Page 3 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“Be still, my lady,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Don’t mistake my civility for weakness. While the thought of restraining a lady is distasteful, I will do so if necessary.”
Brynn believed he would. However, she’d yet to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her terror and had every intention of persevering with the farce. “Would you please do us both a favor and get on with it?”
She held herself like a statue as his hand neared her body. Men had touched her before—to kiss her hand and guide her into a room or into a conveyance. But this man’s fingers, as they brushed her shoulder and the line of her collarbone, seeking the clasp at her nape, did not have that same carefully polite touch. Brynn felt sparks of heat blossom under his fingers, as if they hinted at wanting something more than just the jewels around her neck. They moved at a leisurely pace, indulging in some secret pleasure—one hewantedher to know, and one that shortened her breath to pained wisps. Brynn flushed hotly when she imagined the indecent thoughts that must be streaming through his rotten mind.
At least his hands were not coarse. She concentrated on that detail instead, and realized this man was likely not one of the poor farmers who populated the countryside surrounding Ferndale and Worthington Abbey. Her eyes narrowed, taking in other small details she’d missed, like the fact that his well-tailored clothes fit his broad frame handsomely. The material was fine.Expensive. Curiosity replaced fear as her earlier thought about his perfect, gentlemanly diction resurfaced.
Who was he, if not a common bandit?
Unconsciously, she leaned closer. So close that she could smell a deep woodsy scent surrounding him. It was pleasant, like cedar and smoke, and it made her stomach feel suddenly weightless—an odd sensation, the kind she sometimes experienced when she rode Apollo over a particularly wide brook.
Her eyes darted up to study him, to see if any other detail might reveal his identity. His hair was an indeterminate color, thanks to his brimmed hat obscuring every last strand. His eyes, which had glinted silver before in the light, now seemed inky and unreadable. Every part of his face seemed hard, except for the soft bow of his lips. For a man, he had extraordinarily defined lips. A deep burn scorched her insides. Why on earth did she keep thinking about this horrible man’s lips?
One of the bandit’s fingers strayed from the clasp and swirled over the sensitive bare skin at her nape in idle strokes, just above the modest neckline of her dress. She sucked in a sharp breath and tipped closer.
“Have you lost your balance, Lady Briannon?” His voice was light and teasing, making her insides hum as if they were tethered to the sensual resonance of his words. She stiffened and, realizing how close she’d drawn to him, pulled away, horrified. He’d meant to distract her, the beast.
She addressed him with as much disdain as she could summon. “I am simply growing bored with your brutish attempts to undo a basic clasp. Haven’t you finished yet? Or do you require a lesson in necklace removal?”
His fingers resumed their work. “I would be interested in whatever lessons you wished to offer. However, I can assure you,” he said as the pearls fell away from her neck. “I have more than enough experience in removing all manner of ladylike trinkets.”
Brynn heard the suggestive laughter in his voice and grew rigid. “I’m quite sure you do.”
He was baiting her. Wanting to embarrass her, perhaps. Which made her only more incensed. The man’s fingers caressed the nape of her neck as he drew the rope of pearls away. The Masked Marauder, it seemed, had more than his share of experience charming all measure of gently bred ladies. Brynn’s jaw clenched as the pearls, along with her pride, slid from her neck.
Without thinking, she stalled his hand with hers and was shocked at the warm contact of his skin. “Please. You can have everything else but these.”
“But these, I want.”
She lifted her chin. She wouldn’t beg, although her hands tightened on his and wound around the dangling length of the necklace. “I don’t think pearls complement your coloring, sir.”
His eyes widened at her flippant comment. “Yes, far better suited to frumpy old ladies or”—he eyed her up and down, his fingers slipping around to her wrist—“maids in mourning.”
Cursing her repugnant dress, Brynn gritted her teeth. “I am not in mourning! Unhand me at once.”
“Release the pearls and I shall.”
Her fingers tightened upon his in response. She could not give in to him. It was no longer just about her grandmother’s pearls. It was the principle of the thing.
“Do you always get what you want?” she hissed.
“I have a fairly decent record.”
Of course he did—manipulating unsuspecting women with his eyes and his words and that sinful mouth. Her fingers clawed into his, refusing to let go, and he had the colossal gall to smile down at her. Brynn had half a mind to lunge for the pistol still held loosely in his grasp and shoot the condescension from his face.
The man’s voice cut into her murderous thoughts. “Pearls don’t suit you. You need rubies to go with that defiant spirit.”
“And you need a necklace of braided rope.”
The man laughed out loud at her insult and then lowered his voice as he bent his head, his cheek nearly brushing hers. A strangled gasp caught in her throat, his looming presence doing unreasonable things to her shattered nerves. “That may be, but please don’t cause a scene, Lady Briannon. Think of your parents. Are these silly baubles truly worth the neck they rest upon?”
Brynn swallowed, the nearness of him and the rough velvet of his voice weakening her resolve. She raised her gaze to his. “They are worth more than you know,” she said softly.
Something flashed in his eyes—compassion, perhaps—but then they hardened with cold purpose. After a long, measured look, the man stepped back, and taking her gloved hand in his, bent over it with an exaggerated flourish. His lips seared a fiery imprint on her knuckles, even through the silk of her gloves. “The starving poor these jewels will feed share those same sentiments,” he said. “Adieu, my lady. I thank you for your generous contribution.”
Generouscontribution?Brynn stood in stunned silence, her hand forgotten in midair as the man edged backward with a wicked, yet boyish, grin. He disappeared over the tree trunk blockade and into the night. She stared after him, puzzling over what kind of bandit gave his spoils away to the starving poor. He could be lying, of course.
He isn’t lying.
