Surrender To Me (22 page)

She held that gaze, enduring the hot crawl of his eyes over her. Dropping her hand from his mouth, she quickly kissed him, giving him no time to speak, tasting, drinking the essence of him—strength, virility.
A man she loved.
Who had called to her heart from the first moment she saw him, strong and proud in the swirling mists, ready to defend her—a perfect stranger.

Choking back a sob, she deepened their kiss, pouring all the emotion she suppressed, all the love she dared not confess.

He growled against her lips.

Desire rushed her as his hands dove for the hem of her petticoats, anxiously yanking the well-worn cambric to her hips. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, touching her briefly, playing in her wetness.

She nearly wept when his hand left her. Whimpering, she arched off the bed, reaching for him, groping to bring him back to her…only to fall back at the sudden, probing heat of him entering her, filling her, stretching her with the incredible length of him.

“Yes,” she sighed as he held himself lodged deeply inside her, agonizingly still, his member pulsing with life as his hands tangled in her skirts gathered at her hips.

She devoured the sight of him over her, taut as a bow string, muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Astrid,” he cried, fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her to him.

With his head tossed back, throat muscles working, she drank him in, just as her body did, sealing the image of him in her mind, knowing she would never see anything that moved her as he did again.

Griffin watched Astrid sleep in the early hours of dawn, tempted to shake her awake…to make love to her all over again.

His fingers hovered over the dark lines of her brows, tempted to trace them. His hand stilled, deciding to let her sleep. For now. His argument for keeping her with him had fled with the arrival of Thomas Osborn. He could no longer claim fear for her safety. Osborn had owned up to killing her husband, however inadvertently. Astrid was in no danger on that account. She could travel without fear of being apprehended.

Leaning back on the pillow, he sighed, still watching her beside him. If he didn’t want her to leave, then he was going to have to tell her the truth. That he wanted her to stay. For himself.

Stomach rumbling, he stood and collected his clothes from the floor. Quietly, he slipped from the room, thinking to return with breakfast. The idea of breakfast in bed with Astrid held decided appeal. He didn’t particularly relish seeing his newfound family just yet. At least not while they still harbored delusions of him marrying Petra.

He took quick strides down the shadowed corridor, pausing when he heard a soft sound coming from one of the alcoves set in the stone walls of the corridor.

Glancing to the right, he noticed the shadowy figure of a woman huddled on a bench. Early-morning light washed through the stained mullioned panel of glass in the wall, limning her features in a myriad of colors.

“Petra?”

Her head snapped up. Swiping at her eyes, she rose hastily to her feet, sniffling suspiciously. Her eyes cast about, looking over his shoulders, searching before settling back on him. He did not miss the relieved expression that flickered over her face.

“Mr. Shaw,” she greeted.

“Expecting someone else?” he inquired.

“No,” she replied in a breathy rush. “Why would you think so?”

Without answering, he waved to the cushioned bench. “Are you well?”

Swiping at her nose again, she sank back down and answered in a small voice, “Quite.”

He studied her. “It’s all right if you’re not, you know.”

“Is it?” she asked, a surprising edge entering her voice, “How good of you to think so. However, my father would disagree. He expects me to wash away the shame I’ve brought to the family. To be a stalwart soldier and do as commanded. And to do so I must marry you.”

He winced, thinking that not all soldiers should follow the call of duty so zealously. He certainly wished he had not followed its call to a certain grassy plain.

With a shake of his head, he asked, “But what do
you
want?”

Dipping her head to the side, she admitted, “I want to marry.”

He nodded.

“But not you.” She shook her head in apology. “Sorry.”

He smiled wryly. “Don’t be.”

She bit her lip and released it. “I want to marry Andrew.”

“Who is Andrew?”

“My father’s coachman.”

“Ah. And would Andrew be who you first thought me to be when I joined you in this corridor?”

She averted her gaze, and he caught a hint of blush staining her cheeks in the glow of dawn. A moment passed before she lifted her chin. “He loves me. He loved me before Bertram…“Her voice faded. She fisted the fabric of her gown, and he well imagined the dark roads her mind traveled. “He loves me still,” she finished.

“Then why not marry him?”

She snorted. “Father would not permit it.”

Griffin shook his head. He felt like he was talking to Astrid all over again. “Ever thought of going against Daddy?”

She pulled back, clearly startled. “And live where? How? Times are difficult. Assuming Andrew finds another position, he can scarcely support himself, much less a family.”

