by Cate Dean
It took all of his control not to wrap his arm around her; he knew the damage was on her right side. So he contented himself with inhaling the scent of her wild, rich red hair.
She smelled of wildflowers, and the ocean. Martin wanted to bury his face in her silky hair, take her in his arms and kiss those full lips that smiled so easily—
He cut off his thought before it could finish forming. Maggie was hurting, and she hardly needed him drooling over her like a randy teenager.
“Martin?”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“You’re off the hook.”
“For Giles, yes. I was otherwise occupied.”
She smiled against his shoulder. “I love hearing you talk. I lost track of how many times I’ve watched your shows. I have them all on—oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Now you’ll think I’m a—that I’m a—ˮ She seemed to be stuck for the word she wanted, so he made a suggestion.
“Stalker?”
“That’s it. I’m not—a stalker, I mean. I just really like how enthusiastic you are about archaeology, and whatever you happen to be looking for.” She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. He studied the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks, sharper against her pale skin, tried not to feel the way he felt when she looked at him, like he was the only one in the room. “Martin?”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“Forgive me. I am worried about you, Maggie. I suppose watching over you may look like staring.” Her smile warmed him. “I sounded like a thesaurus entry just then.”
“Yep, you did.” She laid her head on his shoulder again. “I like you, Martin.”
He opened his mouth to tell her the same, and was met with a soft snore.
Smiling, he leaned back, and carefully draped his arm over her shoulders.
“I find myself liking you as well, Maggie Mulgrew.”
He would protect her, no matter what it cost him.
Sixteen
Maggie woke in her own bed, with a drug-induced hangover that made her wish she could sleep it off. But she knew that sleeping wouldn’t help. Food, fresh air, and movement would. That started by dragging herself out of bed.
She pulled on her most comfortable robe, a blue chenille that wrapped her like a warm blanket. Her right arm wasn’t as stiff this morning, the pain a dull ache that didn’t feel like a hot poker digging into her elbow. She checked the bruises on her side, then her leg. They looked about the same.
She knew they would take a while to fade: she bruised easily anyway, and deep, ugly bruises like these tended to hang around, slow to heal. Feeling more like herself, and less like a zombie, she headed toward the curving staircase. Halfway down, she heard the voices.
Spencer she recognized. The other voice—
“Martin. Oh, no.” She vaguely remembered their conversation in Spencer’s van. Heat flushed her cheeks at one particular memory. She couldn’t face him, not after practically draping herself over him and telling him how much she liked him. “You have to face him sooner or later.”
She really wanted to choose later.
Instead, she took a deep breath and kept going.
Spencer and Martin stopped talking the second she appeared. It was a race to see who could get to her faster.
“Mags.” Spencer won by a hair, wrapping his arm around her waist. “How are you this morning?”
“Much better. Being unconscious for twelve plus hours made a difference.”
“You look better. There’s color in your face again. I got breakfast for you, in case you woke hungry.”
“Thanks, Spence.” She kissed his cheek, and let him guide her to the scarred farmhouse table in the kitchen. Maggie had always loved this kitchen, with the long marble countertops, a butcher block island, and faded blue cabinets. She had made a vow not to change a thing when she moved in. “You got bagels?”
“With cream cheese, and—what do you call the cold salmon?”
“Lox. Where—ˮ
“Martin found them.” Spencer sounded grudging as he gave the credit. “You’ll never believe where.”
She made a guess. “Not Green Goddess?”
“The very place.”
Their local hippie café, selling bagels and lox? She must have bumped her head when she fell, because that didn’t sound right. “Any explanation for the sudden addition?”
“Two.” Spencer grinned at her. “The owner’s husband deciding that vegan wasn’t for him. And tourists.”
“Where are they getting the bagels? Lilli,” she answered herself, and Spencer nodded.
“Martin had this conversation, so I’ll let him continue.” He waved in Martin’s direction, and started spreading cream cheese on what looked like a jalapeno cheese bagel.
Martin nodded. “I saw the bagels when I went in for tea, and Shelly, the enthusiastic American waitress, gave me the entire story. Whether I wanted it or not.” His crooked smile told Maggie that he had enjoyed the conversation. “According to Shelly, the owner came over and all but begged Lilliana. It seems that his marriage was at stake, or as Shelly put it, the very bedrock of their relationship.”
“So, Lilliana said yes. She has a big heart.” Maggie eyed the bagel in Spencer’s hand, hoping that it was for her. When he laid the two halves of deliciousness on a plate and slid it over to her, she could have kissed him. “Thank you.”
The combination of spicy, cheesy bread, cool, rich cream cheese, and slightly salty lox was like a party in her mouth. She may have moaned a little as she ate the first half. She knew she did on the second half, because by the time she finished, both men were staring at her.
“It’s good.”
“Apparently,” Martin said. He gave her another crooked smile, and her heart skipped.
Don’t get involved—he won’t stay, not with his position at Oxford, and his work.
She dropped her gaze to her plate, and focused on the rest of her bagel.
