Surrender to Me

by Sophie Jordan

“Good evening,” she heard Bertram say, his voice overly cheerful. She winced, hoping only she detected the edge of nervousness to his crisp accents. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Come in, come in.”

  “Hope you don’t mind,” a man’s voice, thick with a Scottish burr replied. “I noticed your light.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” Bertram replied, his voice effusive, and Astrid couldn’t help wondering if he intended to repeat everything he said.

  As they chatted, she fought to hold back a sneeze. Terribly sensitive to dust, she pinched her nose while her gaze followed a pair of dark booted feet. They circled Bertram, each footfall a heavy thud that vibrated against the floorboards.

  At the stranger’s next words, her blood turned to ice.

  “I understand an Englishwoman arrived in the village this morning.”

  Silence filled the room, interrupted only by her quick intake of breath. She buried her face in her hands, dread heavy in her chest that the stranger had heard her.

  “Indeed,” Bertram finally responded, his voice small, a quivering thread on the air. “I hadn’t known.”

  “I thought you might have had occasion to speak with her.”

  “And why would you think that?”

  Her scalp tingled with warning.

  “Aside of being a fellow countrywoman…she is your wife, your grace.” The stranger’s rough Scottish burr stressed the formal address, rolling the syllables for emphasis.

  Astrid felt her eyes grow large. Her fingers tightened against her face, digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks as if she could stifle any sound from escaping.

  “Wife?” Bertram laughed, the sound brittle. “I’m not married.” His laughter stretched thin. “Not yet any rate.”

  “Cease your lies. My man’s been watching your room all night. I told him to come for me should she call on you. And she did. That’s all the proof I need. That and the fear I see in your eyes now.”

  Astrid bit her knuckle, bewildered at the identity of this man, at how he had come to find out Bertram’s true identity…and hers. Could he be the one who lured her to Scotland with the letter?

  “No, you don’t understand,” Bertram argued. “Let me explain!”

  Astrid watched the stranger’s boots slide to a stop directly in front of Bertram’s satin slippers.

  “Did you think to keep such a thing from me?”

  Bertram protested, his words garbled and choked.

  “I warned you when we first met that I’m not a man to trifle with.”

  “Of course,” Bertram babbled, “I would never—no!”

  Astrid jerked at Bertram’s panicked cry. A fist tightened around her heart at the sound of bone crunching bone, no doubt a fist meeting with Bertram’s face.

  “Taste justice,” the stranger growled.

  A heavy whack filled her ears. Bertram’s feet staggered several steps.

  She flattened her palms over the grimy floor, the tips of her fingers numb as they tunneled into the floor.

  She watched in silence as two sets of feet danced and strained toward each other in struggle.

  Another whack shook the air, followed by Bertram’s pained grunt. Suddenly he fell back, his dressing gown flying at his bare ankles.

  And then there was another sound.

  Goose bumps feathered her flesh as a deep crack rent the air, like a melon splitting in half.

  A thick, choking silence followed.

  Bertram dropped with a loud thud to the floor, the sound like that of a sack of grain falling to the ground. Not a body. Not a man. Not a life.

  Her husband lay inches away at the foot of the hearth, lips parted as though on the verge of speech, so close she could see the faint spittle on his lip.

  Breathing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut as if she could escape the horrid reality of it all. She pressed her hands deeper against the floor to still their trembling but it was useless. Reopening her eyes, she stared, mouth widening on a silent scream.

  Horrified, she stared into his eyes, watching the blue darken to night, watching the life ebb away and vanish to nothing.

  Blood trickled from a deep gash along his temple, the wound telling its tale. Either deliberately or accidentally, he was dead, his head crushed.

  Chapter 7

  A hand filled Astrid’s line of vision, broad and masculine, sprinkled with black hairs. She jerked, almost as if she feared it would swoop beneath the bed and snatch her from her hiding place.

