Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(13)

Bound. To him. A stranger? Another man.

She was already bound to one man she did not want. Must she suffer ties to another? Even one as enticing as him? Would she never be free?

With a small shake of her head, she dismissed the foolish thought. Of course not. He was being fanciful. Likely toying with her. They were not bound because they helped each other out of a sticky situation. Stuff and nonsense.

Her gaze drifted from his watchful eyes to his bandaged forehead.” Well, I don’t think you are fit to travel anywhere. Not for a good while.”

He brushed his fingers over his bandaged forehead. “What? This? Merely a scrape.”

Unable to stop herself, her gaze dipped, roaming the expanse of his chest, skimming the many scars on his sculpted muscles, staring overly long at the flat copper-brown nipples so unlike her own. Heat swarmed her face at the unbidden thought and she quickly looked away. “I see you’re accustomed to such misuse.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him lift one shoulder in a shrug. She allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and faced him again, waving at the scars and asking the rather impertinent question, “Where did you get those?

He smiled, his teeth a blinding flash of white in his tanned face. But the smile was somehow empty, guarded. A distracting flash intended only to…well, distract. “Can’t remember the origins for half of them.”

She pointed to the largest one, a dark, jagged scar that spanned his ribs. “You can’t remember that?”

His smile slipped. A shadow fell over his eyes, darkening the pale blue to a deep indigo, murky as stormy waters. “That prize came from a Mexican bayonet at San Jacinto.”

“San Jacinto?” she echoed.

“You’ve never heard of the battle of San Jacinto?” He frowned. “Let’s try something bigger. How about the revolution for Texas independence?”

She shook her head, feeling rather stupid…and angered at the mockery of his voice. Who was he to judge her?

“It was a long time ago, I suppose.” His top lip curled. “I don’t suppose a nasty little revolution so far from your shores would attract the notice of a lady like you. Too many balls to occupy your time. I imagine you have never even picked up a newspaper.”

In truth, she had not. Not until she married and left her father’s house. Her father claimed newspapers accounted the world affairs of men and were unfit for a lady’s eyes. And, truthfully, balls had occupied a great deal of her time. At her father’s behest. How else would she have attracted a husband for Papa to select for her—without thought to her preferences?

Shoving such thoughts away before she let her emotions get the best of her—emotions she had always been so careful to suppress—she continued, her voice composed and neutral as ever, “Texas, then? That is where you are from?”

“Yes,” he replied, “And what of you, Mrs….” his voice faded and he lifted a dark brow.

“Lady Astrid, Duchess of Derring,” she supplied.

“Lady, is it?” His lips twitched as if amused. “A duchess. You mean I’ve met my first blueblood?” He raked her with that potent blue stare of his. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

She bristled, somehow certain she should not feel complimented.

“What brings you to the Highlands?” His brow furrowed. “Not exactly Paris, is it?”

She turned her attention to his wool blanket, suddenly feigning interest in smoothing its wrinkles and folds along the edge of the bed, careful to avoid touching him as she did so.

She felt his stare on her face and knew he waited for some kind of explanation. “A wedding,” she answered, blurting the first thing to come into her mind. Not precisely a lie.

“I see,” he replied, and she could tell that he did not. He was either too polite or simply did not care enough to press her with more questions. “Well, I feel obliged to escort you the rest of the way. This is dangerous country as you yourself know,” he murmured. “It will put my mind at ease to deliver you safely into the care of your husband.”

The thought of him escorting her into Bertram’s dubious care made her stomach knot with discomfort…and a familiar shame.

Griffin Shaw was a stranger. She should not care what he thought of her, but the idea of him knowing that Bertram had abandoned her, that she had not seen him in almost six years, that she journeyed to Scotland to stop him from marrying another woman. It was too mortifying.

Such a confession made her chest tighten. Humiliating heat swept over her. Dragging a steadying breath into her lungs, she ruthlessly shoved the sensations back.

Resolve gleamed in his pale blue eyes, and she knew she would not be able to sway him from his chivalrous impulse. For whatever reason, he was committed to assisting her. Perhaps he truly believed that nonsense of them being bound now. Perhaps. But there was more to it. Another reason lurked in his ever-shifting gaze. And it made her skin prickle.

Instead of protesting, she nodded, smiled tightly, and feigned acquiescence. “Very well. I would appreciate that, Mr. Shaw. We may depart as soon as you’re fit for travel.”

“We can leave this very morning.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then tomorrow,” he declared with an easy smile.

“We shall see,” she murmured, thinking she would certainly be well gone by tomorrow. Without him.