Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and powerful, different from the anger but somehow more dangerous. An answering spark flared to life low in her belly and she ceased to breathe altogether.
After a long moment, his hand slipped from her, freeing her. Yet she still felt bound by the pull of his eyes, branded by his touch.
“Take care of yourself…Duchess,” he drawled in that rich, whiskey voice of his that reminded her of warm nights and the smoky peat scent of fire.
Without another word, he turned away, his boots thudding along the floorboards, echoing through the narrow corridor.
Pressing a hand to her stomach, she regained her breath. Dragging air into her too-tight lungs, she watched as he disappeared inside his room, wondering at the sudden hollow ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the death of her husband. And everything to do with a man she barely knew. A man she would never see again. And yet she did not feel the relief she should over that fact.
Chapter 8
“You have an Englishwoman staying here, Tom?”
Griffin looked up from his tankard at the two men addressing the innkeeper, his pulse spiking at the question. They wore grim expressions on their faces and he instantly surmised they served as the law in these parts. And he had a fairly good idea what Englishwoman they sought.
“I did.” The portly innkeeper returned from behind the bar, wiping his thick hands on a soiled apron. “She settled her account and left early this morning.”
Griffin knew as much. He had knocked on her door at sunup to make certain she was on her way. Why he bothered, why he cared, he could not say. He owed her nothing. Still, mingled relief and regret filled him when that door never opened.
Relief that she had taken his advice to depart at first light, and a peculiar sense of regret that he would never see her again, never look on those dark, haunted eyes.
“I saw her,” he heard himself say before he could consider what he was doing.
The two Scots looked his way. “Did you, now?” They approached his table, looking him over closely.
He took a swig from his tankard, thinking fast. “A fetching bit of skirt.”
“You know where she’s headed?”
He took his time answering, biting into a hunk of tough bread. The food in these parts left much to be desired. With the famine, he expected no better. Still, his stomach craved something more palatable.
“Real huffy sort. Took offense to my…” He pretended to search for the proper word. “Interest.”
“And? Do you know where she is?”
Figuring every moment he bought her could only help, he lied. “Said something about going to church.”
“Church?” The two Scotsman exchanged disbelieving looks.
He shrugged and tore off another hunk of bread with his teeth, doing his best to appear unaffected. He had seen the church at the far end of town, a ramshackle building with a cross nailed to the gabled roof. Perhaps they would believe a suspected murderess craved the Lord’s forgiveness for her crime.
After a moment, one of the Scots grinned. “Thank you, sir.” With a nod, they turned on their heels, their tartans whipping on air.
Griffin held his seat, watching the two men hasten from the taproom. Once the door banged shut behind them, he stood. Wasting no time, he gathered his saddlebag and settled his account with the innkeeper. Stepping outside, he crossed the road toward the stables, pulling up the collar of his coat to ward of the slash of wind.
He halted in the stable yard, recognizing the fine coach with the elaborate coat of arms on the door. With a sinking feeling, he rounded the coach and halted.
She stood there, in the process of being assisted within.
“What the hell are you still doing here?”
She spun around at the sound of his voice. “Mr. Shaw.”
Her driver blinked. Looking Griffin over, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Is there a problem?”
“You could say that,” he ground out, eyes trained on her. “I thought you would have been gone by now.”
She motioned to the coach. “It’s a team of six. It took John some time to ready them.”
Griffin looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the two Scotsmen from earlier bearing down on them.
Her soft voice penetrated. “Is there a problem, Mr. Shaw?”
He turned back around. Stepping closer, he closed a hand around her elbow. “The problem, sweetheart, is that they’re already looking for you.” He motioned to the coach. “Even if you leave now, I have no doubt they can overtake you in this lumbering beast of a contraption.”
The color faded from her cheeks. “Oh.” After a moment, she gave a small shake of her head and lifted her chin. “I shall merely explain to them—”
“What? Who you are?” He snorted. “After they hear your tale, they will have no doubts you murdered your husband.”
“I did not murder him.” Her dark eyes flashed fire, locking with his in challenge.
“They will believe you did.” Hell, he almost believed she had.
She shook her arm free of his hand. “What do you suggest, then? It sounds as though I have little choice. I either confront these men or try my luck on the road.”
Neither of which would serve her well. He studied her a moment, knowing there was little time. A decision needed to be reached and soon. He didn’t have time to stand around staring at her, looking into those dark eyes and marveling at how much she reminded him of her. Absurd. The woman had died years ago. Griffin did not even know her name. He only knew that she had felt soft, helpless, light as wind in his arms, drowning in her own blood from the thrust of a bayonet.
A death he did not stop…but should have.
But this. This, he could stop.
“Come,” he said, the word dropping like a stone in the air, hard and fast. He snatched one of her bags—the smaller valise from where it sat on the ground beside her—waiting to be loaded.
Her eyes rounded. “What are you doing with that?”
He grabbed hold of her hand. She gasped at the touch. When she would have pulled free, he tightened his hold, twining his fingers through hers.
