Page 82 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer relaxed even more. How many times had he waylaid such a carriage? Countless, and here in the woodsy area of the park, he could have just as well been in Essex again.
As the driver’s figure, outlined by the coach lamps, came into view, Archer readied his pistol. The weapon was not loaded and never had it been for any of his outings. He knew enough about weaponry to know the dangers of a shot accidentally going off and maiming, or killing, a man. He would never endanger anyone’s life, which made the imposter’s actions that much more infuriating.
The driver finally drew close enough to spot Archer standing in the center of the road. He spoke to his horse, pulling back on the reins and bringing the brougham to a halt. Once the jangling of the tack quit, Archer delivered his greeting in the silky voice he reserved for the bandit: “No displays of heroism, please.” To which he expected the driver to hold up his hands in surrender, just as the others, for the most part, had always done.
This driver, however, bucked tradition.
He threw down the reins to his horse and stood from the driver’s bench. As he descended from the bench, Archer took in the shape of him. Well over six feet and possessing the breadth of an ox, the driver looked like a bear clad in fine livery.
“Stay where you are, my friend,” Archer advised, the smooth cadence of his voice faltering.
“I ain’t your friend,” the driver said, though to Archer’s ears it sounded less like a voice and more like a handful of stones being ground to dust.
The driver reached into the footboards of the bench and drew something out.
“No one need risk injury tonight,” Archer said, the pulse in his throat beginning to throb. “I simply require the valuables of your patrons.”
The driver advanced while a female voice inside the brougham called out, asking why they had stopped. Archer fixed his eyes on the flintlock pistol the driver carried in his hand.
This is going all wrong.
For the first time since he’d started this whole charade, he doubted the sense of it all. No one had ever challenged him—a dangerous masked highwayman. Nobility didn’t generally rise to the fight. They cowered. They spluttered and complained, but they always shrank away from Archer, from his masked face and the threat of injury. And hired help…well they certainly did not get paid handsomely enough to risk life and limb for their masters.
“Lawrence?” The clipped female voice called, clearer this time.
The door to the carriage opened, distracting Archer’s attention from the approaching giant. His eyes stuck to the lady as she popped her head out and turned to see what was amiss.Hell.He recognized her as one of Brynn’s friends, Lady Cordelia Vandermere.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the chit screamed. The high, bloodcurdling pitch slammed into his ears and echoed through the park. Her driver, Lawrence, did the exact opposite of what Archer expected him to do: instead of turning and rushing to his mistress’s side, he raised his pistol and charged at full speed.
Archer flipped his useless pistol in his hand and brought the butt across the driver’s hand, knocking the man’s unfired weapon aside. The shot didn’t go off, not even when the pistol hit the lane. The driver tackled Archer to the gravel. He had at least ten stone on Archer, if not more, but he used the beast’s own momentum against him, tossing the driver overhead and onto the lane.
The marginal victory did not last long.
Archer barely made it to his feet when the driver successfully set upon him again, bringing him to the ground. Almost instantly, however, the driver’s weight was taken from his back, and Archer heard the grunts of another, the sounds of knuckles on flesh. He spun around to find Brandt pummeling the driver with his fists, and then taking a hook to the nose in return.
Lady Cordelia’s screams for help were getting farther and farther away, but as Archer pulled the driver off Brandt, the sounds of shouting men drew alarmingly close.
The driver tossed Archer off and dove to the ground. Even in the darkness, and with the silk mask tugged askew and half blinding him, Archer knew the man was lunging for the dropped pistol. Before he could take a breath or even think to run, a pair of hands shoved hard against his chest, knocking him aside.
The report of the pistol split through Archer’s ears as he hit the gravel lane. He tore off the mask and with his vision restored, saw Brandt on the ground where he had just been standing.
“No!” He rushed to his friend and bent over him. “You bloody fool!”
He received a groan in answer and a rough shove against his arm. “Go,” Brandt rasped in pain. “Get out of here, there are others coming.”
The driver was already running toward the sounds of the men’s voices, shouting, “Here! Over here, the masked bastard is here!”
Archer tried to pull Brandt to his feet, but the rasp of pain turned into a grating growl. “I’m shot, damn you! Leave me here andgo.”
“There is no chance in hell—”
“I cannot walk.Go, Archer. The sodding driver knowsI’mnot the bandit. I’m still dressed as Brockston. I’ll think of something. Get out of here!”
Brandt shoved him away once again, and this time Archer got up. “You’d better be a damned good liar and get yourself out of this. Or else Iwillcome forward.”
And with that, Archer turned. He hated leaving his friend there, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to help Brandt if they werebothin prison. With a growl of frustrated rage, he fled.
Chapter Twenty-One
