Surrender to Me

by Sophie Jordan

  And yet she couldn’t say such a thing. Because the day would arrive when she couldn’t have him…when she had to give him up. And pretending that she didn’t want him, pretending they weren’t the same, two sides of the same coin, might be the only way to survive such a loss.

  Then it dawned on her that he wasn’t the only one capable of manipulation.

  She tilted her hips, taking him deeper, hugging him tighter inside her. Instead of answering, she raked her nails through his too long dark hair, gently scouring his scalp. Pulling his head down, she claimed his mouth in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss.

  He groaned into her mouth, angling his head, deepening the kiss in turn. A wave of moisture rushed between her legs and she exploded in a burst of blinding heat, crying out against his mouth.

  Singed by fire, the cold Scottish wood around them became a very distant, very insignificant thing, dimming altogether as wave after wave of sensation shuddered through her, sizzling through her nerves as Griffin continued his sinuous thrusts, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear until he stilled, pouring his heat into her.

  The deep panting of their breaths mingled, frothy white clouds on the air, their chests rising and falling against each other in rhythmic unison. Almost as though they were one being. She chased off the fanciful thought.

  And yet the awe, the euphoria lingered. Now she understood the blushes and whispers behind lace fans. Before, she had never imagined what was so scintillating about the subject of sex.

  At best, her experiences had always been…unmemorable. At worst, painful and undignified, leaving her mortified long after Bertram left her bed.

  But now she knew. Now she understood what made sane people behave without good sense. Perhaps she even understood what drove her mother to run away with Mr. Welles.

  Astrid feathered her fingers against his chest, wondering at the warmth suffusing her…and waiting for it to wane, to depart as it must and make room for the cold.

  He rolled his weight off her and tucked her close to his side. Long moments passed and she thought he slept until his rich voice murmured in her ear. “No more bad dreams now,” he ordered, pausing to release a contented sigh.

  The command made her smile. As if he could simply rid her of nightmares with his simple avowal. Strangely enough, she was beginning to suspect this man could do anything.

  “No?” she breathed.

  “No,” he affirmed. “You have me.”

  The smile slipped from her face. She had him. But she could not keep him.

  Astrid swung her cloak about her shoulders and inhaled biting cold air. A soft smile curved her lips as she gathered their bedding from the ground.

  The irony was not lost on her. Lady Astrid, Duchess of Derring, daughter of the late Marquess of Fremont, preferred the hard earth over a down-filled mattress and sheets of Giza cotton. And even more shocking, she preferred sleeping on the hard earth with an unrefined brute of a man. Her lips twisted with wicked pleasure. Not that they slept a great deal.

  Her gaze moved along the tall ash trees surrounding their camp. A slate blue sky peeked though the treetops, making it difficult to determine the time of day. She could only guess it to be midmorning.

  “Ready?” he asked, coming up beside her.

  She nodded, suddenly shy. Heat burned her cheeks. Illogical, she knew.

  Accepting his hand, she allowed him to lead her to her mount, the feel of his hand warm and strong.

  “We should reach Edinburgh tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  She nodded, his words cooling some of the heat in her cheeks. Reaching Edinburgh meant an end to this. To them. He would deposit her and continue on to Balfurin.

  He helped her mount before moving away. Her eyes followed him as he strode off, devouring the movements of his strong body as he swung himself atop his stallion. He nudged his horse with his boot heels. She followed suit, falling in beside him.

  They moved only a few paces before Griffin pulled on his reins, halting their progress. A sound like distant thunder filled the air. The earth began to shake beneath them.

  Griffin circled his stallion, scanning the surrounding woods.

  “What is it?” Astrid asked, glanced wildly around them, dread forming a knot in the pit of her belly. Alarm hammered in her chest.

  “Riders,” he answered a moment before dozens of Highlanders broke from the trees, raining upon them like an invading army.

  Griffin positioned himself before her, but she had no difficulty assessing the assemblage of men, instantly recognizing that they were not Gallagher’s men.

