Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(2)

Astrid dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “I agree,” she murmured, carefully wrapping herself in a mantle of calm lest she become swept away on the tide of her friends’ burning indignation. “If in fact Bertram is this Powell fellow. That must be the first matter established.”

“How can you be so self-possessed?” Lucy asked with a shake of her head. “I would be an utter wreck.”

Because I’ve been an utter wreck before.

When Bertram left she had surrendered to emotion. She had let herself feel. Dark roiling emotions: rage, betrayal, desperation, fear. She had lost her head. And committed an unforgivable act. Sucking a deep breath into her lungs, she shoved the memory back down, the taste bile in her throat.

Lord St. Claire lowered the letter and gazed at her with unflinching intensity. “When do you leave?”

She inclined her head, respecting his ability to know her mind. Likely because an honorable man such as he would not let such an affront slide past.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You mean you intend to go to Scotland?” Lucy blinked.

“Naturally. I have to see for myself if it is Bertram.” She inclined her head slightly. “And if so, I’ve a wedding to stop.”

“B-but how?” Lucy asked. “You—” Her mouth shut with a snap as color flooded her cheeks.

“Haven’t any money?” Astrid supplied, smiling thinly. Five years and Lucy still tiptoed around the subject of her insolvency.

Astrid had stoutly turned down her friends’ offers of money. The idea of taking money from Jane or Lucy turned her stomach. They were the only good in her world. She would not use them. Her friendship with them would remain untarnished.

Lucy examined the letter again. “Where is this Dubhlagan?”

“Just north of Inverness,” Astrid answered, having already researched a map of Scotland.

“Good God,” Lucy muttered. “The very ends of the earth. However will you manage to travel there?”

“I’ll take the train to Edinburgh. From there I’ll take the mail coach.”

“Mail coach?” Jane snorted, then sobered when she met Astrid’s solemn expression. “Good Heavens, you’re serious.”

“Take one of our coaches,” Lord St. Claire offered. “My man John is a crack driver and you’ll get there in half the time.” He frowned. “Although you really should have an escort.”

“My maid will suffice.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a man.”

Astrid shook her head. Her father had passed away shortly after her marriage to Bertram. Yet even if he had not, she could not imagine him accompanying her on such an errand. He had not chased after his own wife when she left him, nor welcomed her back when the chance arose. Why would he have supported Astrid in going after her errant husband? He would have advised her to leave well enough alone. That it was Bertram’s shame…as it had been her mother’s. That she should stay put and forbear. Duty and forbearance. The noble, dignified path.

Lord St. Claire reached beside him for his wife’s hand. Astrid watched as he folded Jane’s slim fingers into his own, her throat thickening at the display, at how things could be between a husband and wife.

“I would accompany you myself, but I cannot leave Jane,” he explained.

“Of course not,” Astrid agreed, clearing her throat with a swallow. Her heart tightened at the idea of a man so devoted to his wife that he would not leave her during her confinement. “I am capable of going alone.”

“Astrid, are you certain—”

“That I wish to confirm whether Bertram is posing as another man? Do I want to stop him from marrying another woman?” Astrid looked starkly into Jane’s eyes and nodded firmly, cold determination sealing her heart. “Positively.”

If she could save another woman from Bertram, perhaps she could gain a small measure of redemption.

Perhaps she could look herself in the mirror again and see a person worthy of respect.

After all, how difficult could such a journey be? A quick jaunt to Scotland, a few words with Bertram—and, if need be, the father of the girl to whom he was betrothed—and she could return home a new woman, duty satisfied.

Chapter 2
Astrid stared down the unwavering barrel of a pistol as she stepped from the carriage into the cold, buffeting wind and wondered precisely when her journey had detoured directly to hell.

“That’s it. Nice and easy with you.” The highwaymen motioned for her to stand beside Lord St. Claire’s coachman.

Her maid followed closely, clinging to her hips as though they were handholds.

Astrid struggled to keep her footing on the rutted and uneven road that had so abused her for the last several days of the journey, culminating in this final indignity. Robbery. And just when they were so close to their destination.

With the coach at their backs and the three highwaymen before them, Astrid, her maid, and the coachman were effectively caged. Not that there was anywhere to run in the rocky gulley that rose up on either side of them.

Her nose wrinkled as the blackguards drew closer. Their odor reminded her of the way her father’s hounds had smelled, wet and muddy after the hunt. The unkempt trio wore soiled tartan and leered at her from long scraggly strands of hair.

They were not the first Highlanders she had seen since crossing into Scotland, but they were by far the filthiest. And most imposing. Desperate men. And she knew from experience that a desperate man could do just about anything. Indeed. She knew that fact well.