Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(12)

Bertram would have gone to bed for a month, every servant in the house put to use attending him. The man had been fractious when he came down with a mild cold.

“Of course not,” she replied briskly, attempting to slide her hand free again. “I merely brought you here and played at the role of nurse…and not very well, mind you.” She gave her hand another tug, uneasy beneath the gleam of his light blue stare. “If anything, I’m still very much indebted to you and your heroic efforts.”

He cocked a dark brow. “Oh? Interesting. And how might you repay me?” His eyes skimmed over her suggestively, his mouth curving in that beguiling grin again. Oh, he was a wicked charmer. His thumb moved in small circles over the sensitive inside of her wrist. Tingles shot up her arm.

Cheeks burning, she yanked her hand free with a disgusted sniff. “A gentleman would not require a lady to repay him.” She rubbed her wrist, the imprint of his hand burning like a brand.

Rising, she poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and offered it to him. He accepted the glass. She watched, transfixed at the play of his throat as he drank thirstily.

“Easy,” she cautioned.

He handed back the glass with a satisfied sigh and folded an arm behind his head, revealing the paler skin beneath his nicely sculpted bicep. Even the tuft of hair beneath his arm drew her eye, the sight so male, so…primal.

“Not even a small token, then?” he asked. “I believe knights of old accepted tokens from ladies in payment for services given.”

“An antiquated custom no longer in practice, to be sure.”

“But not without some sense.” His blue eyes warmed. “And appeal.”

Her mouth twisted with disdain. “Such tokens, I believe, were freely given and not coerced.” Were men everywhere alike? Grasping, devious opportunists doing all they could to get what they felt they deserved? “What would you have me give, sir?”

“Call me Griffin.”

She arched a brow. “What would you have me give, Mr. Griffin?”

“The name is Griffin Shaw, but I think we have crossed the line where we may use our Christian names.”

Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she repeated her question. “Mr. Shaw, what would you have me give?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You are a chilly one. Are all British ladies like you?” Without waiting for her response, he reached out and reclaimed her hand, tugging her nearer. “I wonder what I could possibly want from such an attractive lady?”

She permitted him to pull her close, watched his well-carved lips move, hugging every word as he spoke. The rake.

Lips a hairsbreadth from her own, she heard herself ask in her starchiest tone the one question most likely to gain a reaction, “Tell me, Mr. Shaw. Are you in the habit of kissing married women?” She held her breath, waiting to see what kind of man he was—how deep his honor ran.

He paused, the whole of him tensing beneath her.

“Married?” His eyes dropped to her ring finger. “You wear no ring.”

“I left it behind lest some person of dubious morals decide to relieve me of it,” she lied. The ring had vanished in the night with Bertram years ago. Along with the rest of her jewelry.

“Shit.” He released her as if he suddenly held a viper in his grasp. His pale blue eyes roved over her regretfully. “Pity.”

She had so few dealings with truly honorable men that she did not quite know what to say at his immediate release of her. She knew Bertram considered married women fair play. As did most gentlemen of the ton. It would not have stopped them. Not as it stopped Griffin Shaw.

“And where is this husband?” His gaze flicked about the room as if he would find Bertram tucked away in some corner.

“I’m to meet him in Dubhlagan,” she replied, hoping he did not pry further, that he did not ask for answers she was unprepared to give.

“Ah, my destination as well.” He nodded slowly. “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you and your companion? I feel obliged to see you reach your destination safely.” He sat up higher on the bed.

“My companion?” She felt her brow wrinkle. “Oh, you mean Coral. She resigned her post. It appears she lacks the constitution for Scottish…weather.” Her mouth twisted at the wholly inaccurate euphemism.

“Weather? The girl seemed hardy enough. She had a strong set of lungs on her as I recall.” He lifted a dark brow in skepticism.

Astrid felt her lips twitch.

“So she left you here alone, then?” he asked. “Rather cowardly of her.”

Astrid shrugged. “I still have my driver. So you needn’t feel obliged to see me to my destination.”

“But I do,” he countered. “You’ve already sampled the dangers of this—”

“It’s unnecessary,” she insisted.

He studied her a long moment before replying. “Where I come from Indians believe that once you save a person’s life, you are forever bound.”

Their eyes held for a long moment. Longer than appropriate. Longer than comfortable.

“And what if one has no wish to be bound?” she asked, her voice a treacherous shiver on the air.

“One cannot simply decide to be freed.” His eyes roamed her face, searching. Looking deeply at her…in a way no one had ever looked at her before. Almost as though he saw her. Truly saw her. “In our case, we saved each other. I suppose that makes us doubly bound to one another.”