  Instead of reaching for her, the hand brushed the side of Bertram’s neck. After several moments, a soft grunt drifted down to where she huddled beneath the bed.

  The room’s other occupant moved away. Her eyes remained fixed on the blood marring the pale skin of Bertram’s face, so dark, nearly black. Its copper scent reached out to her, filling her nostrils.

  Her gaze followed the boots as they moved about the room, stopping briefly before the dresser.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, and she issued a silent prayer that the thunderous sound reached only her ears.

  He turned from the dresser, the toes of his boots facing forward, in the direction of the bed. For a panicked moment, she feared she had somehow given herself away. Made a noise.

  Then those dark boots turned and exited the room, his footfalls hard and sure on the wood floor. No remorse. No regret for the life taken.

  She remained where she was for a long moment, her breath coming fast and ragged as she stared at Bertram, blood seeping profusely from his head, running to the floor in a dark river, silent as the flow of wind outside the window. The blood seemed a living thing, sweeping toward her.

  With a strangled cry, she slid out from beneath the opposite side of the bed and rose to her feet, wiping her grimy hands on her skirt. She came around and crouched over the body of the man she had sought, the man that she had, in the darkest shame of her soul, wished dead on more than one occasion.

  She reached out a trembling hand and touched his neck as his killer had done.

  Nothing. No steady thrum of life, not even the barest thread. Dropping her hand as though burned, she rose, freezing when she caught sight of the blood staining the hem of her gown. She grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and shook fiercely as if she could shake off the stain like so many crawling spiders.

  With her hands fisted in her skirts, her gaze drifted down again. To Bertram. Her husband. Dead. Alive only moments ago and bartering for the chance to continue his dastardly ways without interference from her.

  She could not look away from the vacant pull of his gaze. Could not stop the deep pang of remorse in her chest. Child or not. Selfish, neglectful…even criminal, he did not deserve such an end.

  And yet somehow she had brought about that very thing. She felt responsibility for his death as keenly as the prick of a blade to her flesh.

  His murderer had used her to confirm his suspicions about Bertram. How he knew her identity—or Bertram’s—she hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he had been the one to send the anonymous note to her? She shook her spinning head, not understanding any of it. Only that Bertram was dead. And she was a widow. But without the sense of freedom she had thought such status would carry. Pressing a palm to her cold cheek, she drew a deep breath into her lungs.

  The whirling in her head did not cease. She moved on legs heavy as lead to the door. A dull roar grew in her ears, filling her head. Stopping, remembering, she turned. Her gaze flew to the dresser, to the spot where she had set Bertram’s ducal signet ring, the proof, he had said, to offer as evidence of his death.

  It was gone. The dresser’s surface gleamed bare in the firelight. She would not even have that item to offer his sister and grandmother.

  Eager to leave, to flee the coppery tang of blood that seemed to color the air, to chase her, she turned, easing open the door and peeking her head out to survey the corridor. Finding it empty, she stepped out and quietly closed the door.

  Turning, she stifled a scream when she came face-to-face with a young woman, a mai
d if the linens piled high in her arms were any indication.

  “Ma’am,” the girl greeted, her eyes moving to Bertram’s door, then flicking back to her. Lips pursing in a knowing manner, she skirted past and disappeared down the hall.

  Pulling the hood of her cloak low over her head, Astrid hurried down the stairs and out into the night, seeing nothing. Nothing save a pair of vacant eyes.

  The sight of Bertram, his blood staining the floor, clouded her mind as she stumbled through the chill night, past cottages that leaned slightly in the biting wind, hunkered shapes that seemed to watch her as she hastened past.

  Her legs moved automatically, eager to reach the inn and the privacy of her room where she could…

  What? Astrid shook her head. Cry? Shout? Permit yourself to feel relief, a small, wretched voice taunted.

  All seemed useless, pathetic behavior. The mark of an inept woman.

