Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(39)

That said, he stalked across the room, wrenching the heavy door open.

“Where are you going?” she cried, leaning forward, fingers digging into the covers.

“I’ll take the company of a rough bunch of Scots over you. At least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

She jerked at that remark, then again as he slammed the door, the sound reverberating throughout the chamber, throughout her heart.

She sat still for a long moment, her fingers flexing in the soft fur. Her eyes lowered, taking in the food before her. So much still uneaten. And she didn’t crave a bite. Nothing would satisfy the gnawing ache inside her. Not this time.

With a choked cry, she sent the tray crashing to the floor, food flying in so many pieces…like the shattering of everything she had once held to be true. About herself. About the unlikelihood of ever losing herself over a man.

Griffin stormed into the hall, glad to see that much of the crowd had dissipated. The last thing he needed was to face questioning stares. He grimaced, recalling that this crowd wouldn’t limit themselves to questioning stares. No doubt they would demand an explanation. Details he had no wish to share.

He approached the massive fireplace, skirting the tall scarlet-cushioned chairs and extending his hands out to the life-giving warmth, watching the hypnotic dance of flames within the giant rock hearth.

“Did your woman throw you out, lad?”

Griffin whirled around, hand instinctively flying to his side where he usually wore his holster.

Laird Gallagher sat in one of the chairs, his brawny arms resting on the wooden arms, reposed and regal as a king surveying his domain.

“I left of my own will,” he muttered.

The man chuckled. “Aye, we all say that. And we swear nothing will bring us back to them, but then we always return. Likes bees to the honey pot. Ah, it was the same with my bonny Maggie. She had the fiercest temper.” He shook his grizzled head with a snort. “She could make me see red with that smart mouth of hers. I’d swear we were finished. Done.” He swiped a large gnarled hand through the air. “I’d move my things into another chamber, start looking among the women, swearing one of them would suffice to take her place.”

The man smiled then, a light entering his eyes that struck Griffin as both fond and sad.

“And?” Griffin prompted, certain he wasn’t finished.

Gallagher leaned forward in his chair, his voice lowering as if sharing some secret. “All it took was a look, a sway of her hips, and I’d say or do whatever it took to get back into her bed.” He fell back, chuckling and threading his fingers through his beard.

Griffin swung around to face the fire again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not me,” he vowed.

“Not you,” he mocked. “And why not? You’re too strong, too smart, hmm?” He winked. “You’re just like the rest of us. A slave to your cock…and that little lass upstairs owns it.”

It burned on the tip of his tongue to deny this to the coarse old man, to inform him that any woman he’d known less than a week could not possibly matter to him. But the words stuck in his throat.

“Now,” Gallagher announced, “why don’t you sit here and tell me what brings you to Scotland. By the time you’re finished the wee lass may be asleep and you can crawl back into bed without her even knowing.”

Griffin grinned despite himself and dropped into a chair beside him, admitting to himself that he liked the crusty old man. He reminded him of his foreman back home.

“Where are you from?”

“Texas.”

“Ah, dust and Indians.”

“Well, it’s not exactly dusty where I live.”

“Hmm,” the laird murmured. “Shaw is a Scottish name.”

“My parents immigrated to Texas—well, New York first. Texas soon after.”

“And what were you doing on MacFadden’s land?” He sniffed, rubbing his nose with a thick sausage finger. “Don’t tell me you know that ol’ battle-ax.” His eyes narrowed. “No relation, I hope.”

“No,” he answered. “My mother died several years ago. My father, a few months past. I thought it time to see the country of their birth.” To find out if his mother had been telling the truth.

“Hmm,” Gallagher murmured in response.

Griffin leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not going to have a problem leaving here, am I?”

The old man studied him for a long moment before replying, his tone deceptively off-hand, “Well, now, I think I might enjoy your company for a bit. I would be vastly interested in hearing about these Indians of yours.”

Griffin tensed. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

“And,” Gallagher continued, “I would especially like to hear more about these wealthy friends your woman mentioned. The ones that would miss her a great deal if she were to get lost in the Highlands for an extended amount of time.”

“Wealthy friends?” he asked grimly, wondering what precisely Astrid had said before his arrival…and convinced that whatever she had said had been the wrong thing to mention to a clan of Highlanders desperate to feed their people through a famine.

“Aye,” Gallagher murmured, “we may want to contact them.”