Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(46)

They would no doubt sleep side by side again. It was only practical. Especially in this cold. The smell of snow hung on the air. It would likely grow colder as the night unfolded.

Her heart raced at the prospect of them so close, bodies side by side throughout the night, sharing their heat…sharing each other. And yet how could she sleep beside him and not remember, not relive their time together, not turn to him like a moth seeking flame, hungry for him, for more of what her body could not forget?

Finished with arranging the bedding, she propped a saddle against the tree and leaned her back against it, wondering how she might bridge the gap that she herself had forged…and why she even wished to. Because quite simply, she must not.

But shouldn’t they be civil toward each other? Considering they were stuck together, at least for the time being, it was the proper thing to do.

Proper. She let the word roll through her head, telling herself that was her sole motivation. Not because she craved something more. Not because she craved him.

Sighing, she scrubbed her hands over her face. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she missed him. As he had been before. Caring. Interested. His eyes hungry on her. And she had pushed him away, a flame too hot to bear touching.

He returned then. Tethering the horses to a nearby bush, he disappeared back into the trees without a word, returning minutes later with an armful of kindling.

She watched as he started a fire, the offer to help on the tip of her tongue, but she held back, clinging to her silence, afraid of speaking. Afraid of rejection from the cold man he had become, the man she had pushed him into becoming.

She studied him in silence, her gaze lingering on his muscular thighs, stretched taut against his trousers as he crouched before the fire. Rising, he went about making camp, continuing to make her feel invisible, a mere shadow. Tormented. He rifled through his satchel and took out the twine-secured package of jerky.

At last, he joined her on the bedroll she had spread out, handing her a hunk of the dried meat.

She cleared her throat. “You never said what you’re doing in Scotland.” Her hands played about the rough edges of her meat.

“Nothing of importance,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

She watched him in the firelight, disbelieving. Moistening her lips, she persisted. “Why are you here?”

She began to suspect he would ignore her question until he said, “My mother died a few years ago.” Bending his leg, he propped an arm on his knee, rolling his piece of dried venison between his fingers. “I’m headed to a place called Balfurin. The lands of Laird Hugh MacFadden.”

She angled her head to the side. “Gallagher’s enemy?”

He nodded.

She studied his chiseled profile. The fire cast dancing shadows on his face. Entrancing.

He didn’t look at her as he continued, simply stared into the fire, almost as if he spoke to the nest of crackling fire and not her at all. “My mother was half out of her mind at the end…but she said certain things.” He paused, tearing off another piece of jerky with his teeth. He chewed for some moments and swallowed before adding, “At first, I told myself nothing she said could be taken seriously. The pain she was in…” A muscle knotted along the bruised flesh of his jaw as his voice faded.

She resisted the urge to touch him, to feather her fingers over his bristly cheek in a soothing gesture.

“Let’s just say she couldn’t have known what she was saying. And after she died, I convinced myself to put her words behind me.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“My father wouldn’t answer any of my questions.” His lips twisted and he plucked a twig from the ground, toying with it between his fingers. “Not surprising. We weren’t close. Not since the war.” Something flickered in his eyes at that confession. “He died recently.”

So he was all alone. Like her.

He waved his hand. “So here I am.”

“And why is that?” She angled her head, studying him. “What are you looking for? What did your mother tell you?”

He looked at her then, and the intensity in his blue gaze made her breath trip. “She claimed I wasn’t her son. Hers or her husband’s—the man I had called father all of my life.”

Her heart squeezed at this declaration, knowing the anguish it must have brought him at the time, a son watching his mother die. She knew full well the effect a parent’s words or actions could have, the way they could haunt you for years—a lifetime even.

“And you think you’ll find answers at this Balfurin?”

“Hugh MacFadden, the clan’s laird…he’ll know. He’ll have my answers,” he replied grimly.

“What did your mother exactly say to you…at the end?”

“A fever struck the ship crossing over. My mother took me from a couple who died a day apart of each other. My real parents were Scottish like them, traveling to America for a fresh start…like them.” He smiled harshly.

She envisioned his adoptive parents, a young couple, indigent crofters like so many in Scotland even now, gambling everything on an uncertain future…and a child that wasn’t of their blood.

“But then everyone who comes to America is after a fresh start.” He glanced at her. “Running from something. Running toward something.”