Nothing to Commend Her (8 page)

"Come, we need to get you inside,” Magnus said.

She started to climb from his lap, her heart still pounding, but from what? Her near brush with death or from her husband's strong embrace?

She shook her head, too tired to puzzle it out and nearly fell over as she attempted to stand. Magnus scooped her up into his arms, and she was lost to the feel of him once more.

"I should've warned you the cliffs were unstable,” he grumbled.

With a weary sigh, she tucked her head beneath his chin. “It was obvious."

He chuckled, a harsh biting sound. “If it was so obvious, then why did you venture too close?"

"I didn't, I was pushed."

He paused in mid-stride. “What did you say?"

She looked up into his stern features, the lamplight casting his scars in shadow. “I was pushed."

He stood staring at her, his mouth scant inches from hers, but she knew kisses were not on his mind. Her blatant declaration had him baffled, as it did her, but it was a fact. She had been pushed.

She nestled her head beneath his chin once more, indulging in the few moments she had in his arms. No wonder women swooned so often. The feeling of security, of strength, and dare she hope, caring wrapped around her heart like the blanket she wore.

"Nonsense,” he grumbled, and resumed his steady stride to the house.

If it had been she on the other end of her statement, she'd say the same, so she couldn't fault him in that. It was rather ludicrous when studied from a logical perspective. Why would anyone want to kill her? What would they have to gain from her death?

Did Magnus have a mistress? Was she trying to rid him of his wife so she could have him for herself?

No, that made no sense. If he'd wanted his mistress, and the feeling mutual, he'd need only to have asked for her hand. Instead, he'd asked for Agatha's. But someone had pushed her. Of course, there was always the possibility that his mistress was of a lower class, a woman he could not marry.

She glanced at the strong cut of his jaw, wondering if he loved this person who wanted her dead. A chill stole down her spine.

Agatha shivered again, and Magnus tightened his hold. At least she wasn't struggling to get away from him, she seemed almost content in his arms.

He shoved the absurd thought from his mind as he traversed the ground and made his way to the house. Upon reaching her room, he gently lowered her to the settee, not daring to go near the bed, and instructed Tess to tend her.

Her large brown eyes, peering at him through her rain-spattered spectacles would follow him into his dreams. Vulnerable, frightened, and yet determined to be strong. It was all there in those hypnotic eyes. He had to turn away before he said or did something he'd regret.

He paused and left her letter on her writing desk, then went to his rooms, using their connecting door for the first and likely only time he ever would, and quickly changed into some dry clothes.

Once dry, he ignored the urge to check on her and made for his study. Barstoke brought in a small dinner tray, but he couldn't find the desire to touch the food, and instead, paced the room like a caged cat, his mind a torrent of thoughts, feelings, and emotions.

She'd felt so right in his arms. He'd wanted to carry her straight to his bed and make slow sweet love to her. Warm her trembling body with his, ease her scrapes and bruises with his lips, and fall asleep wrapped in her sweetness.

He paused and stared into the flickering flames, and for the first time in years, he saw not his dead wife and her accusing glare, but Agatha's sweet smile. She had saved him, driven out his ghosts, and he felt the monster all the more for it. He could not give her what she deserved, nor would she want it from him. Her work was her one true passion. That he would grant her, all the freedom she needed to do what pleased her most...while he died inside for wanting her.

Barstoke appeared in the doorway. “My lord, Lady Leighton wishes to speak with you, if you please."

"Tell her I'll be there shortly,” he ground out. He'd hoped to be saved from more torture, but as was his wife's nature, he was learning, she was resilient. She'd obviously come to her senses about the happenings by the cliff and wished to change her claim of being pushed.

He climbed the stairs, his feet leaden. Seeing her fresh from her bath with damp tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face would test his resolve beyond measure.

His brow furrowed as he reached her door. Perhaps she wouldn't look as fetching as he imagined. She had suffered a terrible fright that evening, and would likely be tucked away in bed beneath piles of covers, a nightcap upon her head, looking as prim and proper as a nun. With renewed courage, he twisted the knob and entered.

