Andrew Lord of Despair(103)

Good things had been known to happen in stables, and at this time of day, the barn would afford Andrew privacy with his wife, so he followed her there, pausing outside the barn door for a moment to gather his courage.

The sun shone with the relentless brightness of a snowy winter day, the eaves dripped with a promise of moderating temperatures, and all was right with the world—or soon would be, if luck was with him.

On that fortifying thought, Andrew grasped the door latch.

The sound of a blow, flesh on flesh, rent the winter stillness, followed by a male voice, soft, snide, the words indistinguishable.

Astrid was in that stable.

Andrew’s entire life was in that stable.

Her voice came to him, defiant, bothered, not the least afraid, then more snide male taunts.

Andrew had no weapons, but Astrid had no weapons either, save her wit and courage. He crept closer and cracked the door.

***

Astrid cringed, her arms wrapped around her belly, as Henry cocked his arm back for a second blow.

“Touching.” Henry smirked, lowering his hand. “You protect my brother’s heir rather than yourself. Did you know”—Henry wrapped the reins tightly around Astrid’s wrists—“Herbert refused to share you with me? I had it all planned, the pitch darkness, the dressing gown, slipping up the back stairs of a Sunday night like a marital thief—what fun, eh? It wasn’t as if Herbert actually enjoyed servicing you, but that damned title does put certain requirements on a fellow. He wasn’t as stingy with some of his other toys though, or with your money.”

A pang of sympathy for Herbert’s hunters pierced Astrid’s ire, for a man who’d strike a petite, defenseless, pregnant woman would delight in abusing a helpless beast with whip and spurs. “What are you talking about?”

“My brother,” Henry said, giving the leather a vicious yank, “or should I say my late brother, was becoming too headstrong. He begrudged me the occasional loan from your funds, but then, he’d also married you against my wishes. He got you pregnant against my wishes, telling me it was what Father would have wanted. Bah! All Father wanted was to tramp around in the mud, shooting at anything that moved—a convenient propensity, in the end.”

Henry put a tight knot in the reins, painfully binding Astrid’s wrists.

“Is that snug enough for you?” he asked oh-so-pleasantly. “Such a shame we don’t have time to play…”

She needed to keep Henry talking. Sooner or later, somebody would check on the horses, or on her—wouldn’t they?

“You sent the note telling me to meet you here, didn’t you?” She was damned if she’d let Henry know how much her bindings hurt.

“Clever of me, wasn’t it?” Henry yanked on the trailing ends of the reins, pulling Astrid toward the door of the saddle room. “You see, I am the clever one in the benighted Allen family, but by definition, that means my parents and my dear siblings were unable to appreciate my superior intelligence. While that allows a fellow a certain freedom, it does grow tedious, always having to manage every detail oneself. Come along.”

Astrid weaved on her feet, half in earnest. “I’m dizzy.”

“Come anyway, bitch,” he growled, “or I’ll drag you. And right now, you don’t particularly want to be on the floor, much less on your back, do you?”

Astrid stumbled along behind him, her sense of balance hampered with her hands tied in front of her. The saddle room loomed at the end of the barn aisle like a crypt, with doors opening both onto the aisle and onto the outside wall of the barn. If Henry got her in there, he could easily kill her and leave the building unseen.

“So it was you who poisoned me? And was it you who pushed me down the stairs?”

“Now that’s exactly what I mean,” Henry said, reverting to eerily pleasant tones. “I did indeed put the poison in your raspberry jam. Mother wouldn’t have gone near the stuff, but as for that, Mother nearly caught me giving you a little push down the steps. I do this for her, too, you know, dutiful fellow that I am. She doesn’t care for Dougie. Doesn’t appreciate nipfarthing, pompous condescension, doesn’t realize the poor boy can’t help himself. Douglas was due to join us for our weekly tête-à-tête, and it should have been he who was suspected of pushing you down those stairs, but alas, spontaneous schemes are sometimes not the best. Tell me you did suspect him, just a bit, hmm?”

Nausea rose, for once having nothing to do with Astrid’s condition. She considered bolting while Henry fumbled with the latch on the saddle-room door.

“How does pushing me down the stairs harm Douglas?” Though accusations of murder would rather hamper a man’s prospects.