Nothing to Commend Her (9 page)

She couldn't utter a word amid the chaotic emotions flashing across his face and in his eyes.

"You cannot leave me,” he said, his words broken and pain-filled. Then his lips crashed into hers.

Not a sound, not even a whimper left her body as he ravished her mouth, setting fire to all of her senses. Although startled by the power of his kiss, she found herself more than willing to accept his passionate assault. She'd craved such attention from him the first moment he'd touched her in the alcove at Lord Crittenden's ball. The way his tongue explored the inner recesses of her mouth, shocked and thrilled her to the marrow.

He suddenly jerked his head up and released her. Crossing the room, his back stiff, he said, “As to our wedding day, I refused to kiss a woman so obviously terrified of her new husband.” He stormed through the door, barking orders at Tess to unpack her things.

Agatha stood frozen in place not quite sure what had just happened. Tess returned, but not once did her maid look at her, which was just as well, she wouldn't have been able to form a solitary word.

She silently savored the flames still licking her body. It had been her first kiss, a glorious one to be sure, but would it be her last? And why would he think her terrified of him on their wedding day? She'd been overjoyed, elated, beyond happy.

She moved to the window and looked out over the estate. Could he have mistaken her nervous trembling for fear? After all, their wedding kiss was to be her first, one she would experience in front of his people and her family. She'd been concerned that she would embarrass them both, but she wasn't afraid of her husband.

The words those horrid girls said at Lord Crittenden's ball floated back to her.

"Doesn't the man know that no one wants to see his horrid face?"

"He frightens me.

"He should've died in that fire, and saved us all from his horrid appearance."

Her fingers brushed her lips as she sank to the window seat with understanding. “Oh my poor Magnus."

"My lady?"

She looked to her maid. “Do you know where Lord Leighton was going?"

"I think to the stables, my lady,” she responded, still averting her gaze.

Agatha left to find Magnus. She had to speak with him, now before she lost her nerve. If his sudden kiss was any indication of his true feelings toward her, they had much to discuss.

She found him in the stables saddling a horse. The tension rolled from his broad shoulders in waves.

"I must speak with you,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart was not.

"We've nothing more to discuss, madam.” With that he bolted onto the beast and rode out of the stables as if the world were chasing him.

"Oh, that man,” she huffed. She wasn't about to let him avoid her again.

Eyeing the other horses, she frowned. She didn't have time to wait for a stable hand to saddle a horse for her. Her nerve would fail by the time it was done. With a solid nod, she plucked up a bridle and slipped the bit between the horse's teeth, then led the animal half way out of the stall before anyone said a word.

"My lady, you can't—"

"I can and I will, Mr. Skylar. Now either get out of my way, or I'll walk right over you."

"You mean to say you're going to ride that animal without a proper sidesaddle? Without a saddle at all?"

"I'm a heathen at heart, Mr. Skylar,” she admitted plainly. “A leg up please?” She lifted her foot.

He made a grimace and looked to the direction her husband rode, then back to her. “He'll have my head for this."

Agatha grinned. “He'll never know. I'll tell him I forced you. Now, a leg up, if you please?"

The older man ground out a few choice words under his breath and gave her a boost. Her legs astride, her skirts shamelessly high, she kneed the beast into a fierce gallop, hoping all the while as they sped down the lane, that she wasn't about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

Magnus cursed himself ten times over. How could he have been so foolish? He would forever remember the feel and taste of her. It would torture him till his dying day. And what must she think of him now?

He'd revealed a part of himself to her with that kiss. The years of loneliness, of rejection, the need to have someone care for him, the absence of passion in his life, it had all been in that single kiss. Would she stay knowing so much more about him now?

As much as he wanted to force his hand, he could not. He wanted her happiness more than his own selfish desires. He should go back to the house and tell her that if she truly wished to leave, he would not stop her.