“About this list of yours, Maggie.” Martin’s voice jerked her head up. “I want you to stop. If Cooperman knew what you were doing—ˮ
“He’d lock me in a cell. For my own good would be his point of view.” She poked at the crumbs on her plate, wanting another bagel, but not wanting to look like a pig in front of Martin. Then again, if he spent any time with her, he’d find out about her large appetite. She shrugged and reached for a bagel, ignoring Spencer’s grin. “You obviously didn’t kill Giles, since you were behind bars at the time. But Drew still has you pegged for Angus’ murder. I want to help you—ˮ
“No.” His voice was quiet, but steel edged the usually even tone. “You’ve already been hurt because of your association with me.” He stood, and Maggie knew what he was going to say before he said it. “I will see if Elisa has an available room.”
“You don’t have to—ˮ
“Thank you for your assistance, Maggie. It will be better if I—ˮ
“Stay,” Spencer said. Both Maggie and Martin stared at him. “It makes sense. Someone is obviously out to frame you,” he pointed at Martin. “And if we stay together, this person can’t use one of us against the other. Plus—if they want you out of the way, permanently, it would be so much easier if you’re alone, in a semi-public building.”
Martin looked at him, then at Maggie, who did her best to keep hope off her face. Spencer made sense, even if it was grisly sense. And she knew, in her heart, that if Martin walked out now she’d never see him again.
Finally, with a defeated sigh, Martin lowered himself to the chair. “I suppose if I am silenced, the real murderer will get away with what he’s done.” He took his glasses off, and looked at Maggie, his grey blue eyes vulnerable. “If there is even a hint of danger, I will leave. If anything else happened to you because of me—ˮ
“It won’t,” Spencer said. He laid his hand on Maggie’s left shoulder. “I will take them down before they get close enough.”
“Spence.” Maggie turned to him. He sounded so angry,
it scared her. “You’ve been watching too much American television.”
It took a few seconds, but he relaxed, enough to smile at her. “Guilty pleasure.” He looked from her to Martin, his blue eyes serious. “So, what do we do now?”
Maggie swallowed. She really wanted this to be over, but she refused to back away—not with Martin’s life and future at stake.
“We smoke out the real killer.”
Seventeen
A week went by with no success.
Maggie spent that week watching Enid closely for any sign of guilt, visiting the tacky souvenir shop more than she had in months. Every time she stepped in, Enid jumped a foot, and found an excuse to be as far away from her as possible.
Monday morning, she headed out of the house, leaving Spencer and Martin sound asleep. Spencer had told her that he was staying with her until the killer was caught—no argument.
Martin had just looked at her with those serious grey blue eyes until she gave in.
She was grateful for their presence—it helped her sleep at night. Even if she did have dreams about Martin.
Heat flushed her face at the thought of last night’s dream. She pushed it out of her mind and rounded the corner to the high street.
The street felt different this morning. The usual bustle of shops preparing to open and greet the day’s tourists was subdued. Maggie knew why; the announcement of Giles’ funeral had laid a damper over everyone in the village.
Angus’ family had come and taken him back up north, where he was from. But Giles was born and raised in Holmestead; he may not have been well-liked, but the village would turn out to honor a resident.
Maggie planned to go to the funeral for more than one reason. For Giles, of course. She felt responsible, since she had been the one to find him. But with the attendees essentially trapped in the church for the funeral, she would have the chance to catch Enid off guard, and finally get the answers she needed. She also expected the killer to show—and she wanted to be there.
Her injuries were healing, and her fear that there might be permanent damage to her elbow faded with each day. She had almost full movement in her right arm now. Her bruises still looked like she’d been beaten with a stick, but they no longer hurt.
Thank heavens the bruise on her jaw had finally faded. Even with makeup, she had difficulty covering it up.
She waved at Lilliana before stopping at the door to her shop. Just as she pushed the key in the lock, she felt a presence behind her. Strong fingers closed over her wrist.
“Inside, Miss Maggie. Now.”
The familiar voice startled her. “Henry—ˮ
“Now.”
He sounded angry, and scared. No one had seen him since the night of Angus’ murder. Maggie didn’t want to suspect him, but running like that made him look guilty.
“Okay, Henry. I’m going to unlock the door, then we’ll go inside and talk.”
“Fast now, Miss Maggie, before anyone sees me with ye.” The angry desperation in his voice shook her hand. She managed to get the door unlocked and open. Henry crowded her, almost pushing her inside the shop. He closed and locked the door behind him. Maggie took the time to put as much distance between them as possible. “I won’t be hurtin’ ye, Miss Maggie. Forgive me for makin’ ye think that.”
“What do you want, Henry?” Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat. Despite his assurance, she kept going, behind the solid mahogany counter.
He twisted his hands together, looking so miserable she wanted to console him. Instead, she stayed where she was, and waited for him.
“I didna kill him, Miss Maggie.”
“Then tell me what happened.” When he started to shake his head, she gave into her instinct and moved around the counter, closing her fingers over his. “It’s all right, Henry. Let’s sit down,”
He nodded, let her lead him to the back room, and settle him at the small table she kept there. After she sat in the opposite chair, she held out her left hand. He gripped it like a lifeline, took a deep, shaky breath, and started to talk.