  She drew cold air into her lungs, bracing herself. When the shock ebbed. When the image of Bertram no longer filled her mind, she would dust her hands and move on from here. Like always.

  She passed a tavern. Raucous voices and laughter spilled out into the night and she gave wide berth to a group of men entering the establishment, ignoring them when they called out suggestive comments.

  Ducking deeper inside the hood of her cloak, she increased her pace, passing the building and turning left—and running directly into a large wall of a body.

  “Whoa there.” A familiar drawl filled her ears. Hard hands came up to grasp her arms, steadying her.

  Her eyes snapped to his face, to the eyes she knew she would see. Even in the dark, his pale blue eyes flared brightly in recognition…and anger.

  “You,” he growled.

  She opened her mouth but no sound fell as she stared up into Griffin Shaw’s glowering face. Moonlight limned the lines of his face, making them appear harsh as rough-hewn granite.

  “I thought we were to travel here together?” His fingers flexed on her arm, singeing her through her cloak. “What? Can you not speak? Or would I hear only more falsehoods?”

  A strange little mewl escaped her and her legs suddenly went from lead to jam. His hands tightened, supporting her.

  “What is it? Are you hurt?” His hard gaze skimmed her, then moved beyond her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering her purpose in traveling to Dubhlagan. “Where is your husband?”

  “Husband,” she echoed, shaking her head slowly, as if she had never heard such a word before, as if its meaning escaped her entirely.

  “Astrid,” he urged, saying her name as if he possessed the right to do so. And strangely, the sound of her name sounded right falling from his lips. Comforting.

  “Dead,” she managed to get out…and not fall apart at the declaration. Squeezing her eyes, she pushed the image of Bertram lying motionless on the floor from her mind.

  Griffin Shaw’s eyes drilled into her with a burning intensity, thawing some of the numbness. He drew her close, his heat solace against the night air.

  Wrapping an arm around her, he led her to the inn at the end of the lane. “Come,” he encouraged. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

  Nodding, she allowed him to lead her inside and up the stairs.

  “You’re staying here?” she asked.

  He nodded. “And you?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, thinking that perhaps their paths had been destined to cross again. Whether she willed it or not.

  She didn’t protest as he led her to his room, coincidentally, only two doors from the room she occupied. She hesitated for a bare second at the door. It seemed a little late for a sense of propriety to seize her now.

  His room was almost identical to hers with its single bed and a utilitarian dresser, table and chairs. He guided her to the table and seated her with care, as if she were some fragile piece of crystal. She almost gave in to laughter. There was nothing soft or delicate about her. Not after tonight. Hell, not after the last five years.

  “What happened?” he asked, sitting and pulling his chair close.

  She carefully lowered her hood, her fingers playing with the worn edges before splaying on the table’s scarred surface. She frowned at the way they trembled, reprimanding herself to gain control of herself, to fight the distress that threatened to break free.

  Sucking in a deep breath, she began to speak, confiding the very shame that she had wanted to keep from him before. That her husband had abandoned her years before. That he thought to marry another as if she did not exist. Tight laughter bubbled up in her chest. Now he knew.

  “You tracked him here?” Griffin asked.

  “Yes. I confronted him and demanded he end the betrothal.” She shook her head. “He showed no remorse. Offered to buy my silence if I returned to England.” At this she did laugh, the sound ringing hollowly through the room.

  “Bastard.”

  Her eyes widened at this harsh pronouncement, at his grim expression.

  She shook her head, her jaw tightening. “Don’t say that.” God knew she had said it to herself over the years, but now she could not stomach the thought—or sound—of a deprecation against Bertram. Not while his life’s blood stained the hem of her skirts.

  “Astrid,” the low rumble of his voice pulled her gaze to his face. He took her hands from the table. His eyes drilled into her, probing, demanding the truth. “You said he’s dead. Did you…” his voice faded, leaving the question in his eyes for her to interpret.