He slid off his horse and walked toward the cliffs where he'd nearly lost her. He recalled his silent prayer of thanks when he felt her safe in his arms. A place she would never be again.

But would she be safe in London? Did someone want his new wife dead? Her avid determination that she'd been pushed was difficult to ignore, but she came from no family of power. Her death would bring about no change to anyone inheriting a title, monies, or land. And there was little doubt that she would ever bear him an heir, for he would never go to her bed.

He was ashamed of his cowardice, but he could no more ignore it than he could the scars on his body. She would turn from him with disgust, he knew it to be true.

But she fought for you
, his conscience argued
.

"Against a pack of shallow females."

She accepted your hand in marriage.

"She had no other prospects. She was a spinster."

And you are a fool.

"Of that I have no doubt,” he whispered.

A shot rang out, followed by a scream. Whipping his head around, he stared in stark terror at the sight of his wife tumbling from the back of her horse.

"Agatha!” He leapt onto his horse and raced to her side, praying with all his heart. He jumped from his horse and fell to his knees beside her as she sat up.

"Damn and blast,” she cursed.

He looked her over quickly, but saw no blood. Cradling her face in his rough hands, he asked, “Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, just a pain in my—” she groused, rubbing her backside. She gasped and clutched his arms. “There was a shot."

He nodded, knowing it was useless to try and convince her otherwise, and he couldn't waste another moment sitting there in plain sight arguing with her. “We need to get out of here on the slim chance that it wasn't a stray shot from a poacher."

"Then you believe me about the cliff?"

"We've no time to discuss it now,” he growled. Believe her or not, there had been a shot. It would be foolish not to consider every possibility, no matter how ludicrous.

"Agreed,” she said with a nod and a cursory glance to the woods.

He pulled her to her feet and lifted her onto his saddle, then mounted behind her. Within seconds they were speeding back toward the house, his anger rising with every stride.

"What were you thinking to follow me?"

"I needed to speak to you, it couldn't wait,” she said.

"What was so important that you risked your life to ride bareback? Are you mad?"

"I wanted to know why you asked me to marry you."

"Of all the insane—I needed a wife. You were suitable,” he lied.

"Suitable,” she snarled. “Oh, yes, I was simply perfect for you. I was firmly on the shelf and my prospects were non-existent. A refusal of your offer would've been impractical. But that doesn't explain—” She stiffened in his arms.

"Explain what?"

She grew stonily silent. Before he could prod her further they arrived at the stables.

He leapt from the horse then lifted her to the ground, but held fast to her arm. She wasn't going to disappear into the house before he could get to the bottom of her foolishness.

"Skylar, if my wife so much as approaches the stables again, bar the doors!” He pointed at a few of the men standing near by. “And you lot, search the woods in the west field. A poacher appears to be about.” Or so he prayed that is what it was, an accident, but deep in his heart he feared otherwise. The cliffs and now this, could someone truly want her dead?

He turned and trod toward the house with Agatha in tow. “And find my wife's damned horse,” he called over his shoulder.

Once inside, all the servants kept a wide berth. Reaching the study, he slammed the door closed, flung her into a chair, and went straight for the brandy. He poured a hefty dram into a glass and took a long sip.

"I'd like one too, if you don't mind,” she said.

He steeled his nerves against her, but poured her a glass, then shoved it into her hands. They trembled, he noted and cursed himself for frightening her. Of course being tossed from her horse was likely the primary cause, but he knew he played a part in her fear.

He faced the cold hearth. “I repeat, explain what?"

He heard her take a long unsteady breath, but dare not look at her. He couldn't trust himself not to pull her into his arms and touch every inch of her body, assuring himself that she was not harmed.

"A great many things. But first I'd like to know if you believe me or not."

"I am considering the possibilities."

"I suppose that will have to do,” she said with a sigh.

"And your explanation?” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

"Yes, well, I do need to clear up something.” She fidgeted with her dress, the only telltale sign she was nervous. “You seem to have a misconception about our wedding day."

