Surrender to Me

by Sophie Jordan

  For once Gallagher ignored MacFadden, staring only at Griffin. “Iona?” he choked.

  “She died,” Griffin answered, understanding what was being asked, “long ago. On a ship to America.”

  The burly Scot’s skin turned ghostly white around his beard. He dragged a massive hand over his face, clearly overcome.

  Despite himself, Griffin felt the stirrings of sympathy. At least one of his grandfathers took a moment to grieve the death of his child.

  “What happened to her?”

  “A fever took the ship. Many died. My parents included. Another couple took me in and raised me.”

  “My son gave you to strangers rather than send you back to me?” MacFadden demanded. “I don’t believe—”

  “Aye, I believe it. You made life so impossible for them, they had to run away together. They’re dead because of you.” Gallagher swung down to stand nose to nose with his foe.

  Griffin winced at that stinging accusation, sharp as an arrow hitting its mark.

  MacFadden’s face reddened, a vein throbbing dangerously in the center of his forehead. “Likely he and Iona didn’t want to risk you getting your hands on their child.”

  “Stop it,” Griffin ground out, wanting nothing more than to knock the two old fools’ heads together. “The Shaws took me because my parents asked them. They claimed you would rip me in half with your squabbling.” At the time, he had not understood what his mother meant when she relayed that particular bit of information, but now he did.

  His grandfathers looked very old in that moment. Old and tired. A quiet fell over the gathering of men, the occasional horse’s snort or jangle of harness the only sound.

  “I won’t stay here to be fought over,” he continued. “My parents ran away for a reason, I see that now. If you have any desire to know me, to have a place in my life, you’ll end this thing between you two. Now.”

  His grandfathers looked from him to each other, their expressions tight and pinched, as if they tasted something sour. They assessed one another for several moments, clearly attempting to gauge the other’s willingness. God forbid one of them bend before the other.

  At last, they nodded, mumbled something incoherent beneath their breath, and moved back to their mounts. Heads bowed, shoulders hunkered, they resembled whipped dogs as they remounted their horses.

  “Good,” Griffin declared. “If we’re in accord, then we shall all go to Balfurin.”

  “Balfurin! I can’t go there,” Gallagher growled.

  “If you truly mean to bury the ax, then you should have no issue.” Griffin angled his head, feeling like a mother mediating between two bickering children.

  Gallagher’s lips clamped shut.

  Griffin arched a brow at MacFadden. “And I expect you to be obliging.”

  “Aye,” he grunted, giving a single, quick nod. As if everyone understood they had reached some level of harmony, they began to move out, Gallagher and MacFadden’s men riding side by side. Griffin wondered the last time such an event had taken place. If ever.

  “And who is this skinny lass with you?” MacFadden asked after several minutes had passed. He looked around Griffin to Astrid. “Someone I should know? A daughter-in-law?”

  “No,” Astrid quickly supplied.

  “You’re not married, then?” Gallagher asked with a shake of his head. “But you said—”

  “No, we’re not.” She held Griffin’s gaze, clearly daring him to object.

  Deciding her virtue faced no threat from either one of his grandfathers, he agreed, “No, we are not.”

  “I see,” MacFadden murmured, his gaze turning decidedly lascivious as it roamed over Astrid. And Griffin could imagine what it was he saw. Too late, he realized that by telling the truth he had permitted his grandfather to form a decidedly vulgar opinion of her.

  Color swept over Astrid’s cheeks, anger lighting the centers of her dark eyes. He suppressed a wave of protectiveness, reminding himself that she had opted for the truth and brought this on herself. Yet again.

  “We’ve plenty of hardy lasses you can wed at Balfurin.”

  “And Cragmuir,” Gallagher quickly chimed.

  “Perhaps a young widow,” MacFadden suggested with a withering look for the other laird, indicating what he thought of Griffin wedding a girl from Cragmuir. “One that has proven herself a good breeder.”

  Gallagher nodded. “Aye, we’ll be needing sons from you.”