“I did find Mister Angus dead, like I told ye that night. But I never touched him. I was startin’ to stand, after checkin’ to see if he breathed, and someone hit me on the back of the head.”
He lowered his head, and Maggie stood, gently parting his thick red hair. A nasty, lump marked his scalp.
“This is proof, Henry. Instead of running, you should have gone to Drew. You know he would have believed you.”
“But the blood, and ye findin’ me—I panicked, Miss Maggie, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Would you talk to Drew now? I’ll be happy to go with you, Henry, vouch for you.” She took his hand. “I know the evidence pointed at you, but I wanted to believe you were in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”
“Ye pegged that right on the head, Miss Maggie.” For the first time since he forced her into the shop, he looked hopeful. Maggie was relieved that she had been right about him. “Will ye go with me?”
“Of course. Let me put up my open late sign, and let’s go talk to Drew.”
She mentally crossed Henry off her list as she pulled out the sign she needed from her small selection. She would update her actual list after they talked to Drew.
Next up—corner Enid at the funeral.
Eighteen
Martin wandered down to the kitchen, finding Spencer already there, sitting on the butcher block island and eating leftover bagels.
“Good morning, Professor.” Spencer sounded all too chipper. Martin was no good before coffee.
He kept moving to the coffee pot, and poured a cup, silently thanking Maggie for her own addiction. The rich aroma started waking him; he inhaled the intoxicating scent, then took his first sip.
“Good, there, Professor? I know Maggie makes a great cuppa, but you look like you’re falling in love with it.”
His reaction shocked him.
He was falling for Maggie.
His older brothers would howl with laughter. Pembroke, the youngest, most bookish of the Deauville brothers, finally struck down by a woman.
“Hello—earth to Professor. You still with us?”
“Yes, right.” He set down his coffee unfinished. His realization woke him faster than a jolt of caffeine. “I believe I will go into the village, and—ˮ
“Help Maggie?” Spencer grinned at him. “You show your emotions like Maggie—an open book. Never play poker, Professor.”
Martin braced himself, waiting for Spencer to warn him off. He knew the younger man was like a brother to Maggie, and he protected her fiercely.
Instead, Spencer kept eating his bagel, his blue eyes amused.
Nodding as casually as he could, Martin walked out. By the time he closed the door behind him, he wanted to run—to Maggie, to the kind of life he could have with her.
All he had to do was prove his innocence.
***
Martin strode quickly toward the shop, his heart pounding by the time he reached the door. It opened before he could reach for the latch.
“Martin.” Maggie stood in the doorway, pale and disheveled.
“What happened?”
She stood aside, waiting until she locked the door—in the middle of the morning—and turned to him. “Henry was here.”
Panic had him rushing over to her, wanting to check every inch for new bruises. “Did he harm you?”
“No. He was scared, Martin, but not violent. That isn’t in Henry’s personality.” She let out a sigh, and walked over to the nearest chair, easing herself down. “We went to see Drew. Henry is still there, but I have a feeling he’ll be free and clear by the end of the day. Whoever killed Angus knocked Henry on the back of the head. The lump was still there.”
Martin wanted to sag in relief, then shout at her for facing the man on her own. Instead, he crouched next to the chair, and took her hand.
“Are you all right?”
She let out a shaky breath. “After it sank in
, I was a little unsteady. But I’m better now. Another suspect off my list,” she whispered.
“Hey.” He kept his voice gentle, shoved down the anger threatening to boil over. “The truth will set me free, Maggie.”
“Will it?” She clapped her free hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I—”
“Have every reason to doubt me.” Martin let go of her hand and stood. “I understand your hesitation, Maggie.” It hurt, so much more than he expected, but he understood. “I will find other accommodation.”
“Martin.” Her voice halted him at the door. “I’ll find the truth—”
“Please, don’t place yourself in danger.” He turned to her, taking in her worried blue eyes, the red waves tumbling over her shoulders. How did she manage to become so important to him? “I will prove my innocence. I hope that we can speak again, once I do.”
He did not give her time to accept or deny his request; he unlocked the door and opened it, closing it between them before she could open her mouth, and possibly break his resolve.
Hearing her say no might possibly break his heart.
Martin did not want to find out if that were true.
Nineteen
The day of the funeral turned out warm, sunny, and picture perfect. Not the type of weather for mourning.
Like Maggie expected, most of the village filled St. Mary’s Church, the 17th century stone church in the middle of the high street. Edward was also there, and since they had been classmates at Oxford, she wasn’t surprised to see him.
Edward raised his hand to her when she passed the pew he sat in. She nodded, and kept going, her heart skipping a little at the interest in his gaze. Then she saw Martin, and everyone else faded.
He sat next to Drew, and wore a dark suit that brought out his grey blue eyes. His dark brown, wavy hair brushed the collar of his jacket, and an image of him in a dirt-streaked khaki shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbow to highlight his strong forearms, flashed through her mind.