The vision that greeted him was not like he'd imagined, nor did she resemble a nun. Perched at the edge of the settee, her steady hands pouring a cup of tea with firelight framing her in a warm glow, she appeared more an angel. Her dark hair hung down her back, glistening with the few remaining drops of moisture from her bath. Her robe displayed each delectable curve of her body. No corsets or stays, no female frippery, only simple cream-colored silk trimmed with lace.

She lifted her head and smiled softly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?"

He nodded, words having escaped him, and made his way to a chair opposite her. She poured him a cup then sipped her tea. He watched her throat as she swallowed. Such pale skin, delicate and soft to be sure. He ached to follow the curve of her neck with his lips and linger at the hollow at the base, to taste her, relish her, breathe her in. To feel the racing flutter of her pulse beneath her skin as he explored her body and rid his mind of the harshness of his reality.

"I know you're fatigued from the evening's events, but I would like to discuss the possibilities regarding this attack,” she said, pulling him from his painful thoughts.

"Attack. I see.” But he didn't. Then again, she was forever surprising him.

Her gaze shot to his. “Yes, attack. I was pushed, although it's quite obvious you don't believe me."

"I will admit, I find the idea implausible."

She sighed. “As would I, in your position. However, the fact remains that it did happen, and I've given it some serious thought."

He sipped his tea thinking, however unlikely, that it might soothe his nerves. “And what have you concluded?"

"Do you, perchance, have a mistress?"

He hacked and coughed, choking on her comment more than the tea. “What the devil possessed you to ask such a thing?” He plunked his cup and saucer down.

She took a sip, her cup and saucer steady. “Well, it's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Someone wants me dead, and it can gain him or her nothing. Which leaves only two possibilities. Jealousy or revenge. And since I've never done anything to cause anyone to want revenge on my person, I have to assume it has to do with jealousy and you."

He blinked a moment, then his brow furrowed as he steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Damned if that doesn't make sense.” He shook his head. “However, I have no mistress."

Agatha hid her smile behind her cup at his declaration. She'd hoped he didn't, but since he did not come to her bed, she feared otherwise. “Well then, I'm at a loss as to what this person wants."

"I'm still not inclined to believe any of this."

She huffed and set her cup on the table. “You think I'm delusional, is that it?"

"I think that you were confused. It grew dark early with the storm, you became disoriented and lost your footing."

"Ridiculous,” she fumed, jumping to her feet and moved to the window. “I knew exactly where I was going, and my feet were quite firmly on the path.” She turned and glared at him. “I—was—pushed."

"And I say you were confused.” He rose and strode to the door. “Now if you are quite done with your hysterics for the evening, I bid you goodnight."

Disappointment filled her as he closed the door behind him. She glanced at her robe, the silk she'd chosen so carefully for her wedding night. She'd tried to look appealing, brushed out her damp hair, scrubbed her face until her cheeks were rosy, hoping she looked at least a little enticing.

After the way he'd held her by the cliffs, his tender handling of her as he carried her to her room, she'd dared to hope, but there'd been not a sign of interest. Not only did he not want her, he thought her a harebrained, idiotic female.

"Stupid man,” she grumbled, and went to bed. She would speak with him again in the morning. He would listen and he would believe her.

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Magnus slept not a moment the entire night.

"A mistress,” he grumbled. As if any would have him. His one bungled attempt had resulted in complete failure. The ladies of the
ton
thought him hideous, yet they'd never seen the rest of him. There was the true horror.

His right arm scarred from shoulder to hand, the palm and several fingers bore distinct ridges, and he couldn't spread all of his fingers wide. The scars limited their movement. But he'd worked from the moment he'd regained consciousness to force them to obey, as he did his right leg. He refused to be an invalid. It had taken him years to control the desire to limp, and on occasion when most fatigued, it was uncontrollable. His right side bore many more scars, but he'd been lucky his hip hadn't been shattered when a beam fell atop him.

