Page 95 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“You’re right,” Brandt said, interrupting the sudden awareness that had wriggled into Archer’s head. “You would disappoint her. You’re certainly not good enough for her. Especially as the Masked Marauder with your heart under lock and key.”
Archer turned and eyed his stable master. “What?”
“You’d make all sorts of mistakes, I wager.”
He crossed his arms and stared at Brandt, guessing his game. “Would I?”
“You’d cheat, that’s for certain. You’d lie to her, too. About everything. Including your marauding ways.” Archer held his tongue as his friend went on. “Not to mention, the way you’d stop admiring her. But why wouldn’t you? She’s going to become a boring ninny. They all do.”
She would not,Archer thought to himself, half annoyed by Brandt’s teasing. But it had made him pause. Lying to Brynn, cheating with other women…he could not envision it.
Those were the things his father had done. But had the duke ever felt for Archer’s mother the way Archer felt for Brynn? Had he ever loved her with a force that felt utterly unstoppable? A force that made him feel full to bursting, so just the idea of losing her was enough to make him feel empty, bereft of any purpose or joy?
Just as he felt now.
Not even the idea of continuing his raids as the Masked Marauder could fill that gaping void. It would not be enough to fill him, he knew. It would be nowhere near enough to make him happy.
There was only one person who could give him that, and she could never be a part of such a dangerous and secret life. He didn’twanther to be a part of it. Hell, he didn’t want that life any more at all.
He wanted only her.
“The Marauder is dead,” Archer said, and repeated it more firmly as the decision took root. “He’s dead. It’s over, Brandt.”
Now that he held control of the dukedom’s finances, he would be able to begin repairing the damage that had been done. His investments, as risky and vulgar as they might seem to other members of the peerage, would turn a profit. He would soon be able to help those who truly needed it without living the dangerous double life of a highwayman.
Brandt nodded before stoking the fire in the cookstove, trying unsuccessfully to hide his grin. “I’m relieved to hear it. I’m weary of saving your arse.”
“You could have been killed,” Archer said, all seriousness. “I was selfish and stupid, and I will never put anyone else I care about in danger like that again.”
Brandt put on a pot of water to boil. “Apology accepted. Though, I wouldn’t reject an additional offer to pay my tab at the village tavern.”
Archer laughed. “You’ll sink me before I’m afloat again.”
He rested his hands on the back of a chair at the long supper table, a sense of peace descending upon him. Pulling out the nearby chair, he felt too restless to sit and turned back for the door. He’d feel restless until he stepped inside Worthington Abbey as its master for the first time.
Until he entered its grand foyer and felt how completely and utterly alone he was there. Then again, with Briannon he would never be alone. Unlike his father, he knew he could be a worthy husband. He also knew he’d do whatever it took to make himself worthy of her.
“So,” Brandt said with a knowing laugh as if he could see right through him, “when are you planning to tell the lady of your intentions?”
His answer must have been written all over his face because Brandt grinned and clapped him on the back.
“Go get her, Hawk,” he said.
He knew he must.
Archer left the cottage with a fire under his heels.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The evening sun descended beyond the rolling hills of Ferndale, spreading rose-tinged fingers across the meadows and dusting the countryside with a golden sheen. A few dark clouds threatened on the horizon, but they only added to the beauty of the burgeoning twilight.
Brynn tore her eyes from the windows and watched as the footmen cleared the last of the dinner plates, her gaze locking with her mother’s fraught one across the ornately set dining table. Though it was only a quiet family dinner, Brynn longed to escape to the solitude of her chambers—and from the fretful eye of her mother. Lady Dinsmore had taken it to heart that both of her offspring had been in mortal danger, which had propelled her motherly devotion to new heights.
Surprisingly, she had taken the postponement of the banns well. The reasoning—that the new duke was far too consumed by grief over the deaths of his father and sister—was beyond reproach. However, that did not stop her from treating Brynn as if she were made of eggshells, about to crack at the slightest pressure. As such, Brynn’s health had been the subject for most of the dinner conversation, despite Gray’s Herculean efforts to steer it elsewhere. Brynn swallowed her sigh of exasperation at her mother’s suddenly acute stare.
On cue, Lady Dinsmore’s eyes narrowed. “You look quite pale, dear. Are you about to have a spell?”
Brynn stifled a sigh along with the tart response that she was weary only from all the smothering. “Mama, for the thousandth time, I am fine. My lungs arefine. I am not sick or in any immediate danger of becoming sick. I am pale because I have not been outside in days, andthatis because you are convinced I will collapse at the slightest puff of wind.”
