Nothing to Commend Her

by Jo Barrett

  "Were you planning on going for a ride?” his mother asked.

  Crittenden turned his gaze to Agatha, his face blank.

  "I believe he and Lord Leighton had planned to go shooting, my lady,” she said, filling in the silence that hung in the air.

  Crittenden brightened. “Yes, quite right! Off to bag some birds this morn.” He took a seat and ate heartily, like a man at his last supper.

  Magnus appeared and she drank in the sight of him.

  "Good morning,” he murmured, obviously surprised as she to find so many up and about this early.

  Silly girl, she thought. Why would this man want her dead? It was a daft notion, to be sure. He would gain nothing from her demise. Just the previous morning he'd been afraid for her when she'd fallen from her horse, and the other night, he'd pulled her to safety from the cliff. These were not the actions of a man bent on murder.

  Nor were his kisses.

  She chastised herself for her wayward thoughts. How could she think logically if she got all flustery just at the sight of him?

  Still, she'd come to the conclusion that morning that he could not possibly be the murderer. Logic had won out, so...she supposed she was allowed to get all flustery after all, she thought with a soft giggle.

  His gaze found hers and held her. Oh yes, flustery and warm down to her very toes.

  "Mornin', old boy,” Lord Crittenden said, breaking their connection.

  Magnus moved to his seat at the end of the table, and reached for his tea.

  "I understand you and George are going shooting this morning,” Lady Crittenden said, a distinct twitch at the corner of her lips.

  Magnus’ hand stilled with his cup half-way to his mouth.

  Agatha wanted to laugh, the look on Lord Crittenden's face was so comical.

  Magnus looked to her, and she nodded faintly with a grin.

  "Um, yes. Shooting,” he said, lowering his untouched tea to its saucer. “I should have thought to mention it last night, but it must have—slipped my mind."

  "I'm sure it did,” Lady Crittenden said.

  Unable to hold in her laughter for much longer, Agatha decided it would be best to leave the room before her fib was found out and poor Lord Crittenden was forced into some other activity with the ladies. After all, she was dreadful at lying.

  "If—” she cleared her throat and tried again. “If you will excuse me, I've a few things to see to."

  She slipped away before she burst open with laughter. But before she could get to the small parlor, she was swept under the stairs, and pulled into Magnus’ arms while he claimed her mouth with his.

  "Magnus,” she murmured a faint protest against his lips. He'd startled the laugh right out of her.

  He quickly set her at arm's length. “I-I apologize.” He dropped his arms by his side. “I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. It was unseemly of me to do so."

  His suddenly stiff posture and the way he turned so his scars would be less prevalent in the dim light made her pause. Did he think she didn't want his kiss?

  "There's no need to apologize, you startled me, that's all.” She should tell him about the note, explain why she'd been so alarmed, but was more concerned, however illogical, over his current state than the idea that he'd been her attacker.

  "Yes, I should have been more careful,” he said, averting his gaze, his hands clasped behind his back.

  He was angry with himself for stealing a kiss, when she found it rather endearing. Or perhaps he still believed she feared him. After all, she'd been rather nervous the evening before, what with all that had happened.

  She moved closer to him, deeper into the shadows and pressed against him. “I'm quite calm now, and would very much like it if you continued where you left off."

  He looked down at her, his eyes a cloud of confusion, but they warmed within seconds, and he wrapped his arms around her.

  "You've no idea how much I wanted to kiss you,” he whispered against her lips between gentle kisses. Nothing like the hungry one he'd set out with, but she wasn't about to complain. Eventually, he would learn that she enjoyed all his kisses.

  "Why didn't you?"

  He nipped the edge of her lips. “We have guests, and I wasn't—"

  "You weren't what?"

  He lifted his head, a scant space between their lips. “I wasn't sure if you wanted me to."

  "Oh, I do, most definitely."