“So what? You’ll marry me, then? Even while you love someone else? Someone willing and eager to marry you? Will that make you happy?” Anger swelled inside him. An anger that could not be rested entirely at her feet. Astrid would do the same thing——had, in fact. She had wed the man her father chose…living
unhappily
ever after to the moment of his death.

“Happy?” she murmured. “When has happiness ever been an issue.”

“Hell,” he muttered, looking away, dragging a hand through his hair and watching the play of light on the stained glass. “You sound like Astrid.” Both women too stubborn to escape the prison they were born into. Even when the door was unlocked before them, they remained within.

Reaching a decision, he looked back at Petra and bit out, “Consider yourself engaged.”

She responded slowly, “Are you asking--”

“I’m telling you,” he ground out.

She stared at him a long moment, her eyes bleak as they scanned his face. “Very well,” she agreed.

He nodded. Disgusted. Convinced. Another woman lost to duty’s path. Rot them both. She and Astrid. Damned martyrs. Turning, he strode back to his chamber without another word, his hunger forgotten, determination burning through him.

“Griffin! Wait!”

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

Petra rose and took a halting step from the alcove, her skirts rustling. “What are you going to do?”

“Fetch the reverend, of course. Inform my grandfathers I’ll be back posthaste, would you?” His lips twisted in a smile. “Meanwhile, prepare yourself for your wedding.”

A
strid woke with a deep stretch. Soft light poured into the room from the single mullioned window. She sat up, holding the linens tightly to her nakedness as she glanced about the large chamber, so different in the light of day, free of flickering shadows. Free of Griffin.

Falling back on the bed, she stared at the canopy above her, fingers drawing small, worrisome circles over her stomach, wondering where he had gone.

Did he regret last night, knowing, as she, that nothing could come of it?

And yet they had surrendered to desire, committing madness with one another again. Selfish, she knew. She had not changed her mind regarding his marrying Petra. She still believed that it would be the right thing, the proper thing. For Petra and Griffin both.

Still gazing at the canopy, she willed herself to rise, her molten limbs to move, to dress and prepare herself to say good-bye to Griffin.

She rubbed chilled fingertips over her brow, wondering how she could return to her old life as though nothing had happened. As if Griffin had not happened. As if she had not changed, experiencing life for the first time. How would she even fit into that world anymore?

Suddenly she felt relief to have woken alone. Better that Griffin was not here as she reached these sobering conclusions. Better that she was granted much needed time to compose herself without his absorbing presence. The last thing she needed was to become confused again. To
feel
again. To let desire cloud her head.

A swift knock sounded on the door. She clutched the counterpane tighter about herself and surged up in bed, her gaze darting for her clothing. The door swung open before she had a chance to call out.

The maid from last night stood in the threshold with a pitcher in her hands. “Ah, you’re awake. Thought you might like some fresh water for washing.” Her gaze scanned Astrid, knowing and smug. “Slept well, did you?”

Heat swarmed Astrid’s face. Wrapping the covers around herself, she slid from the bed and dropped her bare feet to the floor. Her toes dug into the soft rug. “Yes, thank you.”

“I imagine you did.” Her expression turned lascivious. “With a bedmate like yours, I would have, too.”

Ignoring the comment, Astrid bent and snatched her clothes off the floor.

“I must say,” the girl began.

Astrid shot her a wary glance as she shook out her impossibly wrinkled gown with one hand.

“The way he was looking at you, I was a wee bit surprised that he left so early this morning. Especially on such an errand.”

The hairs on her nape prickled and her stomach began to churn uneasily. “Left?” She could not keep the single word from escaping.

“Aye. Departed over an hour ago.”

As much as it pricked her pride to interrogate a maid on Griffin’s whereabouts and plans, nothing could stop her from asking, “Where did he go?”

“To fetch the reverend in the next village.” She shook her head and laughed ruefully as she set the pitcher on a side table. “You should see the two lairds.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re downstairs even now discussing wedding plans like a couple of old women.”

Astrid’s stomach plunged to her feet in a vicious dive. She dropped back on the bed, her legs suddenly too weak to support herself.

“Never thought to see those two old dogs breaking bread together…even if they still snipe at one another in the process.” She sighed contentedly. “Can’t tell you how happy everyone is. No one ever relished the idea of that Thomas as lord and master of Balfurin. Griffin’s homecoming is a blessing, to be certain. And now his marriage to Petra…well, everything is coming together.”

