Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(28)

Astrid peered around Griffin, finding the dark-eyed man’s eyes still fixed on her. A small shiver coursed her spine and any thoughts she held of refuting Griffin’s claims vanished. She would take what protection she could in pretending to be his wife.

“Well, it happens that you’ve stumbled upon me and my men availing myself of some fine MacFadden sheep.”

“Thieves,” Astrid muttered.

“We’re not thieves,” the dark-eyed man corrected. “Reivers. A fine Scottish custom. And we raid only that which belongs to the MacFadden clan, rot the lot of them.”

“Then you have no interest in us,” Griffin pointed out. “We’re merely passing through.”

The man shrugged. “Be that as it may, I find that you have something that interests me.” His dark gaze fell on Astrid again.

She did not miss his meaning. Nor did Griffin. His fingers tightened around her arm. “She belongs to me.”.

The leader tsked. “Yes. A wife. Inconvenient.” His hand moved to the blade strapped to his side. “I suppose I can take care of that bit of nuisance.”

Her fingers tightened around Griffin’s arm.

Gallagher gave her an exaggerated wink. “It should be an easy enough matter to rid you of your husband, lass.”

“You will do no such thing,” she announced, stepping around Griffin, a frisson of fear skimming her spine.

The Highlanders around her laughed as if she had uttered some extraordinary quip.

“Ah, Sassenach, what a gem you are.” The Highlander slid a deadly looking blade from the scabbard at his waist. “Choose your weapon,” he advised Griffin.

With a grim set to his lips, Griffin pushed Astrid out of the way. Tugging up his pant leg, he pulled an even deadlier looking blade from his boot.

Astrid stared at him in amazement as he turned to face the other man. Her stomach clenched.

Could he mean to fight in his condition? She could not allow him. With his recent head wound and freshly battered body, he could not stand up to such a contest.

She had to stop him. He had done enough for her already. More than enough. She would not accept his life as sacrifice for her. He would lose, die, and she would still be at the mercy of the Highlander.

Stepping in front of him, she ignored the feel of his hard stare on her back and announced, “I’m not his wife. He lied to protect me. I’ll come with you.”

“Astrid,” Griffin hissed, the sound sharp and furious.

The dark-eyed Scot smiled. “I see.” He shot Griffin an almost empathetic look. “Clever of you to lie. But not worth your life. You should thank the lass. You’ll live because of her.”

The leader turned to his men then. Sheathing his blade, he instructed, “Let’s move before Old MacFadden catches wind that we’ve been at his flock.”

Astrid turned and faced Griffin. His look of acrimony flayed her like a whip, leaving her bare and bleeding before him. She held his gaze, suffered his stare, willing him to understand, hoping he would. If not now, then perhaps someday.

“Could you not trust me?” he asked, his voice soft, wounding her more than if he shouted fiery words.

She blinked, her hand drifting to her throat, to the pulse there that suddenly thrummed wildly.

Trust him? This man? A relative stranger?

“Griffin, I…” she paused, wetting her lips, looking away from the hot accusation of his gaze.

“Dammit, look at me,” he hissed.

“I do you a kindness,” she whispered in a rush, facing him again.

Her words made his eyes darken with fury. “You forget,” he rasped, wiping the blood from his lip with a fierce swipe of his hand, “there is nothing kind about you.”

Stung, Astrid stepped away, startled to hear her own words flung back at her. “You are correct, of course,” she replied crisply, gathering her composure and wrapping her familiar reserve like a cloak about her.

“Yes.” He snorted. “I should have believed you when you told me.”

Lifting her chin, she confessed. “I’m not sorry. I won’t have you kill yourself over me.” She shrugged one shoulder.

The muscles knotted along his jaw. Hot fury burned in his eyes, reaching out to singe her. “We’re not finished, you and I.”

She shook her head. “Good-bye, Griffin.” The words caused a deep ache beneath her breastbone that she could not have anticipated. Even when Bertram had abandoned her she had not felt this way. Like a cord had been forever severed, a part of her ripped open…almost as if they had been bound. As Griffin suggested back at the inn. Absurd, but the pain of it was there.

The Scotsmen mounted, the jangle of harnesses and horses’ hooves filling the air. She held Griffin’s gaze, unable to look away, knowing this would be the last time she saw him—the intriguing man that made her feel as no one had, a woman to be honored, protected. The memory of the heat in his eyes before he kissed her flashed through her mind, a taunting farewell.

Lachlan Gallagher plucked her from the ground and set her before him on his horse. “There you go,” he murmured in her ear, “make yourself comfortable.”

She shivered as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her eyes fixed on Griffin. He watched her with an intent expression on his face, eyes a pale, silvery blue that seemed to echo his earlier words. We’re not finished, you and I.