  Grinning, he kissed her softly then moved across her cheek to the side of her neck. “Why did you leave in such a rush?"

  She tried to form words, but his nipping at her skin was more than distracting. “I was finding too much—um—humor at Lord Crittenden's expense."

  He chuckled, his warm breath sending rivulets of warmth over her body. “He put himself in this situation. But you seemed distracted ever since last evening,” he said, his lips doing things to her she'd never thought possible.

  "Mmm, I had something on my mind, but it is gone now."

  "Truly?"

  "Well, not quite, but you are helping...wonderfully,” she breathed.

  He lifted his head and peered into her eyes. “Then allow me to be of further assistance."

  He pressed his lips to hers and she opened to him. The teasing parry of his tongue set fire to her senses and her mind flew off in a whirlwind. His thumb brushed the edge of her breast and she trembled. This was what she wanted—and more.

  He eased his hand around until he cupped her breast, and she felt the tip harden against his palm. Her rapid breathing matched his own, and she relished the simple pleasure of his caress through her gown. What a fool she'd been to ever doubt him?

  Voices drew near, and he growled low and long. A tendril of desire snaked through her body at the weighty sound.

  "Damn guests,” he grumbled, and set her away.

  "Damn bloody guests,” she replied.

  With a chuckle, he kissed her temple and made to intercept them before they came upon her. She had to look the wanton, with kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

  The guests distracted, she made a hasty retreat to her rooms to regain her composure, cursing the entire way. She'd forgotten to tell Magnus about the note.

  The day wore on and on, and not once had Agatha a moment in private with her husband. No matter how many times she tried to get him alone, someone would interrupt. If it wasn't estate business, it was one of their guests demanding his or her attention.

  Her nerves raw, she paced her room, growing uneasy with every step. She couldn't get his touch, his kiss from her mind. Several times, various guests attempted to draw her into conversation, but the memory of his caress simmered inside her making her completely daft.

  Paper crinkled in her hand, re-focusing her efforts on her predicament. Someone wanted her dead. She read the note for the hundredth time. Revenge the obvious motive.

  "Logic shall win out,” she muttered, and attacked the problem once more, determined to come to some conclusion.

  "The revenge had to be against Magnus. Silly of me not to realize that before, but who would want revenge on him by killing me?"

  Lord Crittenden perhaps? He had arrived singularly on horseback. He could've lurked nearby a few nights before and pushed her over the cliff. She was Magnus’ wife, and although he didn't love her, to lose another so soon would cut him deeply. Which left Lord Crittenden as a possibility.

  "Although it seems an absurd notion,” she muttered, then decided he was not the one.

  She needed to tell Magnus about the note. At least then he would know she wasn't some hysterical female with an overactive imagination, and perhaps he might shed some light on the identity of the culprit.

  The house having retired some hours ago, she pulled on her robe, determined to explain things. It couldn't wait another moment. Who was to say this criminal wouldn't decide to kill her husband instead of making him suffer? His life could very well be the one in danger. Not to mention, after the day she'd already had with their guests, she doubted she
would be able to speak with him tomorrow.

  She knocked on their connecting door, but received no response. Tapping the note to her chin, she considered where he might be.

  "Of course.” She slipped the note into her pocket and turned to go down the stairs to find her husband and Lord Crittenden, who were no doubt hiding in his study discussing the day's events and how to thwart Lord Crittenden's mother. Lady Crittenden had been quite clear that she would not leave Bridley Hall without him. His little farce of shooting birds had not escaped her attention.

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  Chapter Seven

  Something was bothering his wife. Magnus didn't believe it had anything to do with the guests or her impending visit from Mr. Reynolds. All day, she'd seemed intent on something, and whenever he had a moment free to speak with her, they were interrupted. Could his intimate touch that morning beneath the stairs be the cause?

  "That's a pensive frown,” Crittenden said. “Afraid I'll beat you?” he asked, motioning toward the chessboard and their barely started game.