Astrid nodded dumbly.
Of course
. He had decided to marry Petra. Precisely as she had urged him. For duty’s sake. For his family, his people…for Petra who had suffered more than any woman should.

For whatever reason, his conscience and good sense must have reared its head at last.

Perhaps that is what he wanted to tell her last night. Before she stopped him, crushing her lips to his. Perhaps last night had been good-bye for him, too. A final farewell before he went about his duty.

“I see,” she murmured, the words escaping her tight throat. “Good for Griffin. And Petra.” She nodded once in a satisfied manner, contrary to the ache that flared to life beneath her breastbone, calling her a liar and ten kinds of fool. A scathing voice rose up inside her, whispering and taunting her…

Did you think this would be so simple? That you could walk away and not feel pain? You don’t want him to marry Petra. You don’t want him to marry anyone but you.

She shoved down the insistent voice in her head, pushing it to the dark well inside where she had stored feelings she deemed too volatile, too selfish, too much like those that had guided her mother and led her to ruin.

Standing, she gathered her composure, cloaking herself in a sheet of ice strong enough to kill off pathetic sentiments.

Uncaring of her audience, she dropped the counterpane and set about dressing herself with stiff movements. Denying Petra a marriage to Griffin would be pure selfishness. Griffin and Petra were
right
. Astrid and Griffin…well, they were something else. Something that could never be——naught but a dream, elusive and fleeting, never intended to last. Fitting that he should have left before she woke. Would that his memory vanish from her heart as easily.

Her husband had raped Petra. That alone stood as reason to bite her tongue and set aside the love she felt for Griffin…and whatever he may or may not feel for her. Surrendering the man she loved was the least she could do.

Dressed and composed, Astrid walked down the corridor with brisk steps, intent on speaking with Laird MacFadden about arranging an escort to Edinburgh. With luck, she would be gone before Griffin returned.

A part of her died, withered inside at reaching this decision. No good-byes. No seeing him one final time. No pressing her lips to his in a lingering taste. They would never again have a night in each other’s arms.

It had taken her all day to gather her nerve and decide to approach MacFadden. A day spent contemplating Griffin’s abrupt departure, and his stinging neglect to inform her of his intention to wed Petra.

It was one matter to have encouraged his nuptials to Petra, but another to watch him marry another with her own eyes. Her heart could not stand witness to such heartbreak. Nor her dignity. She would be gone before such an event took place.

Quickening her pace, she turned the corridor, noticing a couple ahead. One of them, a female, struck a familiar chord.

“Petra?” she called.

The cloaked woman looked over her shoulder, the action inherently anxious, apprehensive. Seeing Astrid, Petra stopped and shot a vague, inscrutable look at her companion, a young man that held her arm in a plainly possessive hold.

Astrid quickly closed the distance, assessing the man beside Petra suspiciously, her gaze lingering on his hand gripping Petra’s arm.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine,” Petra replied, her voice a bit strident as she looked to the man beside her.

Astrid followed her gaze, arching a brow. “Won’t you introduce me?”

“Oh. This is…Andrew.”

“Andrew,” Astrid murmured, somehow not surprised. Her gaze ran over the coachman. Although not particularly handsome, he was strapping, his arms thickly muscled. One of his broad hands clutched the handle of a valise.

Her gaze snapped back up to Petra’s face, awareness hitting her. “Good heavens! You’re not—”

“Please, Astrid!” Petra rushed forward, seizing her arm in a surprisingly fierce grip. The birthmark on her face seemed to darken with the depth of her emotion. “Don’t try to stop me. I can’t remain here. I thought I could, but I can’t.” She looked to Andrew then. Releasing Astrid, she moved back to his side.

Astrid tried to wrap her thoughts around the fact that Petra was actually running away. “But Griffin—”

“Is a good man,” she broke in, “but not for me. I appreciate his offer of marriage, but I don’t want to marry him.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“All my life I’ve done as I was bid and it has brought me nothing but pain.” She looked to the man at her side. He smiled tenderly and pressed the back of Petra’s hand to his mouth. “Andrew has kin in Glasgow. He thinks he can find work at one of the factories there. Perhaps we can save enough for passage to America.” Dark eyes shining, she added in a broken whisper, “I’ll follow my instincts for a change and take a chance on love.”

Astrid studied the couple in the dim corridor, feeling a stab of envy. Not because they loved each other. It was a simple matter to love someone. She loved Griffin. No great feat, that. Loving was the easy part. It took no strength or courage. The strength came in how one showed that love, what they chose to do with it, whether it survived life’s storms.

