Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(20)

“You wouldn’t accept my answer.”

“So lying was easier.” He gave a single, hard nod.

Turning, eager to escape him, she fumbled with her key, loathing the way he looked at her…as if she had failed him. She squeezed her eyes shut in a hard blink. Impossible. She didn’t know him. Didn’t owe him anything.

His hand clamped down on her shoulder just as she managed to unlock her door. He forced her back around, forced her to confront that damning gaze of his.

“Let me go,” she hissed, defiance burning through her chest as he backed her against her door.

His fingers flexed on her shoulder but he did not release her. He stepped closer, those blue eyes intense and burning on her. The hand on her shoulder slid down her arm, circling her wrist. His thumb pressed against her pulse point, holding her, connecting them with that light, burning touch.

Something flickered in his eyes. Something dark and powerful, different from the anger but somehow more dangerous. An answering spark flared to life low in her belly and she ceased to breathe altogether.

After a long moment, his hand slipped from her, freeing her. Yet she still felt bound by the pull of his eyes, branded by his touch.

“Take care of yourself…Duchess,” he drawled in that rich, whiskey voice of his that reminded her of warm nights and the smoky peat scent of fire.

Without another word, he turned away, his boots thudding along the floorboards, echoing through the narrow corridor.

Pressing a hand to her stomach, she regained her breath. Dragging air into her too-tight lungs, she watched as he disappeared inside his room, wondering at the sudden hollow ache in her chest that had nothing to do with the death of her husband. And everything to do with a man she barely knew. A man she would never see again. And yet she did not feel the relief she should over that fact.

Chapter 8
“You have an Englishwoman staying here, Tom?”

Griffin looked up from his tankard at the two men addressing the innkeeper, his pulse spiking at the question. They wore grim expressions on their faces and he instantly surmised they served as the law in these parts. And he had a fairly good idea what Englishwoman they sought.

“I did.” The portly innkeeper returned from behind the bar, wiping his thick hands on a soiled apron. “She settled her account and left early this morning.”

Griffin knew as much. He had knocked on her door at sunup to make certain she was on her way. Why he bothered, why he cared, he could not say. He owed her nothing. Still, mingled relief and regret filled him when that door never opened.

Relief that she had taken his advice to depart at first light, and a peculiar sense of regret that he would never see her again, never look on those dark, haunted eyes.

“I saw her,” he heard himself say before he could consider what he was doing.

The two Scots looked his way. “Did you, now?” They approached his table, looking him over closely.

He took a swig from his tankard, thinking fast. “A fetching bit of skirt.”

“You know where she’s headed?”

He took his time answering, biting into a hunk of tough bread. The food in these parts left much to be desired. With the famine, he expected no better. Still, his stomach craved something more palatable.

“Real huffy sort. Took offense to my…” He pretended to search for the proper word. “Interest.”

“And? Do you know where she is?”

Figuring every moment he bought her could only help, he lied. “Said something about going to church.”

“Church?” The two Scotsman exchanged disbelieving looks.

He shrugged and tore off another hunk of bread with his teeth, doing his best to appear unaffected. He had seen the church at the far end of town, a ramshackle building with a cross nailed to the gabled roof. Perhaps they would believe a suspected murderess craved the Lord’s forgiveness for her crime.

After a moment, one of the Scots grinned. “Thank you, sir.” With a nod, they turned on their heels, their tartans whipping on air.

Griffin held his seat, watching the two men hasten from the taproom. Once the door banged shut behind them, he stood. Wasting no time, he gathered his saddlebag and settled his account with the innkeeper. Stepping outside, he crossed the road toward the stables, pulling up the collar of his coat to ward of the slash of wind.

He halted in the stable yard, recognizing the fine coach with the elaborate coat of arms on the door. With a sinking feeling, he rounded the coach and halted.

She stood there, in the process of being assisted within.

“What the hell are you still doing here?”

She spun around at the sound of his voice. “Mr. Shaw.”

Her driver blinked. Looking Griffin over, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Is there a problem?”

“You could say that,” he ground out, eyes trained on her. “I thought you would have been gone by now.”

She motioned to the coach. “It’s a team of six. It took John some time to ready them.”

Griffin looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the two Scotsmen from earlier bearing down on them.

Her soft voice penetrated. “Is there a problem, Mr. Shaw?”

He turned back around. Stepping closer, he closed a hand around her elbow. “The problem, sweetheart, is that they’re already looking for you.” He motioned to the coach. “Even if you leave now, I have no doubt they can overtake you in this lumbering beast of a contraption.”