He turned, curious as to where this was heading. “Is that so? Pray enlighten me."

"I wasn't afraid of you on our wedding day. I've never been afraid of you, nor shall I be."

His jaw tight, he gazed down into those blasted eyes, large and dark behind her glasses, peering up at him, absent of any deception. Still, he refused to believe her claims, they were all afraid of him. Years of rejection had taught him well.

He stomped back across the room to refill his glass. “It was quite clear, madam, that you were terrified. The flowers in your hands trembled as did the rest of you."

"I was trembling because I—"

He waited, forcing himself to hear her lies, her silly explanations and braced himself for her next words.

She took a sip of her brandy. “Very well,” she said, her voice stronger than before. “I
was
afraid, I'll admit that. But I was most definitely not afraid of you,” she said, shooting him a scowl before turning her attention to the hearth, granting him a perfect view of her profile. Her pert nose, her long sweeping throat, she was beautiful, and he couldn't bring himself to tell her so. But he did not want her pity.

Her lips pinched. “To be perfectly honest, I was afraid of making an arse of myself."

Magnus blinked at that, then took another long drink. The woman would forever surprise him. Her unusual nature was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place, but her language was definitely unexpected.

She lowered her head and stared into the depths of her glass. “I'd never been kissed before,” she said softly. “I assumed I'd like it, after all I wanted it—that is, I wanted you to kiss me. But I was afraid I'd do it incorrectly, or you'd be disappointed, or the entire gathering would laugh themselves silly at my—our expense."

She ran her finger around the edge of the glass, never lifting her gaze to his, but he could see the flush of embarrassment on her skin. He remained silent, no longer certain of anything. Her motives, her feelings—or his.

"Then when you kissed my forehead,” she continued with a sigh, “as my father often does, I realized you didn't truly want me. Not the way a man should want his wife."

She took a long, shaky sip of the brandy. With a deep breath, she said, “And you didn't come to me on our wedding night—or any night. Then after you kissed me this morning, I didn't know what to think. So, I came looking for you, while I still had the nerve to ask."

He tossed back the last of his brandy. “And I answered."

"Yes and no. You see, that wasn't the real question."

"Then what is?” He wanted her to get on with the bloody business, because it was grinding the last of his resolve to a fine powder.

Slowly her gaze lifted to meet his. “Do you
want
me, Magnus?"

He sucked in a silent breath. Her eyes pleaded with him, begging for an honest answer, and although he knew it would give her more power over him, he could not lie. Not again. Not to himself or to her.

"Yes,” he choked out a harsh whisper.

Her eyes widened then she jerked her gaze to the hearth. Her skirts rustled as she rose and placed the glass upon the mantel. She gripped the thick marble ledge with both hands.

"Then why do you not come to me at night? Why do you keep your distance night and day?"

He turned away, unable to look at the one thing he desired but could never have, and slammed the glass down onto the tray, nearly shattering it.

"You've said there's no one else,” she said.

His hands fisted at his sides. “There is not."

"Then you—cannot come to my bed,” she said, her voice heavy with regret.

He clenched his jaw against the need to correct her misassumption. It would be better this way for both of them.

She let out a long shaky breath. “It isn't important, Magnus. As long as I know that you chose me because you wanted me, and not because I was, well, merely suitable. That's all that matters. Thank you for telling me."

"You have your answer, madam, now I should like one of my own."

"Of course."

Her skirts rustled as she drew closer, but he did not turn. He prayed she wouldn't touch him, he would lose what little control he still possessed.

"Did your father coerce you into accepting?"

"No, he did not."

"Was it pity then?"

She snorted softly. “Ridiculous."

He spun around and looked into her eyes, searching, hoping, and finding nothing but honesty glistening behind her spectacles. Still...

She clasped her hands before her and lifted her chin. “Nor did I marry you because you were the only offer I had. I married you because—because I wanted to,” she said with a firm nod.