  "No, I was just thinking."

  He smiled wide. “About your wife, no doubt, and not my sorry situation."

  Magnus’ head snapped up. “What about her? Did she say something to you?"

  He laughed as he sat back in his chair. “Is there trouble in paradise already?"

  "Don't be an arse."

  "Well then, what has you so troubled? You seemed fine yesterday in the orangery. More than fine, I would say. At least before my mother and her minions descended."

  "Hmm, yes. Fine.” The guests and her Mr. Reynolds impending visit had upset her, but she'd rallied after a time.

  Perhaps it had to do with her fall over the cliff. She had been ready to leave him, to flee to safety. Then there was the shot and her topple from her horse. Could she still believe someone wished her ill?

  "Well, out with it, man. There's no fun in pummeling you in chess when you're mind isn't on the game,” Crittenden said.

  He sat back and looked at his friend for a moment. “Agatha believes someone is trying to kill her."

  Crittenden choked on his brandy. “Good Lord,” he sputtered.

  "She fell over the cliff the other night.” He gulped down the last of his drink, despising the unexpected slice of fear that shot through him at the thought of losing her. “Luckily, she'd managed to grab hold of a root and held on until I found her. She claims she was pushed."

  "And you don't believe her."

  He rose and went to the opposite side of the room to fill his glass. “There's nothing for anyone to gain by her death. No monies, no land, no titles."

  "I have known the lady for less than a few days and cannot believe her capable of imagining such a thing. She's not the delusional sort."

  He turned to look at Crittenden and nodded. “I will admit, I'd begun to consider her story shortly before you arrived. A shot startled her horse that morning and the beast threw her."

  Crittenden came to his feet, his eyes wide. “And this didn't convince you?"

  "The hands found a few tracks. It was a stray shot from a poacher."

  "You know as well as I, that is only a supposition."

  Magnus nodded, his jaw clenched. “Then how do you explain her claim? Why would anyone want her dead?"

  He feared for her safety and yet she'd proven to be capable of lying, although a harmless one. Still, could she be trusted to tell the truth, or was this some bizarre attempt to manipulate him?

  An ear-piercing scream ripped through the house. Magnus dropped his snifter, shattering it against the hearth as he ran from the study with Crittenden on his heels.

  The door slammed against the wall as he lurched into the hall toward the stairs. Two figures struggled in the shadows at the top, there was no mistaking one of them was his wife.

  "Agatha!"

  She lost her grip with her attacker before he could make it half way up the stairs, and she tumbled down the first few steps before latching on to the railing. He hurried to her.

  "Go! Catch the bloody fiend,” she snapped, smacking away his seeking hands.

  He glanced at Crittenden. “Watch after her,” he ordered, and raced after the culprit. From that moment forward, whatever his wife said, he would believe, no matter how ludicrous.

  He sought out the assailant's only escape, the servant's staircase, and rushed to the end of the hall. The darkness left him a little blind, but he knew the house better than anyone, having found as many nooks and crannies to hide in when his parents were at each other's throats.

  Footsteps echoed in the stairwell and he followed. Reaching the bottom step, he paused and listened for any hint of which way the demon went. Through the east wing or straight down to the kitchen. He chose the kitchen.

  The servants would be coming down from the top floor, stirred from their sleep by the scream, and his visitors, ensconced in the far side of the house, would no doubt be sticking their prying noses out of their rooms. The kitchen was his last resort.

  He found the back door to the kitchen lying open, and he lurched out into the rain with a curse. There was no way to track him now, his trail would be lost in the downpour. He could be anywhere in the woods. Anywhere.

  Cursing, he made his way back to the hall to find the servants and several guests huddled around the study door. Barstoke held them all at bay.

  They parted like the sea upon his approach.

  "Take a few men and double check all the windows and doors,” he told the butler lowly so the guests wouldn't hear. “We have an intruder."

