My Rogue, My Ruin by Amalie Howard & Angie Morgan

Author:Amalie Howard & Angie Morgan
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2016-10-05T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Brynn stared at the closed door, collapsing onto the window seat with all the grace of an ox. She wasn’t in the least bit incapable of speech. She’d wisely chosen to nod for fear of what would come flying out of her mouth.

Oh sweet Lord. It was him.

The Marquess of Hawksfield…Archer…was the Masked Marauder.

Brynn couldn’t reconcile the vivid images of the bandit lying half naked on that cot in the cottage with the autocratic gentleman who’d stood in front of her. She recalled the way Archer had favored his leg and how his hands had touched the injured spot—right where she’d shot him. She closed her eyes, wishing away the disturbing, utterly arousing recollection of his bunched, muscular thighs, and crumpled against the cushions.

Her body felt like it was being held together by the threads of her dress, and nothing much else at all. One touch of his fingers, his lips—oh god, his tongue—and she’d been rendered into a useless, brainless, mass of sensuality. His kisses had consumed her, and in the moment, being devoured by him had seemed like a perfectly wonderful way to disappear.

Suddenly breathless, she clenched her fists and turned toward the bookshelves. “Stop it,” she hissed to herself.

What did it matter if she’d seen him half naked? He was the Masked Marauder. Lord Hawksfield, the future Duke of Bradburne, was a highwayman. She paused. He wasn’t the one who had hurt Lord Maynard and his coachman, however. He’d said there was another—the one who had killed the horse—and Brynn believed him. None of that, however, changed the fact that he was a thief and had been stealing from his peers. Whether he gave the spoils to those in need or not, he was not in the right. He was nowhere near the right.

She twisted on the edge of the cushioned seat. The window behind her was draped to block the view of either the street or the side lawns; she didn’t know which. Truthfully, she didn’t quite know where in Hadley Gardens she was right then. Just that she’d been away from the other dinner guests far too long. She couldn’t stay here, waiting for Archer to return as he’d asked. But he’d left it so that she couldn’t leave, either, walking around the duke’s private residence alone without a servant, and risk getting lost.

Flustered, she paced the room, her feet making little noise on the thick, luxurious carpet. Walking to a dresser on the far side of the room, she stared at herself in the mirror, noticing her swollen lips and flushed, rosy cheeks. She did not look like someone who had left to have her dress mended by a maid—she looked like…like…a woman who had been thoroughly ravished by a lover. She had to make herself look respectable before she set one foot from this room. She patted her face and smoothed the curls of her hair into normalcy. Her fingers trailed to her lips of their own volition. She could feel the phantom press of Archer’s still lingering there.

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