Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(27)

She looked around them, seeing nothing except the still of a Scottish wood. She glanced back at him, trying to determine what he saw, what he heard.

Suddenly, he grasped her wrist and dragged her off the ground and into his arms with a swiftness that stole her breath. His hands came up on either side of her head, holding her motionless as he stifled her cry with his lips.

She shoved at his chest, stilling the instant she realized he was not kissing her. Not as a man bent on ravishment would. His lips were firm against hers, warm, moving but not caressing…talking, whispering. “They’re watching us from across the brook. In a moment I will move toward my rifle. And you will run. Do you understand? Run for the brush behind me. Hide. Don’t come out unless I call for you.”

They’re watching us from across the brook.

His words and their implication slithered through her like a snake winding in grass.

A hiss of breath escaped her mouth, fanning his cool lips. She nodded, her wide eyes staring into the glittering blue of his.

He gave a single curt nod. And then released her.

Stumbling, she ran, the metallic taste of fear rising thick in her throat, flooding her mouth. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Didn’t dare. Not even as she heard shouts and splashing water. She did as Griffin commanded, even as her heart clenched at whatever was happening to him.

Panic fed her limbs. Her feet struck the earth in hard thuds, pounding in her ears, matching the heavy thrum of her heart. As she tore through trees and tangled gorse, she soon realized that her racing footsteps were not the only sound. Someone followed her, crashing through the brush, his breath a harsh wheeze, building fast behind her.

She ducked beneath a low hanging branch just as a crack of gunfire split the air. She jerked to a halt, terror striking deep in her heart. Griffin.

A hand caught and snagged hold of her cloak, yanking so tightly the strings at her throat cut into her flesh. Gagging, she clawed at the ties. With a spin, she fell into a pair of thick arms.

“Quick little thing,” a thick burr gasped against her ear.

Astrid caught only a flash of dark eyes set within a gaunt face before she was tossed through the air. A brawny shoulder dug into her belly. His every step bounced her until she thought she would be ill. Just when she thought she could stand it no more, he stopped and dropped her unceremoniously to the hard ground.

Wincing, she shoved the hair that had fallen loose from her face and looked about, taking in a scene far different from moments ago. Gone was the peaceful afternoon, the quiet song of the burbling brook, the still and silent woods.

A dozen men garbed both in breeches and kilts circled Griffin. The latter sat in their midst, battered and bloodied, a cross expression marring his face.

Astrid surged to her feet and charged into the circle of men. “What have you done to him?” she demanded, bunching her skirts in one hand and squatting to inspect his ravaged face.

Griffin looked at her with his one good eye, the blue circling the other all the more startling against his tanned and bloodied face.

“Looks worse than it is,” he assured with a wry twist of his mouth, wincing as the stretch of his lips pulled at a tear splitting his bottom lip. Blood seeped steadily from the cut and she pressed her fingers gently to it, the gesture impulsive, tender, and nurturing in a way that she never knew she could be.

“Animals!” she declared, glaring at Griffin’s attackers. “Take our things…or whatever it is you want and leave us be!”

The Highlanders glanced at one other, clearly caught off guard.

Griffin motioned to his saddle bag. “You heard her.”

Silence fell. Only the howl of the wind through the trees and the gurgle of the brook could be heard.

One of the brigands finally spoke, a dark-eyed man that might have been handsome if not for his twisted nose.

“You shot Lionel.”

He waved to a tawny-haired man at the edge of the brook who clutched a bloody thigh, a pained expression tightening his face.

“And what of you?” she demanded, surging to her feet. “Charging us like a pack of wolves! Count yourself fortunate only one of you suffered injury!”

The dark-haired man blinked.

“Astrid,” Griffin growled, voice low with warning.

The leader assessed her, his eyes sliding over her in appraisal. “Are all Sassenach women as sharp-tongued as you?” He chuckled and looked to his men. “Perhaps I need to venture south after all.”

His men laughed.

Griffin grabbed her hand in an attempt to bring her beside him, but she held her ground, chin lifting as she stared down the brigand leader.

“This is no jest. Cease your laughing.”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he continued, sobering. “’Tis dangerous indeed to earn the wrath of so fiery a woman.” His dark eyes fixed intently on her. “I might get burned.” His rangy frame executed a mocking bow. “Lachlan Gallagher. Pleased to make the acquaintance of one so lovely.”

She sniffed, unsettled, but did her best to conceal it.

“What’s your name, lass?” He glanced to Griffin. “Ashley, did you say?”

With a grunt, Griffin pulled himself to his feet. Clasping her arm, he pulled her behind him. “I call her wife. You may call her Mrs. Shaw.”

“That so?” He clucked his tongue. “Pity.”