“Smart
and fast-paced with plenty of steam! This writing duo is a powerhouse of
talent!” – New York Times bestselling author Sophie Jordan
He stole their riches, she stole his heart
The Marquess of Hawksfield’s lineage is
impeccable and his title coveted, but Archer Croft is as far from his indulgent
peers as he can get. His loathing for the beau monde has driven him to
don a secret identity and risk everything in order to steal their riches and
distribute them to the less fortunate.
Lady Briannon Findlay embraces her
encounter with the Masked Marauder, a gentleman thief waylaying carriages from
London to Essex. The marauder has stirred Brynn’s craving for adventure, and
she discovers an attraction deeper than the charming thief’s mask.
Brynn is a revelation, matching Archer
in intelligence, wit, and passion. Stubborn and sensuous in equal measure, she
astonishes him at every turn, but when someone sinister impersonates Archer’s
secret personality, and a murder is committed, Archer begins to think he
doesn’t stand a fighting chance without her.
“Why are you out here at this ungodly hour?”
he asked.
“I could ask you
the same thing,” she replied. “As well as why you are trespassing on private
property.”
Archer smiled at
her tone and leaned against a nearby tree, easing the weight of his injured
ankle for the moment. There it was—the brief glimpse of the woman he’d met in
Dinsmore’s carriage, not the quiet mouse he’d waltzed with. “Ah, but I believe
this tree, right here,”—he slapped the trunk with a rakish grin—“marks the
dividing line between my estate and yours. So technically, I’m on my property
and you are on yours.”
Her eyes narrowed
at his teasing before plucking up the tweed cap from where it lay on the ground
and tugging it back into place upon her head. She then picked up the spent
pistol and tucked it into the narrow, single holster gun belt looped around her
waist. “No matter. It’s hardly any of your concern why I am out on my own land. Go on your way, and I’ll
be on mine.”
His jaw dropped as
she wound her fist into the horse’s bridle, loosely slung around its neck, and
pulled herself deftly up onto the horse’s back. She sat astride in a way that
made his pulse shorten. “Where is your saddle?” he managed.
She eyed him
imperiously. “I don’t like them, not that it’s any of your business.”
“It isn’t safe,”
he ground out, surprised by his sudden irritation.
“I’ve been riding
without a saddle since I was a child,” she shot back. “I’m safer without one
than I am with one.”
“As you were
before you got thrown into the river?” Archer couldn’t resist taunting.
Her jaw jutted
forward, a mutinous look in her eyes. She pressed her lips together, likely to
stop herself from uttering something completely inappropriate. Perhaps one of
the colorful words she’d been using while attempting to climb out of the gulch.
“And what if you
were attacked by the masked bandit—again?”
he continued. “Or haven’t you had enough danger for the time being?”
“I can protect
myself,” she said.
“What with?” he
asked before he thought of the clean hole in the boar’s forehead.
Briannon sighed
dramatically. “Why, with my knitting needles, of course.”
Struck again by
her lightning-quick wit, the short bark of laughter left his lips before he
could contain it. “Pray, where was your pistol the other night when you were
robbed?”
“In my knitting
reticule, of course, where all ladies’ pistols are kept,” came her tart
response. “I assure you, if I had my pistol, the outcome of that robbery would
have been quite different.”
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