Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(23)

“That’s unnecessary,” she assured, gathering a fistful of her horse’s mane and bouncing on the balls of her feet, preparing to mount, determined that she not appear weak and frail, someone he must cater to over the next day. He had done enough already. She’d not have him think her totally helpless. A female in need of rescuing, totally dependent on a man to coddle her.

His voice scraped the air, sending unwelcome tingles along her spine as he helped her swing atop her mount. “As you say, Duchess.”

She suppressed a flash of annoyance at his mocking form of address, watching him swing himself up in one fluid motion, his muscles bunching and flexing beneath his clothing. Nothing in his movements hinted at any stiffness or soreness.

Both mounted, she followed him across the brook, frowning as she thought over their conversation. She couldn’t recall talking so freely with a man before. Especially a man she had known for such a short duration.

Drawing a thin breath through her nostrils, she let the cold air fill her with a familiar chill, ice in her veins, cold, numbing. Chasing away all feelings, freezing them dead.

Chapter 9
Griffin eyed the horizon, noting the fading twilight with grim acceptance. He had pushed her as far as he could. Although he had hoped to cover more distance, it became apparent that she was not accustomed to hard riding, despite her tight-lipped endurance. He did admire her mettle though. Who knew that a duchess would never complain?

Confident he’d found a suitable spot to break camp, he pulled up his mount and swung down. Without a word, he gripped the lady by the waist. Her dark eyes flared wide as he swung her down, sliding her along the length of him, enjoying the feel of her slim figure against him, the mash of her breasts against his chest surprisingly erotic.

When he released her, her hands grabbed his arms, her legs buckling.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hands flying back to her waist.

She watched him with the wariness he was coming to expect. At first it annoyed him that she should still distrust him. If it weren’t for him, she never would have made it out of Dubhlagan. She’d be facing Scots’ justice…perhaps in the form of a noose.

And yet she was entitled to her distrust. From what he knew of her, it would take a great deal to thaw her reserve.

“My legs feel like jam,” she muttered, her soft clipped speech stoking some place deep inside him.

Sliding his hands from her waist, he grasped her arm and led her to a grassy spot. “I’ll tend to the horses. You just let the blood return to your legs, Duchess.”

Her chin went up, as he knew it would. That jutting chin had become her trademark, especially when she was annoyed.

A smile tugged his mouth. He wasn’t certain what bothered her more. The reference to her title or the fact that he addressed her with such irreverence. He wasn’t privy to the proper manner of address among the British peerage, but he was fairly certain calling her Duchess did not qualify as due respect.

Turning, he unsaddled their mounts. He slapped Waya on the rump to let him wander, knowing he wouldn’t stray far and would return at once with a whistle. Hobbling off the little mare, he returned with his saddlebag slung over his shoulder and bedding tucked under his arm.

Squatting beside her, he shook out a tarp and patted for her to sit. She obliged, watching him all the while with that steady, unflinching gaze. Dark, fathomless. Direct and frank, pulling him in.

He handed her his water flask and moved off to hunt down kindling for a fire, grateful for a moment alone, for distance from that mesmerizing gaze.

“It’s going to be a cold night,” he commented upon his return. He glanced up at her as he arranged the kindling, eyeing her navy gown, the wide skirts and tight bodice with buttons straight up to the throat. Dressed so modestly, it was a wonder she roused his interest. Standing, he brushed off his hands and searched through his leather saddlebag, pulling out a small bundle of oilcloth wrapped in twine.

“Here.” Unfolding the paper, he offered her the jerky.

She took the dried meat from him as if it might come alive and bite her. Turning it over in her hand, she asked in those proper accents that twisted his insides into knots, “What is it?”

“Jerky.” At her blank look, he added, “Dried venison.”

“Oh,” she murmured, lifting her gaze and watching him tear off a bite with his teeth. After a moment, she followed suit, her small perfect teeth gnawing daintily on the meat. Something curled in his gut at the simple sight. So basic, so elemental, that he immediately imagined that mouth on him, those pearl teeth grazing his flesh, nipping at his mouth, his neck, his chest.

Clearing his throat, he shoved the image away, fighting it back down his suddenly tight throat. The woman had just lost her husband, and here he was imagining tossing her skirts over her head.

“It’s just for tonight,” he assured her. Tomorrow he would leave her in Edinburgh and he would continue on his way to Balfurin. Although he could not say for certain whether he would receive any hospitality when he reached his destination. He did not even know if the man he sought still lived.

“I’m tired,” she murmured on a sigh as she finished her jerky, the first comment she had volunteered in awhile.

“Get some rest,” he encouraged, doubting she had slept much last night.

Nodding, she snuggled down onto the tarp, pulling a blanket up to her shoulders. Several moments passed in which neither spoke. He looked away, deciding he needed time to get a grip on his attraction before he looked her way again.