Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(32)

The two men continued to ignore her.

The uncle laughed and addressed Griffin. “You’ve been challenged, Shaw. Are you man enough to accept?”

Astrid fiercely shook her head. Lifting her skirts, she stumbled forward gracelessly, gritting her teeth when a wall of men merged to block her. “No,” she cried, trying to shove past. “He cannot! He’s injured. Your men beat him only this day! How can this be a fair contest?”

“Enough, Astrid,” Griffin growled, his eyes glinting furiously at her. “I will fight.”

She stomped a foot. “No, you—”

“Silence!” the old man roared. “Hold your tongue, woman, and learn your place.” He wagged a gnarled finger in her face. “This is men’s business. They’ll fight. Hand to hand. No weapons. And the winner shall claim you. Now sit beside me like a good lass.” He motioned to the chair beside him.

She closed her mouth with a snap, heat flooding her face as long-suppressed emotions bubbled to the surface, dangerously near spilling forth. A set of hands forced her into a chair beside the laird.

Helpless, she watched as tables were pushed aside. Griffin and Lachlan shrugged free of their coats. She studied the strong lines of Griffin’s face, the bruises only heightening his good looks, and feared she would be sick.

Lachlan stretched his arms over his head, the picture of health and vigor. She pressed a hand to her rolling stomach and tried to believe that Griffin knew what he was doing. He had already proven himself strong, following them through mountains and bitter cold, arriving only moments behind them—an occurrence she had not considered even remotely possible.

The old man beside her rubbed his hands together, clearly relishing the upcoming fight.

“What happens if he loses?” she demanded, a desperate fire burning in her chest as her eyes devoured the sight of Griffin. God, keep him safe. Let him win.

“If?” he snorted. “Hate to tell you, lass, but your lad there doesn’t look too—”

“What happens?” she spit out.

“Och, well, that depends on Lachlan.”

Astrid shook her head, not feeling at all heartened. “Yes, but, in these instances, what’s usual?”

He slid her a bemused glance. “Usual? You’re a strange lass.” He shrugged one beefy shoulder. “His life is forfeit. His fate would be in Lachlan’s hands.”

Bile rose high in her throat. “That’s barbaric!”

If Griffin lost…

Shaking her head, she braced herself for the violence to come, telling herself she had done all she could to stop it. Still, the thought was cold comfort as she watched Griffin prepare to wage his life. For her.

Chapter 12
Griffin stripped down to his vest, deliberately unbuttoning his cuffs so that his sleeves would billow and flutter with his movements—a measure he knew would help distract his opponent. He smiled grimly as the Scot stripped to his trousers, grinning and flexing his bare arms for the crowd.

He deliberately avoided looking at Astrid—sitting so silent and pale beside the clan’s laird—lest his rage return and cloud his focus. He needn’t look her way to remember her lovely face, so calm, so cool, dark eyes infuriatingly detached as she rode off with the Highlander and left him.

Her utter lack of faith in him galled him still. He might be a stranger in these parts, but he knew a damn sight more about survival than some haughty Brit better suited to the pomp of London drawing rooms.

She had made her choice, going with the Highlanders rather than letting him protect her as any man worth his salt would have done. He should have left her to her fate. Faithless female.

Shrugging past his stinging pride, he reminded himself of what losing would mean to Astrid. Not even a stubborn female lacking the sense to follow his lead deserved to be left to the mercy of these men.

Determination sealing his heart, he ducked Lachlan’s first swing and quickly countered with one of his own, his right fist connecting with his opponent’s jaw in a satisfying crack of bone on bone.

Keeping his left arm close to his side, he pulled back to deliver another jab…only to be swept off his feet from a swift kick to the knee.

He fell to the ground. Lying on his side, he rolled hard and watched as a boot slammed down inches from his nose. He grabbed at the ankle and twisted it savagely, bringing Lachlan down with a howling curse. Before he could rise, Griffin pounced, flinging himself on the other man’s back. Grabbing a hank of his hair, he brought Lachlan’s face crashing into the ground. Again and again.

The cries and jeers of the crowd registered dimly, but adrenaline pumped hotly through him. He didn’t look up, didn’t seek out her face through the red haze clouding his eyes even though he knew she was there, watching, her dark eyes no doubt fathomless and unmoved as ever…even as he fought for his life…and hers.

The thought only heightened his rage, sent a burn of aggression rushing through him, firing a path through his veins, fierce and swift as the wind howling outside.

A sharp elbow to the ribs propelled him backward. He grunted from the force. The Highlander broke free and spun around. Rage glowed in his eyes and a wet trickle of crimson streamed from his nose into his mouth. “Bastard,” he hissed, blood spraying from his teeth.

They squared off again, circling each other like two great jungle cats, wary, tense, waiting for the moment to spring at the other.