  "Yes, my lord.” He shooed the curious servants from the hall.

  "What is it? What's happened?” Lady Crittenden asked, her face pale.

  "Nothing to be concerned about. My wife stumbled on the stairs, that's all. She's perfectly fine.” She had to be all right, he prayed. “You should return to your room,” he said, then looked over the rest of the gathering. “All of you."

  He slipped into the study and firmly closed the door behind him on various sputtered rebuttals. Turning, he found his wife seated before the fire, a brandy in her trembling hand, and Crittenden standing before her.

  She lifted her head, and he sucked in a breath at the lack of her spectacles. Those eyes would forever surprise him.

  He crouched down beside her. “Are you all right?"

  She nodded shakily, and he brushed the backs of his fingers over her pale cheek.

  "Any luck?” Crittenden asked.

  Gritting his teeth, wanting to scoop her up into his arms and make certain she was well, he shook his head and rose. “He escaped into the woods. There's no use searching the grounds tonight in this weather. It'll hide his tracks.” He crossed to the tray for a glass.

  "It was a she,” Agatha said, then took a long draft of her brandy.

  He paused, his hand on the decanter, and glanced at Crittenden. He was taken aback as well. “I beg your pardon?"

  "The person who tried to push me down the stairs was a woman.” She looked at him, then Crittenden, then apparently gave in to the impulse to squint in an attempt to see them better. “You don't believe me. Either of you."

  He absorbed the information and splashed some brandy into a new glass. His own hands shook, he noted. “Where are your spectacles?"

  "Broken or lost, when she tried to push me down the stairs."

  It wasn't funny, not in the least, but he couldn't contain his grin at her determination. “I believe you, Agatha."

  "As do I, Lady Leighton,” Crittenden said, with a small nod of his head. “The figure on the stair was slight. I'd thought a young man, but if you're certain..."

  "Absolutely. And please, call me Agatha."

  Crittenden nodded. “And you may call me George."

  Magnus took a seat beside her and sipped his drink, steadying his racing pulse while he watched her smile at his friend.

  "Well then.” She sat back and took a deep breath. “Should we summon the magistrate?"

 
He marveled at her strength. She had already regained her composure, only a hint of her fear remained. She was a rare and beautiful woman.

  His gaze traveled her scantily clad form. Her robe, the same one she'd worn after her narrowing ordeal upon the cliffs, gave him a glimpse of so much more than her dresses ever could. He grew all the more heated by merely looking at her. But they were not alone.

  "I will notify the proper authorities.” He rose and retrieved a lap rug, then placed it over her. Crittenden hid his grin behind his glass.

  "Leighton had just told me what happened on the cliffs and the stray shot, when you screamed,” his friend said. “Have you any idea why someone would want you harmed?"

  A puzzled frown settled over her features. “I had tried to fathom what possible reason there could be for someone to want me dead, but could find none. It's simply not logical.” She looked at both of them, although Magnus knew she saw nothing but a blur of color.

  He rested his forearms across his legs, with a shake of his head. “Damned if I can think of a reason.” His gaze snapped to hers. “Wait—you mean to say you have an answer now?"

  "Not an answer, but a clue.” She retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him.

  He opened the note and his blood ran cold. “Where did you get this?"

  "It was delivered to my room yesterday."

  Lurching to his feet, he bellowed, “And you waited until now to tell me?"

  "Every time I tried to tell you, we were interrupted."

  "But you said you received the note yesterday. Why not tell me last night?"

  She plucked at the lap robe. “I had some misgivings."

  "What misgivings?” He stood before her, seething that someone had tried to take her from him, and hurt that she'd not confided in him about the note, although he supposed he deserved it for not believing her in the first place.

  "Well, it's rather silly now.” She cocked her head to the side and squinted at him, but sat back with a sigh, apparently done with trying to see him clearly. “I thought one of you might be the murderer."

  "What!"

  "I say,” Crittenden sputtered.