room of Pierce Cottage. Aged oak floorboards, a large stone hearth with a fire in the grate. The long table surrounded by chairs and benches that had been in the same place for as long as Archer could recall. The cookstove sat in a far corner, and when Brandt’s mother was alive, it had emitted the finest scents Archer’s nose had ever traced. Warm yeasty rolls, butter cookies, roasted chicken, and savory puddings. He knew he was in trouble when his stomach didn’t so much as grumble with a single pang of hunger.
He felt ill.
And furious.
Brandt closed the front door and turned to him, his arms crossing over his chest. He was as tall as Archer and as thickly built, but Brandt had a gentleness about him that Archer lacked. It was a grace and tranquility that spoke to the horses in Worthington Abbey’s stables, that calmed them and made the animals feel safe and respected. It often calmed Archer as well, though not now.
“What is wrong?” Brandt said, frowning at his ill humor.
By the time Archer had finished relating all he knew thus far, Brandt’s arms had come down to his sides, and his hands were flexing in and out of fists.
“You have an apostle, it seems,” he said, heading toward the cookstove. He slid on a mitt and lifted a coffeepot.
“A zealot, more like,” Archer replied.
He pulled out one of the stick-back chairs at the table and sat, drumming his fingers on the worn wooden tabletop. It was here, at this table, where he’d always felt most welcome. Most at ease.
As a boy, Brandt had spent time at Archer’s table, too. The table in the children’s nursery, that was, where Archer’s tutors had been given the task of teaching the stable master’s boy. The duke had not known of this, of course. It had been the duchess to whom Archer had pleaded such a convincing case. She had relented, but had warned them to be quiet about the lessons; if the duke were to hear of them, Brandt would be sent away. Montgomery, Brandt’s father and stable master, would be as well.
So their lessons had been discreet, their compliant tutors completely and utterly under the charm of Archer’s mother. They likely assumed the second boy was yet another ward of the duke. Sharp-witted and quick-brained, Brandt was a fast learner, keeping pace with Archer and even outdistancing him in some subjects. Despite the social hierarchy separating them, Archer trusted Brandt more than anyone in his own set.
The most intelligent and educated stable master in all of England sat down in a chair across the table from Archer. Brandt sipped his coffee. He hadn’t offered any to Archer. Brandt knew if Archer wanted some, he’d have to get up off his privileged arse and get it himself.
Archer didn’t think his stomach could handle coffee right then anyhow. He hooked an ankle over his knee. “He killed the bloody horse. Shot it. He beat Maynard and his coachman severely, too.”