Facing her driver, he grimly directed, “Continue on. Hurry, man. With luck, they will follow you and give us time to get away. Tell them nothing of your mistress.”
The coachman nodded dumbly.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he pulled her behind him, deep into the shadowed confines of the stable, searching for the stable master.
“Saving your neck.”
And perhaps righting past wrongs…gaining for himself a shred of redemption at last.
The village dozed, still as stone in the morning silence. Gray light broke over the thatched rooftops. A dog barked as they passed the blacksmith’s, and Astrid started in the fractured silence, jerking in the seat of her saddle.
She glanced at Griffin Shaw beside her. His gaze scanned over the village with the alertness of a hawk. She held her breath, following his gaze to a single man emerging from a house.
“Is that—”
He cut her off with a sudden lift of his hand and a hard shake of his head.
She bit her lip.
He urged his horse faster. Her mount increased its pace, following his. The feel of the horse, large and undulating between her legs, felt alien, but a sidesaddle was not to be found. They were lucky enough to have obtained a mount for her with such haste.
Griffin glanced back over his shoulder at her, a too-long lock of dark hair falling over his cheek.
She gave a small nod, and inhaled thinly through her nose, telling herself that she was doing the right thing in placing her trust in him. He had saved her life. And for whatever reason, he sought to help her now.
She felt her brow crease at the strangeness of that.
No man had ever made it a priority to look out for her. Her father had left her to the care of servants. And Bertram had simply left her.
She gave herself a s
mall shake as if she could toss off the dark thoughts. The why didn’t signify. He would take her to Edinburgh. From there she could take the train the rest of the way home. And that would be the end of it. The end of them.
She would return to Town and see about putting Bertram’s affairs to final order. Duty demanded it. No matter how his grandmother and sister felt about her, they deserved to know what happened to him. His heir, a distant cousin whose face she could not recall, deserved the right to claim a title he may or may not wish to possess. No matter that a part of her preferred to delay and remain in this wilderness, preferred hiding from the call of duty, to embrace freedom. To pretend, for once in her life, that Astrid, the Duchess of Derring, did not exist.
They rode in silence, their pace slow as they left the village far behind and delved deeply into heavy mists. The drawing rooms of the ton fell even farther behind. Another world. One she felt in no hurry to see again.
They made their way through mountainous landscape, climbing and descending steep inclines, during which she was heartily glad to be riding astride and not sidesaddle.
She suppressed her misgivings over the fact that she was riding into a wilderness with a stranger. Trust him. She allowed the whisper to weave through her head, as unrelenting as the wind whistling off the deep crags around them.
They stopped midmorning, leaving the winding road behind and following the sound of rushing water to a nearby brook. The waters raced cold and fast as they guided their horses to drink.
“How are you faring?” he asked, the first words he had spoken since he bustled her from the stables.
She nodded, accepting a corked flask of water from him and taking a sip. “How far are we from Edinburgh?”
He glanced at the horizon, blue eyes narrowing as he studied the sun over the treetops. “According to my map and the stable master I consulted back in Dubhlagen, we’ll probably reach there tomorrow.”
“Is there another village along the way?”
He shook his head. “We’ll bed down outdoors.”
“Outside?” She had never slept a night outside.
His lips quirked. “What’s the matter, Duchess? Never slept beneath the stars before?”
“No.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze dragging over her face with a thoroughness that made her chest suddenly tight. He did that. Looked at her as no one had. As though he saw her, truly saw her and not the cold veneer she presented.
“Well.” His eyes held hers for a long moment before she looked away, focusing her attention on the dark waters moving swiftly at their feet. “There’s a first time for everything.” He chuckled, the sound running through her, slow and warming as tea going down.
“I suppose you sleep outdoors often?”
“Often enough. Texas is a big place.”
She looked at him again. “And what do you do in Texas?”
“Corn, beans, potatoes.” He lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. “Depends what I think will sell well the following year.”
“You’re a farmer?” She reassessed him. He didn’t fit with her idea of a farmer. She never imagined farmers to be expert marksmen.
“I s’pose you could call me that. I do whatever I can to survive…if I’m lucky I make a little money in the process. I ranch. Tend livestock. Cattle. Hogs.”
“Hogs?” she echoed, wrinkling her nose.
Laughter shook his voice. “They’re easy to care for and bring a nice purse at market. As large as they are, they’re unlikely to be carried off by scavengers and Indians.”
“Indians?
His well-carved lips twisted. “They’re not just myth.”
She lifted her gaze from the water and studied the hard cut of his profile, handsome and sharp as carved marble. A man that lived in savage lands. With savages. She had never seen his like. Never imagined such a man existed. Her heart beat harder and she forced her gaze away, pulling cool, bracing air into her lungs. “Of course,” she murmured.
She watched beneath her lashes as he moved to check the cinch on his saddle, marveling at the life he led. Her father would never have deigned to speak to such a man—a man who worked for a living. He would have considered Griffin Shaw beneath his regard. Weak. Unimportant.
And yet she could not help but see him as anything other than strong. Her gaze flicked over the broad expanse of back. An impressive specimen. A man with strength and honor. Rare characteristics, indeed.