  Astrid made a disgusted sound between her teeth. “Yes,” she mocked, “best find a proven breeder.”

  Griffin shot her a warning look. “Don’t encourage them.”

  Mumbling under her breath, her gaze dropped, appearing to find the earth below of vast interest.

  “Aye.” MacFadden tossed her an approving look. “Listen to the wench. She has the right of it. Face it. There are women you wed, and women you bed.” He chuckled at his quip, his look turning faintly leering. It was clear into which category he thought Astrid fell.

  Griffin slid her a dark glare. They should have continued their pretense. Instead his little duchess would have to bide her time at Balfurin with everyone thinking her little better than a whore.

  “Griffin.” His name fell from her lips in a harsh plea. Those dark eyes pulled him in, compelling as ever.

  “Perhaps you could impose on”—her gaze darted to his grandfathers—“one of these gentlemen to see me escorted to Edinburgh?”

  Anger sizzled through him. She would ask him to let her go now? To release her? As simple as that?

  “No.” His answer fell heavily between them.

  She pulled back slightly in her saddle. “No?” she echoed, her voice as tremulous as a feather on the wind.

  “No,” he repeated, shooting a hard glance to the openly curious men riding alongside them, disliking that they should witness the exchange. He lowered his voice. “I made a promise I intend to keep.”

  She held his gaze, her dark brows drawn tightly over her dark eyes in a puzzled expression.

  He looked away, training his gaze ahead of them. “Do not ask me again.” He nudged his heels and sent Waya ahead, wondering at the real reason he would not release her, for he had no reason to keep her with him anymore.

  Chapter 20

  Balfurin sat in the midst of a great lake, a single narrow stretch of road extending from the mainland to its front gates. The water surrounding the stronghold gleamed like glass. Craggy mountains stood sentinel around the lake. Sunlight fought to free itself from a sky of swollen gray clouds, almost the same shade as the castle’s gray stone. It was an awesome sight, and one he might have enjoyed if his thoughts were not so tangled up in the woman beside him.

  Arriving in the yard, he lifted Astrid off her horse, none too pleased at the bold glances MacFadden’s men sent her way. He closed a hand around her arm possessively and shot the men dark looks as he followed his grandfathers inside the castle.

  They passed through a great hall until they entered a drawing room of well-polished wood. Thankfully, the men and their insolent stares were left behind.

  His grandfathers made themselves comfortable, one on a sofa, the other in a wing-backed chair.

  “Becky, drinks,” MacFadden commanded, sending a young, eager-faced maid flurrying into motion. Glass clinked as she poured drinks from a sideboard and arranged them on a tray.

  Griffin sank down onto a settee, pulling the silent Astrid down beside him, her body radiating tension next to him.

  The maid carried the tray around the room, offering each of them a glass of what appeared to be whiskey. When she reached Astrid, she asked politely, “Can I fetch you some tea, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank—”

  “Becky, do something with the lass, would you?” MacFadden interrupted, looking at Astrid with something akin to annoyance, almost as though she had snuck into the room with them uninvited.

  Color spotted Astrid’s cheeks.

  Becky looked from Astrid to MacFadden, clearly confused. “Do some
thing?” she asked faintly.

  MacFadden flicked a hand in Astrid’s direction, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Aye. Put her some place. Anywhere. I wish to speak with my grandson.”

  “That’s enough,” Griffin snapped, rising in one quick motion, pulling Astrid up with him.

  “Griffin,” Astrid broke in, “don’t—”

  He cut her off, addressing the maid, “Would you show me to my room, please?”

  “Griffin,” MacFadden’s voice rumbled out, brusque with disapproval, “we have much to discuss—”

  “We can talk later,” he bit out, knowing he was close to losing control entirely. “Right now I’ll be shown to my room.”

  Tossing an uncertain look at the laird, Becky began to lead them from the drawing room.

  Griffin stopped abruptly and turned, the anger in him bubbling up from the surface. “Just a word of advice. You and I will get on much better if you take care in addressing my…companion with respect.”