  An older man rode to the front, eyeing Griffin up and down with an oddly intent stare. He was a handsome man, still well formed, his exact age indeterminate. The frigid wind lifted the hair off his shoulders, the long dark locks streaked liberally with gray. “Who are you?”

  “Griffin Shaw. We’re on our way to Edinburgh.”

  The old man didn’t blink. His blue gaze glittered across the distance, fixing on Griffin in a way that made Astrid’s hands flex over her reins uneasily. “And what would your business in Scotland be, lad?”

  “That’s of no concern to you.”

  A heavy pause fell.

  The older man growled, “My name is Hugh MacFadden, and I’ll be knowing your name and business.”

  “MacFadden,” Griffin murmured. “Of Balfurin.”

  Astrid’s gaze flew to Griffin. Anticipation coursed through her. Here he was, then—the clan’s laird himself, the very man Griffin sought.

  “Perhaps we might speak alone,” Griffin suggested, revealing none of the excitement she felt.

  Something dark and desperate glittered in the older man’s eyes as he stared at Griffin, an urgency that seemed unwarranted in the situation. “I’ll have your purpose here. Now.”

  Astrid nudged her horse forward, and glanced at Griffin’s profile, starting in surprise to find the same look there. The same intense blue eyes rife with questions—a hungry need for answers. She looked back and forth between the two men, acknowledging that words were being spoken, passing between them without a sound.

  “Who are your people?” the laird demanded.

  “My father is dead. Died of a fever crossing the Atlantic. I was told his surname. MacFadden.”

  MacFadden flinched as if dealt a physical blow.

  A subdued hush fell over his men and Astrid suddenly knew that everyone else in the shaded glen knew more than she did about what was transpiring.

  “Your father. What was his Christian name?”

  Silence fell again. Griffin’s gaze skittered over the dozen men flanking Hugh MacFadden. That telltale muscle in his jaw knotted, the only outward sign of the tension swimming through him…swirling around all of them like an invisible mist.

  “Conall MacFadden,” he answered at last.

  MacFadden’s chest lifted on a deep breath, color bleeding from his face. He looked to his left and right with a slow turn of his head, his pent-up breath releasing in a wintry puff of air. Without a word, he lifted his hand and motioned toward Griffin.

  With that single gesture, his men dismounted and mobbed Griffin, hauling him off his horse with quick hands and grim, resolute faces.

  Griffin struggled against the horde of men.

  “What are you doing?” Astrid shouted.

  No one paid her heed as Griffin was flung to the ground and stripped of his jacket, vest, and shirt.

  Astrid lurched forward with a strangled cry, hand outstretched as if she could reach him.

  Griffin struggled, snarling like a beast, dark hair tossing fiercely about his head as he knocked several Highlanders to the ground with his fists.

  Even in her horror, awe filled her as he fought off his attackers, the thick cords of muscles and sinews rippling beneath bronzed skin.

  She winced as they overpowered him, forcing him down, his bare chest slamming flat with the icy earth.

  One of the clansmen shoved Griffin’s face into coarse soil. Another placed his boot t
o his neck, pinning him still while others held down his arms.

  Astrid slid down from her mount and charged forward, only to be yanked back by a burly Scot. An arm locked around her shoulders, and she watched, helpless, as Hugh MacFadden nudged his horse forward to peer down at Griffin’s broad back on display before him.

  “There.” One of the Highlanders pointed to the small crescent-shaped birthmark high on his muscled shoulder. “Just as Molly said it would be.”

  “Molly,” Astrid snapped, her brow knitting. “The woman from the inn?”

  A few of the men glanced at her before returning their attention to their leader, anticipation writ upon their faces.

  MacFadden’s gleaming gaze fixed on Griffin’s back, his eyes strangely moist as his breath fell harshly, fracturing the air with harsh wintry gusts.

  “Let him up!” Astrid cried, jerking against the unrelenting grip on her arms. “It’s freezing!

  MacFadden lifted his gaze and gave a hard nod to his men.