“And you prefer that sort of existence?” she heard herself say.
“What sort of existence do you mean?” he asked, clearly not understanding as he moved around to the other side of the horse.
She wet her lips. “The sort where you work for a living. Where you must stand vigilant against Indians?”
He burst forth with a sudden rich chuckle. The skin at her nape tingled in the most bothersome way at the sound.
“For most of the world, there’s no choice in the matter. Preference has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at her over the top of his horse, a single dark eyebrow quirked. “It’s a grueling life, I admit. The frontier’s not for everyone. But it’s the only life I’ve known, and I can’t say I would want the sort you’ve led.” His eyes gleamed down at her without a hint of apology. “I suppose that surprises you? Makes me seem a primitive?”
She opened her mouth to deny the suggestion, but then snapped her lips shut. Yes, she supposed that did make him somewhat primitive. A man who preferred sweat and hardship over a life of leisure and comfort. Certainly not a gentleman.
Then his other words penetrated. “You know nothing about the sort of life I’ve led.”
“No.” He nodded once, a hard shake of his dark head. “I don’t.” Dropping both hands on his saddle, he leaned forward. “But I imagine being born with a sense of entitlement, knowing only a life of pampered privilege, makes it especially hard when you fall.” His words hung in the air, part question, part statement, resonating inside her in a way that made her shift uneasily where she stood.
She gave a small nod. Swallowing, she stared starkly at the rippling water, thinking her biggest challenge had not been the loss of wealth. Not the dearth of pretty dresses or jewels. Not the lack of food whenever she desired…
None of that bothered her. Not as much as the loss of her self-respect. Which is precisely what she lost when she acted with the cold calculation her father had taught her.
“Where I come from,” he continued, “men are not born to prestige and wealth. A man must earn any success to be had in life.” He moved to her horse then, checking the cinch as well.
She watched him for some moments, wondering if her father had ever once left the walls of their home to inspect their property, to oversee the fields or inquire after his tenants. He always entrusted such matters to his steward. Griffin Shaw’s notions would have confounded him.
This man was a different breed. She wondered what duty was to him…and somehow doubted it had anything to do with propriety and societal expectations—everything she had been brought up to value.
“Ready?” he asked.
Her body protested at the idea of getting back atop her mount so soon. Rather than complain, she tightened her jaw and brushed her hands on her skirts.
“Ready,” she answered, her eyes meeting his.
His gaze followed her stiff movements. “If you need some more time—”
“That’s unnecessary,” she assured, gathering a fistful of her horse’s mane and bouncing on the balls of her feet, preparing to mount, determined that she not appear weak and frail, someone he must cater to over the next day. He had done enough already. She’d not have him think her totally helpless. A female in need of rescuing, totally dependent on a man to coddle her.
His voice scraped the air, sending unwelcome tingles along her spine as he helped her swing atop her mount. “As you say, Duchess.”
She suppressed a flash of annoyance at his mocking form of address, watching him swing himself up in one fluid motion, his muscles
bunching and flexing beneath his clothing. Nothing in his movements hinted at any stiffness or soreness.
Both mounted, she followed him across the brook, frowning as she thought over their conversation. She couldn’t recall talking so freely with a man before. Especially a man she had known for such a short duration.
Drawing a thin breath through her nostrils, she let the cold air fill her with a familiar chill, ice in her veins, cold, numbing. Chasing away all feelings, freezing them dead.
Chapter 9
Griffin eyed the horizon, noting the fading twilight with grim acceptance. He had pushed her as far as he could. Although he had hoped to cover more distance, it became apparent that she was not accustomed to hard riding, despite her tight-lipped endurance. He did admire her mettle though. Who knew that a duchess would never complain?
Confident he’d found a suitable spot to break camp, he pulled up his mount and swung down. Without a word, he gripped the lady by the waist. Her dark eyes flared wide as he swung her down, sliding her along the length of him, enjoying the feel of her slim figure against him, the mash of her breasts against his chest surprisingly erotic.
When he released her, her hands grabbed his arms, her legs buckling.
“Easy,” he murmured, his hands flying back to her waist.
She watched him with the wariness he was coming to expect. At first it annoyed him that she should still distrust him. If it weren’t for him, she never would have made it out of Dubhlagan. She’d be facing Scots’ justice…perhaps in the form of a noose.
And yet she was entitled to her distrust. From what he knew of her, it would take a great deal to thaw her reserve.
“My legs feel like jam,” she muttered, her soft clipped speech stoking some place deep inside him.
Sliding his hands from her waist, he grasped her arm and led her to a grassy spot. “I’ll tend to the horses. You just let the blood return to your legs, Duchess.”
Her chin went up, as he knew it would. That jutting chin had become her trademark, especially when she was annoyed.
A smile tugged his mouth. He wasn’t certain what bothered her more. The reference to her title or the fact that he addressed her with such irreverence. He wasn’t privy to the proper manner of address among the British peerage, but he was fairly certain calling her Duchess did not qualify as due respect.
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