Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(30)

He continued, “It may kill him, but he will not quit.”

She turned back around and mulled over her abductor’s words. True, Griffin had said they were not finished, but that had been pride and anger talking. Once he cooled off, once she was gone, he would certainly remember whatever it was that brought him to Scotland and return to his purpose. The fate of a woman he barely knew would not plague him, would not cause him to act rashly and risk his own life.

The grueling pace eventually sapped her energy and she could not stop herself from relaxing against the man behind her, from taking support in the length of him. Nor could she seem to stop from drifting off into a state of half-consciousness, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, eager to escape the rigors of the journey. She did not know how much time passed before a hard hand on her shoulder jostled her fully awake.

“We’re here.”

She blinked out at the dark, moonless night. As far as she could see, here appeared to be…nowhere.

Then she saw it. At first it seemed they floated on inky air, sinking down toward winking stars.

They left the wooded hills behind, descending onto flat terrain. Far ahead, hundreds of tiny lights flickered like stars in the night.

“Cragmuir,” he announced at her back, the pride in his voice evident as the outline of a castle took shape against the dark veil of night.

“Cragmuir,” she repeated, marveling at the stone edifice looming larger than life before her. Like something out of Arthurian legend.

A great drawbridge lowered over a moat that smelled of rot and refuse, the chains creaking in the night wind. Two men stood high on the battlements, cheering down at them.

The men in their party called back, the laughter and triumph in their voices mingling with that of bleating sheep.

“Sheep not being the only prize caught,” Lachlan whispered in her ear, the tips of his fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts.

She drew a hissing breath through her teeth and forced his hand down.

He chuckled against her cheek. “You’ll grow accustomed to my touch. Come to like it, I vow. I’ve had no complaints before.”

Griffin’s furious eyes flashed through her mind again, a burst of fire in a dark night, and she shoved down her misery. She chose this fate, and she would find a way out of it.

They thundered into the yard to the welcome of barking dogs and a burgeoning crowd of Highlanders. Lachlan dismounted and swung her down beside him, a hand circling her wrist like a manacle, forcing her close to his side as he dragged her through the keep and into a cavernous hall that resembled something out of the middle ages.

Several massive tables littered the room in no apparent order. An old man sat at one, enshrined in a great wood-carved chair. His blue eyes watched their approach with keen interest.

“Uncle,” Lachlan greeted.

“Nephew,” the older man—Gallagher, she presumed—returned, “I see by your grin that your mission went well.”

His hand flexed on her wrist. “Very well.”

The volume in the hall intensified as the rest of the men spilled inside behind them. Serving girls poured into the room, carrying trays and trenchers, beaming smiles on their faces.

Her stomach clenched at the smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted pheasant.

“And what have you there? A present for me? Something else you stole from MacFadden.”

“Sorry, uncle. This prize is mine,” Lachlan declared. “A reward for successfully completing my task.”

“Oh?” the older man asked, his voice a scratchy growl on the air as he lifted bushy brows. “Since when do you decide your reward? You’re not yet lord and master here.”

She tugged anew on her wrist, deciding now the best time to plead her case, while the uncle appeared to be hovering between favor and disfavor with his nephew.

“I belong to no one! I was abducted! Taken against my will.” She fastened a beseeching gaze on the clan’s laird. “Please, sir. Surely you can see such an uncivilized act is a poor reflection on you and your people. I am an innocent traveler in your land. Your nephew viciously beat my traveling companion and—”

“Och, a Sassenach?” The old man shook his head in disapproval, the rest of her words lost on him. His gaze skimmed over Astrid in new estimation, as if his nephew had brought home a serpent. “Why would you want such a creature?”

“She’s different—”

“Aye, she is that. Trouble, she is. Not a sweet Scottish lass that can keep her tongue behind her teeth and show her man proper deference, to be sure.”

“Uncle,” Lachlan chided, his voice knowing, “I don’t recall my aunt being a reticent woman—”

The old man’s eyes softened at the mention of—presumably—his wife. “Nay, she was not.”

“Well, perhaps I want the same thing for myself.”

“And you would compare her to your dear aunt?” He flicked a large, gnarled hand Astrid’s way.

“Pardon me,” Astrid interjected. “So that there is no mistake here, let me clarify that I’m a hostage.”

“A hostage, eh?” Gallagher mused. “In that case, what sort of recompense shall I demand for your release?”

“Uncle,” Lachlan broke in, his voice a whine.

His uncle waved a hand to silence him, eyes still trained on her. “And,” he added, “to whom shall I make these demands? Family? Friends that might miss a fine Sassenach lass such as yourself?”