Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(18)

With her hands fisted in her skirts, her gaze drifted down again. To Bertram. Her husband. Dead. Alive only moments ago and bartering for the chance to continue his dastardly ways without interference from her.

She could not look away from the vacant pull of his gaze. Could not stop the deep pang of remorse in her chest. Child or not. Selfish, neglectful…even criminal, he did not deserve such an end.

And yet somehow she had brought about that very thing. She felt responsibility for his death as keenly as the prick of a blade to her flesh.

His murderer had used her to confirm his suspicions about Bertram. How he knew her identity—or Bertram’s—she hadn’t a clue. Perhaps he had been the one to send the anonymous note to her? She shook her spinning head, not understanding any of it. Only that Bertram was dead. And she was a widow. But without the sense of freedom she had thought such status would carry. Pressing a palm to her cold cheek, she drew a deep breath into her lungs.

The whirling in her head did not cease. She moved on legs heavy as lead to the door. A dull roar grew in her ears, filling her head. Stopping, remembering, she turned. Her gaze flew to the dresser, to the spot where she had set Bertram’s ducal signet ring, the proof, he had said, to offer as evidence of his death.

It was gone. The dresser’s surface gleamed bare in the firelight. She would not even have that item to offer his sister and grandmother.

Eager to leave, to flee the coppery tang of blood that seemed to color the air, to chase her, she turned, easing open the door and peeking her head out to survey the corridor. Finding it empty, she stepped out and quietly closed the door.

Turning, she stifled a scream when she came face-to-face with a young woman, a maid if the linens piled high in her arms were any indication.

“Ma’am,” the girl greeted, her eyes moving to Bertram’s door, then flicking back to her. Lips pursing in a knowing manner, she skirted past and disappeared down the hall.

Pulling the hood of her cloak low over her head, Astrid hurried down the stairs and out into the night, seeing nothing. Nothing save a pair of vacant eyes.

The sight of Bertram, his blood staining the floor, clouded her mind as she stumbled through the chill night, past cottages that leaned slightly in the biting wind, hunkered shapes that seemed to watch her as she hastened past.

Her legs moved automatically, eager to reach the inn and the privacy of her room where she could…

What? Astrid shook her head. Cry? Shout? Permit yourself to feel relief, a small, wretched voice taunted.

All seemed useless, pathetic behavior. The mark of an inept woman.

She drew cold air into her lungs, bracing herself. When the shock ebbed. When the image of Bertram no longer filled her mind, she would dust her hands and move on from here. Like always.

She passed a tavern. Raucous voices and laughter spilled out into the night and she gave wide berth to a group of men entering the establishment, ignoring them when they called out suggestive comments.

Ducking deeper inside the hood of her cloak, she increased her pace, passing the building and turning left—and running directly into a large wall of a body.

“Whoa there.” A familiar drawl filled her ears. Hard hands came up to grasp her arms, steadying her.

Her eyes snapped to his face, to the eyes she knew she would see. Even in the dark, his pale blue eyes flared brightly in recognition…and anger.

“You,” he growled.

She opened her mouth but no sound fell as she stared up into Griffin Shaw’s glowering face. Moonlight limned the lines of his face, making them appear harsh as rough-hewn granite.

“I thought we were to travel here together?” His fingers flexed on her arm, singeing her through her cloak. “What? Can you not speak? Or would I hear only more falsehoods?”

A strange little mewl escaped her and her legs suddenly went from lead to jam. His hands tightened, supporting her.

“What is it? Are you hurt?” His hard gaze skimmed her, then moved beyond her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering her purpose in traveling to Dubhlagan. “Where is your husband?”

“Husband,” she echoed, shaking her head slowly, as if she had never heard such a word before, as if its meaning escaped her entirely.

“Astrid,” he urged, saying her name as if he possessed the right to do so. And strangely, the sound of her name sounded right falling from his lips. Comforting.

“Dead,” she managed to get out…and not fall apart at the declaration. Squeezing her eyes, she pushed the image of Bertram lying motionless on the floor from her mind.

Griffin Shaw’s eyes drilled into her with a burning intensity, thawing some of the numbness. He drew her close, his heat solace against the night air.

Wrapping an arm around her, he led her to the inn at the end of the lane. “Come,” he encouraged. “Let’s get out of the cold.”

Nodding, she allowed him to lead her inside and up the stairs.

“You’re staying here?” she asked.

He nodded. “And you?”

“Yes,” she murmured, thinking that perhaps their paths had been destined to cross again. Whether she willed it or not.

She didn’t protest as he led her to his room, coincidentally, only two doors from the room she occupied. She hesitated for a bare second at the door. It seemed a little late for a sense of propriety to seize her now.

His room was almost identical to hers with its single bed and a utilitarian dresser, table and chairs. He guided her to the table and seated her with care, as if she were some fragile piece of crystal. She almost gave in to laughter. There was nothing soft or delicate about her. Not after tonight. Hell, not after the last five years.