And yet, none of his efforts mattered in the end. He was grateful his hard work had returned him his physical freedom, but no amount of diligence, medical or otherwise, could remove the mangled skin that covered a third of his body.

He'd witnessed the repulsion once on a woman's face, one he'd thought capable and willing to be his mistress, and once was quite enough. That was all he needed to know that no lady would lie with him in his bed, and he had no desire to pay for such a service. He was not his father, with his frequent trips to a brothel. The idea sickened him.

He swore beneath his breath and tossed the morning mail to the table. Then why had he married again? What had possessed him to do something so completely insane?

Because you saw something different in Agatha's eyes
.

"I imagined it,” he groused, and stalked from his untouched breakfast, determined to avoid her at all costs.

Agatha fumed. All day she'd tried to meet with Magnus, but he was either busy with Mr. Roberts, or his solicitor, or out in the fields. She'd not even been able to find solace in her experiments. With her thoughts on him and the attack the night before, she couldn't concentrate and found herself jumping at ever little sound.

When Barstoke announced that his lordship would be detained in the village and would not be joining her for dinner, it had been the last straw.

"No mistress. Ha!” She stormed into her rooms, furious that he would lie to her. He was likely at the tavern with some bawdy thing on his lap.

Bitterness crept in like a wraith. If her safety was of no concern to him, if he'd rather spend his time with some accursed light-skirt, then she would have to take matters into her own hands.

The following morning, her decision having not wavered during the long lonely hours of the night, she leapt from bed and called for Tess.

The maid's head popped out of the dressing room.

"Send for my trunk,” she commanded.

"Yes, my lady.” She curtsied and rushed out the door to do as she bid.

"I'll not stay where I'm not wanted,” Agatha muttered.

She yanked a dress from the armoire, one that was plain and practical, and required no assistance in donning. Within minutes, she was fastening the last of the buttons.

Tess arrived with two servants, just as she finished pinning up her hair in a simple bun. “Right there is fine, thank you,” Agatha said, with a nod toward the foot of the bed.

The men left, and she flipped open the lid. “Tess, tell Mr. Skylar to have the carriage brought around. I'm leaving for London immediately."

"Yes, my lady."

Agatha turned to her armoire and quickly chose the necessities. She wanted to be gone within the hour, not a minute longer. She should've known that she wasn't suited for marriage. If he thought her crazy last night, wait until he discovered her work. Nothing was safe at Bridley Hall, not her work, her life, not even her heart.

The bedroom door slammed ajar. “You are not leaving!"

She stilled for but a moment from the onslaught of Magnus’ bellowed order before returning to her wardrobe.

"Where I live is of no consequence other than the fact that I wish to stay alive.” She snatched a shawl from the floor where it had fallen.

"I'll not stand for these theatrics. You are staying, and that is the end of it."

She glared at his back as he made for the door. “Theatrics? Theatrics! You can take your bloody theatrics and go to the devil. I—am—leaving!"

"You're not going anywhere,” he growled, as he turned, the scarred side of his face a pale contrast to the angry red flush of his skin.

But she refused to be bullied. “It is apparent that you've no need of a companion, since we speak hardly a word during meals, nor do we engage in any semblance of a conversation afterward,” she said, her breathing quickened by her fury. “And you've made it painfully obvious you don't want me in your bed!"

She threw the shawl into her trunk and slammed the lid. “You couldn't even bring yourself to kiss me on our wedding day. Well, your mistress, or whoever this demon stalking me is, can bloody well have you!"

In two strides, he was in front of her, gripping her arms with such strength, a spark of fear gripped her as strongly as he did. Would he harm her, beat her?

Then she looked into his turbulent gray eyes. No, he was furious, but there was something else, something deeper, something that told her he would never raise his hand against her.

"There is no mistress,” he snarled.

Odd that she believed him, but she would not remain where she was of no use, where she wasn't wanted.

"And I was pushed,” she ground out.

"Then I'll assign you a bloody guard, but you are not leaving,” he demanded with a vigorous shake. “Do you hear me?"