  MacFadden blinked, looking from him to Astrid and back to him again. “I see,” he murmured, nodding.

  With a curt nod, Griffin turned and followed the maid out of the room, one hand still closed firmly around Astrid’s arm. Only with each step, his anger grew. And it was not solely directed at Hugh MacFadden.

  Once again, she had put herself out there, exposed herself. Perhaps not to danger this time, but to scorn and derision.

  Becky opened the door to a well-appointed bedchamber. “Your room,” she murmured, looking uncertainly between them. “I’m sorry the fire has not yet been lit.” She moved in the direction of the hearth, but Griffin’s voice halted her.

  “Thank you, Becky, but I can see to it.”

  “Very well.” She nodded and exited the room.

  He thrust Astrid into the chamber before him and closed the door firmly after the maid.

  She rubbed her arm where he had gripped her and moved to the center of the large chamber, watching him like an animal cornered, wary and ready to flee.

  His temper burned even brighter at the sight. He dragged a hand through his hair, cursing himself for handling her so roughly, for making her look at him with such trepidation, even if she did manage to infuriate him beyond reason.

  But now he only saw red as he stared at her. She cocked her chin in that gratingly familiar angle. The defiant action galled him.

  “Have you learned nothing?” he demanded. “Could you not have simply bit your tongue and continued to pretend that we’re married?”

  Her eyes flared, then narrowed to slits. “Don’t treat me like a dim child. My honor is not at risk here, among your family. I see no reason to carry on the pretense of being married now.”

  “No?” he growled. “I do,” he replied, uncaring that his reply sounded more like a petulant boy denied a toy than a man in full control of himself and his emotions.

  “I would think you would want no lies between you and your family. You’ve only just met. Your relationship with them shall grow stronger whereas our association shall end altogether in a short time. They should have complete honesty from you. Who cares how they treat me?”

  “I care,” he hissed, seizing her by the arms.

  Her eyes grew wide, lips parting on a whimper. She stared at him a long moment, her lips trembling as if she wanted to say something. He waited, wondering what traipsed through that head of hers.

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and he had to force his thumb not to brush the tempting pink lip, to lean down and draw it into his mouth, to taste her.

  “Are they so wrong? Have I not done with you precisely what they judge me to have done?”

  He shook his head, refusing to accept her logic. “I’ll not stand by while you’re treated like a whore.”

  She flinched, but continued in a maddeningly even voice. “Then you should have provided me with that escort and sent me on my way.”

  “Not that again.” He gave her a small shake. “I gave my word to see you safely to Edinburgh.”

  “When?”

  “When I’ve concluded my business here.”

  “Rather vague,” she muttered. “I’ll not be held hostage to your whims.”

  “You’ll be on your way soon,” he heard himself promise, wondering if that was a vow he could keep. The feel of her in his hands even now fired his blood. He was not yet tired of her…and he somehow suspected he wouldn’t tire of her anytime soon.

  She stared at him a long moment, her dark eyes inscrutable. “Then you must see how your family’s opinion fails to signify. A year from now we shall be but a dim memory to each other. What are we anyway save two people forced together by circumstance?” Each clipped word struck him like a jagged little stone. Her eyes gleamed like polished onyx, reflecting nothing—no light, no sentiment.

  Galled at her words, at her emotionless stare, his hands fisted at his sides. How could she be so cold, so without feeling?

  “Circumstance,” he growled, the word rolling off his tongue like an epithet. “There is more than circumstance between us, Astrid.”

  Circumstance had little to do with the fact that they had become lovers. Or that the world faded, disappeared entirely, when he held her in his arms.

  Dim memories? Did she honestly believe such nonsense?

  He’d been with enough women to know that what was between them was real. Rare. He would never forget a moment of their time together. Startled and angered at thoughts that dangerously bordered on sentimentality, he cursed beneath his breath.