  Griffin was released. He vaulted to his feet, arm lashing out in a blur. His fist cracked the jaw of the man whose boot had pinned him by the neck. The fellow fell to the ground with a thud, hand cupping his injured jaw.

  Several clansmen lunged forward, no doubt ready to retaliate for the attack, however earned, but the laird’s voice froze them all.

  “Leave him.”

  With his bare chest heaving as if he had run a great distance, Griffin eyed the older man, venom a cold, dull luster in his blue eyes. Grunting, Griffin pointed an unyielding finger at the man with his arm locked around Astrid. “Unhand her.”

  The man complied. Freed, she lifted her skirts and stumbled to Griffin’s side, pausing to snatch his clothes off the ground and hand them to him.

  He took them and redressed, a dozen Highlanders watching his every move as if he were some oddity at carnival. “You’re my grandson,” the laird announced.

  “I know,” Griffin returned, his tone matter-of-fact as he pulled his jacket over his unbuttoned vest.

  “You know?” Wild bewilderment rushed through Astrid as she looked back and forth between the two men.

  “Your mother. What was her name?” MacFadden pressed.

  “Iona.”

  The laird nodded, a dour set to his mouth. “I thought as much. You’ve my mark. All the MacFadden men bear it.” He motioned to Griffin’s person. “But you’ve her eyes. They bewitched your father.” His lip curled in a sneer. “And every other man in these parts.”

  “Fascinating.” Griffin shrugged back into his jacket, his tone droll. Taking Astrid’s arm, he guided her back to her mount and lifted her into her saddle.

  “It proves you’re my—”

  “I don’t give a damn what it proves.” Swinging up onto his mount, Griffin glowered across the distance at his grandfather, their resemblance unmistakable. She could see it now.

  Staring at MacFadden, she could well imagine how Griffin would look in forty years. Still handsome. Still imposing. Virile enough to twist her heart or any other woman’s. Only in forty years he would have a wife. Of course, Astrid wouldn’t be with him then. Some other woman would have that privilege. She would be long gone. A memory at best.

  “Had you asked,” Griffin ground out, “I would have shown you the damn birthmark. At any rate, thank you. Your methods confirmed that I made a long journey for nothing. I have no family here. None I wish to claim.”

  I made a long journey for nothing. His words resounded in her ears. In her heart. Wrongly. His feelings right now had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his grandfather. So he regretted coming to Scotland. She should not make it about her. About them.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” his grandfather blustered.

  “Home. Texas. Where I should have stayed.”

  More words to gouge her soul. To swipe a bloody trail through a heart that she had permitted to feel. For the first time in her life.

  Absurd, she knew. She had known they would part ways. In Edinburgh, he would be free to go wherever he wished. Be it America or Balfurin.

  Griffin nudged his mount around. Astrid followed. They took only a few paces before a wall of Scotsmen gathered before them, blocking their path.

  Laird MacFadden’s voice carried across the glen. “I waited years for my son to return home.”

  “Your son is dead,” Griffin called over his shoulder.

  “Aye, but you’re not. You’re here. A part of him. A part of me. You’re not walking away. At least not until I give you leave to do so.”

  Griffin swung his mount around, angry eyes clashing with his grandfather’s.

  Astrid blew out a heavy breath. At this rate, she might never make it home…but the thought did not alarm her. Not as it should have. Blast.

  She bit her bottom lip. While the prospect of more time with Griffin tantalized her, common sense bade she put an end to it—to them—now. As she had tried to do at Cragmuir.

  She snuck another look at Griffin.

  Jaw knotting with tension, he stared straight ahead, eyes drilling into his grandfather. His blue eyes glinted with grim intensity—a determination to go his own way, to leave Scotland. To leave her.

  A deep ache beneath her breastbone left her strangely breathless. She needed to free herself from him as quickly as he sought to be free of his grandfather.

  Before he came to mean too much to her. Before…

  Dismay filled her in that moment. Because she knew the truth then. It was too late. Her stomach heaved.

