Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(19)

“What happened?” he asked, sitting and pulling his chair close.

She carefully lowered her hood, her fingers playing with the worn edges before splaying on the table’s scarred surface. She frowned at the way they trembled, reprimanding herself to gain control of herself, to fight the distress that threatened to break free.

Sucking in a deep breath, she began to speak, confiding the very shame that she had wanted to keep from him before. That her husband had abandoned her years before. That he thought to marry another as if she did not exist. Tight laughter bubbled up in her chest. Now he knew.

“You tracked him here?” Griffin asked.

“Yes. I confronted him and demanded he end the betrothal.” She shook her head. “He showed no remorse. Offered to buy my silence if I returned to England.” At this she did laugh, the sound ringing hollowly through the room.

“Bastard.”

Her eyes widened at this harsh pronouncement, at his grim expression.

She shook her head, her jaw tightening. “Don’t say that.” God knew she had said it to herself over the years, but now she could not stomach the thought—or sound—of a deprecation against Bertram. Not while his life’s blood stained the hem of her skirts.

“Astrid,” the low rumble of his voice pulled her gaze to his face. He took her hands from the table. His eyes drilled into her, probing, demanding the truth. “You said he’s dead. Did you…” his voice faded, leaving the question in his eyes for her to interpret.

“No!” she cried, pulling her hands free of his, horrified that he would suspect such a thing of her. True, she was no saint. She had made mistakes in her life. But murder her husband? “God, no!”

He caught her hands again, holding tight and staring intently into her eyes. “I had to ask. You had every reason to want him dead—”

“I didn’t kill him,” she hissed, indignation sweeping through her. And yet deep in the shadows of her heart, there had been times, in the dark of night, in the privacy of her room, when she had burrowed deep into her bed and wished him dead.

The bitter realization only confirmed that she was utterly and completely irredeemable. And she had thought stopping Bertram from marrying some unsuspecting woman would be a form of atonement. Instead her arrival appeared to have brought about his death.

“Go on. Finish telling me what happened.”

Swallowing, she inhaled and told him everything, her voice rushing out as if the speed in which she spoke would make it somehow less real.

His eyes skimmed over her soiled skirts, and his thumbs rubbed the smudges of dirt on her hands.

“Did anyone see you leave the lodging house?”

Astrid blinked at the sudden question. “Yes. A maid.”

Releasing her hands, he paced the length of the room once, stopping at the window and looking down onto the dark yard. After a few moments, he glanced back at her, eyes pale chips of blue beneath his dark brows. “I recommend you leave at first light. Before even.”

She tucked her hands beneath her skirts, feeling the corners of her mouth pull into a frown.

“You’re a stranger in these parts,” he continued. “An Englishwoman who was last seen coming out of a dead man’s room.”

“You’re saying suspicion will fall on me?” she queried, shocked despite the logic of his reasoning.

“Where’s your driver?” he asked.

“He bedded down in the stables for the night.”

“I suggest you rise early and join him there. Depart before anyone even has a chance to realize your husband is dead.”

As his cold, matter-of-fact words sank in, she realized he dispensed sound advice.

“Very well,” she agreed. There was no reason to dally in Scotland after all. No reason to linger. Bertram brought her here. And Bertram was gone.

Even if she did not relish the world she inhabited in Town, it was her world nonetheless. She needed to return to her place in it…and begin the messy business of proving her husband’s death.

“Let’s get you to your room.”

At his brusque tone, she nodded numbly, allowing him to lead her down the hall to her room, the slight pressure of his hand on her elbow comforting.

At her door, they both stood for some moments, an awkward silence rising between them as they lingered.

She stared at the dirty floorboards, at the toes of his dark boots, and cleared her throat. “Well…”

She lifted her gaze from the floor. He had not bothered to don a cravat as most gentlemen wore, and she found herself eye level with the base of his neck.

The shirt beneath his jacket was open at the throat, exposing tan, warm-looking flesh. Even in the corridor’s shadow, she thought she saw his pulse hammering against the side of his neck, thought it moved quickly, beating with a rhythm that matched her own galloping heart.

“Thank you for your…kindness.” She was not sure what word applied to him. No doubt he had been helpful, but his current hard stare did not bring forth thoughts of kindness. He looked…angry. Dangerous.

He nodded grimly, his blue gaze as harsh and relentless as it had been when she first collided with him in the village.

“You could have been honest with me,” he bit out. “You needn’t have told me we would journey here together if it was not your intention.”