  “Please, Griffin,” she murmured, all coolness and ice. “Don’t try to make this more than it can be.” She motioned around them. “We’ve reached civilization now. We cannot continue as we were. You know that.”

  He glared at her, wanting to deny her words, to tell her he didn’t know anything of the sort.

  She continued. “I’m sure you intend to stay for a while and acquaint yourself with your family. Can you arrange for an escort to take me as far as Edinburgh?”

  He stared at her for an astonished moment, the dignified angle of her chin, the firm set of her lips, and knew she was serious. She meant to go, to leave him. And why not? She spoke the truth.

  He could send her on her way under the care of escorts, confident in her safety. That had been his motive for helping her in the first place. Nothing demanded he keep her with him now. Still, his mind searched, seeking a reason. To not accept that the time had come for them to part ways. To let her burrow back into her privileged shell and return to her life among the echelons of High Society. No doubt she would remarry a proper aristocrat like herself who would bank the fires Griffin knew existed within her, hungry to be lit.

  “No,” he heard himself declaring in an intractable voice. “I would not entrust you to someone else’s care. I said I would see you as far as Edinburgh and I will. I’m a man of my word. You were seen leaving Bertram’s room. You’re still a likely suspect in his death. For all we know, they’re still scouring the countryside for you.” A sound reason, completely justifiable, to keep her with him a bit longer.

  Her smooth brow wrinkled. “A man of your word.” Her lip curling back over her teeth. Angry splotches broke out over her smooth complexion. “How singular.”

  “I’m aware that such a man is unfamiliar to you,” he shot back, calling himself a bastard when she recoiled.

  And just like that, he knew.

  As much as she drove him mad with her inconsistencies, fire in his arms one moment, the ice-cold duchess the next—he wanted her. More than he had wanted any other woman. Even if keeping her a while longer meant everyone at Balfurin would continue to see her as his mistress. He would challenge anyone, his newfound family included, who treated her shabbily again. Because he could not give her up. Not yet. Perhaps never.

  “I’m certain you’re being overzealous in your concern. I don’t think it necessary—”

  “Nonetheless, this is the way it shall be. You will depart when I do. I, and no other, will see you safely ont
o that train.” He dropped onto the large tester bed, bouncing on it a bit as though pleased at its spring. “Until then you shall remain with me, under my protection.”

  And in my bed.

  She watched him warily as he stripped off his jacket and vest. “And how long before you decide to depart? You’ve only just met your grandfathers.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged, removing his boots.

  “Am I to be your prisoner, then?” Further color spotted her fair cheeks, breasts rising enticingly against her gown. “I have a life waiting in London.”

  “And it shall continue to wait.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyeing the length of her, wondering when precisely he had come to find waifish blondes with demon dark eyes so appealing. He had never favored women of her coloring before. Hell, he had never favored women of her prickly temperament.

  Her lips compressed into a hard line, those eyes sparkling like chips of coal. With a disgusted snort, she began to pace, her hands folded tightly before her as she moved. Stopping abruptly, she expelled a great breath and faced him again.

  “I’ll not remain here as a toy to serve your needs during your stay, if that’s what you have in mind. No doubt there is some willing girl about for that. One with proven breeding potential.” She added this last bit with a decidedly cruel twist to her lovely mouth.

  He rose in one fluid motion, catching her around the waist and pulling her down to the bed with him, determined to thaw her, to recover the sweet, responsive creature he had enjoyed before his grandfathers discovered them and brought them to Balfurin.

  “Don’t behave as though you want nothing to do with me. We both know the truth.”

  She struggled in his arms. “The truth?” she sneered. “And what would that be?”

  He coiled his arm tighter about her waist and brought his other hand down on her breast, cupping the firm mound. Her nipple sprang to attention against his palm, pebble-hard. The heat of her flesh burned through the fabric of her gown, singeing him, firing his blood, turning him rock hard in an instant.

  She stilled, her breast rising and falling fast against his touch, her heartbeat a speeding drum alongside his palm.