  “No!” she cried, pulling her hands free of his, horrified that he would suspect such a thing of her. True, she was no saint. She had made mistakes in her life. But murder her husband? “God, no!”

  He caught her hands again, holding tight and staring intently into her eyes. “I had to ask. You had every reason to want him dead—”

  “I didn’t kill him,” she hissed, indignation sweeping through her. And yet deep in the shadows of her heart, there had been times, in the dark of night, in the privacy of her room, when she had burrowed deep into her bed and wished him dead.

  The bitter realization only confirmed that she was utterly and completely irredeemable. And she had thought stopping Bertram from marrying some unsuspecting woman would be a form of atonement. Instead her arrival appeared to have brought about his death.

  “Go on. Finish telling me what happened.”

  Swallowing, she inhaled and told him everything, her voice rushing out as if the speed in which she spoke would make it somehow less real.

  His eyes skimmed over her soiled skirts, and his thumbs rubbed the smudges of dirt on her hands.

  “Did anyone see you leave the lodging house?”

  Astrid blinked at the sudden question. “Yes. A maid.”

  Releasing her hands, he paced the length of the room once, stopping at the window and looking down onto the dark yard. After a few moments, he glanced back at her, eyes pale chips of blue beneath his dark brows. “I recommend you leave at first light. Before even.”

  She tucked her hands beneath her skirts, feeling the corners of her mouth pull into a frown.

  “You’re a stranger in these parts,” he continued. “An Englishwoman who was last seen coming out of a dead man’s room.”

  “You’re saying suspicion will fall on me?” she queried, shocked despite the logic of his reasoning.

  “Where’s your driver?” he asked.

  “He bedded down in the stables for the night.”

  “I suggest you rise early and join him there. Depart before anyone even has a chance to realize your husband is dead.”

  As his cold, matter-of-fact words sank in, she realized he dispensed sound advice.

  “Very well,” she agreed. There was no reason to dally in Scotland after all. No reason to linger. Bertram brought her here. And Bertram was gone.

  Even if she did not relish the world she inhabited in Town, it was her world nonetheless. She needed to return to her place in it…and begin the messy business of proving her husband’s death.

  “
Let’s get you to your room.”

  At his brusque tone, she nodded numbly, allowing him to lead her down the hall to her room, the slight pressure of his hand on her elbow comforting.

  At her door, they both stood for some moments, an awkward silence rising between them as they lingered.

  She stared at the dirty floorboards, at the toes of his dark boots, and cleared her throat. “Well…”

  She lifted her gaze from the floor. He had not bothered to don a cravat as most gentlemen wore, and she found herself eye level with the base of his neck.

  The shirt beneath his jacket was open at the throat, exposing tan, warm-looking flesh. Even in the corridor’s shadow, she thought she saw his pulse hammering against the side of his neck, thought it moved quickly, beating with a rhythm that matched her own galloping heart.

  “Thank you for your…kindness.” She was not sure what word applied to him. No doubt he had been helpful, but his current hard stare did not bring forth thoughts of kindness. He looked…angry. Dangerous.

  He nodded grimly, his blue gaze as harsh and relentless as it had been when she first collided with him in the village.

  “You could have been honest with me,” he bit out. “You needn’t have told me we would journey here together if it was not your intention.”

  “You wouldn’t accept my answer.”

  “So lying was easier.” He gave a single, hard nod.

  Turning, eager to escape him, she fumbled with her key, loathing the way he looked at her…as if she had failed him. She squeezed her eyes shut in a hard blink. Impossible. She didn’t know him. Didn’t owe him anything.

  His hand clamped down on her shoulder just as she managed to unlock her door. He forced her back around, forced her to confront that damning gaze of his.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, defiance burning through her chest as he backed her against her door.

  His fingers flexed on her shoulder but he did not release her. He stepped closer, those blue eyes intense and burning on her. The hand on her shoulder slid down her arm, circling her wrist. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, holding her, connecting them with that light, burning touch.