She had thought herself strong and brave to love Griffin and walk away from him, to encourage his marriage to Petra. She had thought herself so different from her mother, someone who surrendered to her love of another man and deserted her child.

Astrid swallowed, fighting down the sour taste filling her mouth as realization washed over her.

Petra possessed true strength. Astrid did not.

Petra loved and was willing to take a chance on that love, to follow it wherever it led. Astrid felt small standing before her.

Behind her, footsteps thudded over the corridor. Fast approaching. Petra’s face tightened with panic. She pressed closer to Andrew, looking left and right, clearly uncertain whether to flee down the rest of the corridor or take shelter in one of the nearby rooms.

Without stopping to think, Astrid motioned the couple down the corridor, “Go! Hurry. I’ll distract them.”

Petra slanted her head and looked at her strangely.

“Go,” Astrid repeated, waving them on.

With a grateful smile, Petra and her lover fled.

Astrid hastened in the opposite direction, ready to stall the new arrival. Rounding the corridor, she stopped abruptly at the man heading her way, suddenly gratified with her split-second decision.

“My, you’re up early,” Osborn announced with a leer. “Did Shaw fail to properly tire you out last night?” He stopped before her. “You know, I would be more than happy to accommodate if you find yourself hungry for more—”

“How kind of you,” Astrid broke in with false charm. “I can think of no one whose company I would rather have than a remorseless killer such as yourself.”

The smug grin disappeared from his face in a flash. “I would think you would thank me for ridding you of that worthless cur. It has certainly left you free to squeeze your thighs around the first buck to cross your path.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and resisted the impulse to turn on her heels and leave him and all his crude insults where he stood. No matter how revolting his words, she stayed put, her fingers twitching at her side, itching to make contact with his face. She took comfort in the fact that with every moment that passed, she helped Petra thwart him and all his ruthless ambitions for her.

“You, sir, are a pig.”

His gaze crawled over her, glinting with mirthful spite. “And you,
Duchess
, are little more than a whore…no matter your fancy airs.”

She flinched.

“And you mustn’t be very good,” he continued with an arrogant cock of his dark head. “First one husband. Now Griffin. You can’t keep a man to save your life, can you?” He flashed her a cruel smile. “Whatever you have beneath your skirts mustn’t be very appealing or Shaw would not have roused himself so early to leave your bed and fetch the reverend to wed him to my daughter.”

Stepping nearer, he ran the backs of his fingers against her cheek and down the column of her neck. She turned her face sideways, closing her eyes against the feel of him.

“That must have pricked your pride,” he continued, his voice a slow, insidious murmur that skimmed over her skin as nimbly as his hand. “Perhaps the right man could teach you how to properly please a man.” He stood so close now that she could smell the onions from last night’s dinner on his breath. Her stomach churned. Opening her eyes, she glared at him.

“What say you?” he murmured. “Would you like that? To learn what a real man is like?”

This time she could not stop herself. She flung his hand off her neck and stepped around him. With one hand rubbing her skin as if she could rub out the stain of him on her flesh, she backed away.

“Never put a hand on me again,” she hissed.

“No?” Straightening, he brushed away the invisible wrinkles in his coat. “Pity. Then it appears you’re quite finished here. Why not salvage your pride and leave? Today, in fact. Don’t be here when Griffin returns.” The last suggestion was uttered somewhat ominously. “His whore needn’t be standing on while he weds my daughter.” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “That wouldn’t do at all. Not at all.”

Without gracing him with a reply, she turned and hurried back to her chamber.

Salvage your pride and leave
.

The fact that his suggestion mirrored her intentions did not make it any easier to hear.

Pacing the length of her chamber, she rubbed her neck, the feel of his hand an irksome imprint there.

She was not fool enough to think Osborn cared about her or the status of her pride. She knew his intent. He wanted her out of the way. Would not risk Griffin changing his mind with the shadow of her presence. Apparently only she knew the unlikelihood of that happening, knew that honor would prohibit Griffin from going back on the promise he had made to Petra.

But Petra would not be here, a small voice reminded.
Surely you could stay…

And what? Be pathetic, desperate, lacking in all dignity? Sniffing about Griffin in the hopes of a future together?

She still had the matter of her own life to resume. She needed to notify Bertram’s family of his death, meet with the solicitors, inform the next in line that he had inherited the vast, insolvent estates of the Duke of Derring. No. Better that she leave now. Before Griffin returned.