  It didn’t matter how soon she freed herself from him, it was too late.

  She had fallen in love with Griffin Shaw.

  Chapter 19

  Fury radiated through Griffin as he stared at the man he had crossed an ocean to find. His grandfather rode ahead of him, his back broad and straight in his saddle. Disheartening as far as reunions went. Not that he had expected a warm homecoming full of happy tears and embraces. He had just not expected to be thrown to the ground with all the courtesy given an enemy captive.

  He glanced at Astrid. She rode beside him, her face paler than usual as they were led through dense foliage. Her liquid dark eyes stared straight ahead.

  If anything good could be said of the situation, it was that he did not have to give her up just yet. He grimaced, knowing she would not share the sentiment. No doubt she bemoaned yet another delay. More time with him. A rough frontiersman without connections. Without grace or social standing.

  Still, he owed it to Astrid to get her out of this mess. From the stiffness in which she sat her mount and the way she carefully steered her gaze clear of him, she likely agreed.

  As promised, he would see her to Edinburgh. He had promised her that much. Even if it meant saying good-bye.

  He had a life waiting for him. A life that didn’t include her. He could not imagine her in Texas. The heat alone would likely give her a seizure…

  No, she was destined for elegant drawing rooms, for taking tea from delicate bone china.

  As a widow she was free to remarry. To find some lord that would keep her outfitted as a lady of her station ought to be. A man that would see she never suffered from neglect or hunger. A man that would take his pleasure of her, ease himself into her snug heat as Griffin had…

  Sucking in a breath, he veered his thoughts sharply away from that prospect, fists clenching around his reins. Suddenly this entire journey seemed a colossal mistake. Even more than when, moments ago, he first stared into his grandfather’s eyes.

  If he had simply forgotten his mother’s words and stayed home, none of this would be happening.

  What had he wanted? A fresh start? A reunion with family members that did not look at him as his father had, through a tainted veil of war, disappointment rife in their expressions.

  He would never have met Astrid. And while an uncomfortable tightness seized his heart at that thought, he knew he wouldn’t have missed what he never knew. He could have lived his life blithely unaware of a wo
man who existed a continent away, a woman who was a captivating mixture of ice and fire.

  Gradually, his attention was pulled away from thoughts of Astrid. To the slow, steady pounding swelling on the air, shaking the earth. Wondering what calamity was about to befall them now, he brought his horse closer to Astrid, meeting her wide-eyed gaze.

  He tensed, one hand diving for her reins as more riders burst through the trees.

  His grandfather’s men met the onslaught of riders with warrior cries, drawing pistols and swords.

  He caught a glimpse of Lachlan’s face, bruised and battered in the melee, as well as the Laird Gallagher himself, large and daunting atop his horse.

  “MacFadden,” Gallagher shouted. His gaze halted on Griffin and Astrid, face reddening at the sight of them. “Thieving bastard!” He pointed a gnarled finger in their direction. “They’re mine.”

  “Like hell,” MacFadden thundered. “You’ve stolen all you’re going to steal from me. You’ll not take the last of my blood now.”

  “I’ve stolen?” Gallagher jerked his monstrous mount closer to the other laird, his bushy brows pulling together like furry caterpillars. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

  “Your precious Iona deprived me of my son with her witch’s spell. I’ll not be having you steal Conall’s child from me, too.” MacFadden’s eyes bulged at this declaration, his knuckles whitening about the dagger he clutched in his wiry fist.

  Griffin suppressed a groan and closed his eyes in a pained blink, understanding at once. These two braying mules were both his grandfathers. He dragged a hand over his face, suddenly weary. Now he knew what his parents had been fleeing—two crotchety old men that bickered worse than women.

  “Conall’s child?” Gallagher whispered, looking around as if he expected to see a toddler tumble from the trees. “You mean my Iona and Conall…”

  “Aye! They had a child.” MacFadden waved in Griffin’s direction, swinging down from his mount. “And I’ll not have you making off with him like you do with my sheep.”