Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(42)

She gnashed her teeth. Didn’t he know her well enough yet to know she would not sit on her laurels and leave it to the strong man to handle everything? With reason. She learned long ago to rely on herself. And old habits died hard.

With all the cold hauteur she could summon, she rose to her feet and accepted his arm. “Unnecessary. I shall simply explain that I was bluffing…afraid for my safety and merely attempting to procure my release.”

“Yes, you do that,” he suggested, his voice mocking as ever as he led her from the chamber. “So far, you’ve been very successful at managing things on your own.”

“If you have a better strategy, by all means share,” she snapped. “What do you suggest we do?”

“We? Nothing. Me? I plan to scout the castle today and plot the best escape route.”

“Escape?” she echoed as they moved down the corridor. “What are you planning to do? Climb down the castle walls with your bare hands?”

“If need be.” He cut her a glance, the hard set to his jaw telling her that he could…and would.

She assessed the unforgiving lines of his profile, the bruises still visible, and reminded herself not to underestimate him. He’d already proven that nothing could best him. Likely he had never failed anything in his entire life. Or anyone.

“And what of me? Do you expect me to scale walls, too? Or will you leave me here?” she asked, regretting the question the moment she posed it. He’d already said he would take her to Edinburgh. Must she provoke him into retracting his promise?

He stopped on the stairs and turned, backing her against the cold stone wall. Her pulse thumping madly at her throat, she held her breath as he caged her in, his arms coming up on either side of her head.

In the dimness of the stairwell, his eyes glowed with a predatory light. “You think I would abandon you here?”

Astrid swallowed down the thickness in her throat. “I’m quite aware that you’re vexed with me—”

“Vexed?” he repeated. “Oh, no, Duchess. I’m not vexed. You gave me the ride of my life. Why would I be vexed with you?”

She flinched, stung.

Feeling little more than a tart—no doubt his intention—her hand rose to strike him.

He caught her hand in his. “Careful,” he warned, fingers squeezing her fist.

“Or what? You’ll leave me here? Perhaps you should.” The words dropped from her lips recklessly, hot and furious. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might not fare better with some Highland brute.”

“Shall we find out?” he drawled.

His gaze dropped, eyeing the rapid rise and fall of her breasts against her bodice. His voice lowered, as did his head, his lips brushing the side of her neck. “Would you prefer that, Astrid? Would that help you forget me?”

Unable to stop herself, she angled her head, giving him better access to her throat, her breath escaping in a fast tremble of air. His tongue laved her quickening pulse.

Forget him? Impossible. She brought her hand up, threading her fingers through his hair.

“You think another man can do the things to you I do? Make you feel the way I can?”

Her mouth moved silently. No.

Dropping his arms, he stepped away, simply left her leaning forward like a plant seeking light, her treacherous body aching, her neck tingling from the feel of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue.

Turning, he strode down the stairs, leaving her to follow. Fisting her hands at her sides, she drew a steadying breath and trailed after him.

To her surprise, she found him waiting at the base of the stairs, expression cool, remote. The hard-faced stranger again. She took his arm and accompanied him into the hall. All eyes turned on them.

Gallagher motioned for them to occupy the two seats beside him at the table. As if they were indeed guests of honor. Lachlan sat a few chairs down, his face as battered as Griffin’s—perhaps more. His already mangled nose looked as if it had been broken yet again.

A serving girl set steaming bowls of porridge laced with honey before them. Astrid tucked into her bowl, consuming the tasty fare. Her mouth watered at the platter of buttered bread dropped on the table. She started to reach for one, then stopped, feeling Griffin’s stare. Self-conscious, she dropped her hand back in her lap.

“Regular little martyr, aren’t you?” he leaned close to whisper in her ear.

Fighting down the swarm of heat that licked her cheeks, she set her chin at a firm angle and took a small bite of her porridge.

Swallowing, she turned her attention to the laird sitting on the other side of Griffin.

“My lord,” she began, leaning forward, not certain the appropriate form of address for the laird of a clan, but thinking it wouldn’t hurt to address him with the utmost respect.

He turned light blue eyes on her. “I fear my words yesterday evening have been misconstrued.”

“Misconstrued, eh?” he mumbled, lifting a spoonful of porridge to his mouth and leaving much of it on the beard surrounding his lips.

“Yes.” She nodded, pressing on determinedly. “I had only hoped to convince you to release me. You see, I have no wealthy friends willing to pay for my release.”

He stared at her with narrowed eyes. “You freely admit you lied then?”

“Yes,” she declared, then frowned at the look Griffin shot her—one of pity and mild disgust. As if she were the village idiot. He shook his head.