Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(48)

“Portia escaped him.” Thank heavens. “Apparently she had engaged the affections of the very wealthy Earl of Moreton. Only I was unaware of their tendre for one another.”

He cocked a dark brow. “Might she not have told you and eased your mind? It might have prevented you from resorting to drugging her.”

Astrid rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Portia and I were never close. She was always a dreamer while I was…”

“Practical. Sensible,” he supplied.

She nodded.

“Your sister-in-law and this earl? Did they wed?”

“Yes.” She smiled wistfully. “By all accounts, they’re quite happy. A love match, if you can believe it. So rare among the ton.”

“And here you are.” He flicked his gaze over her worn dress. “Still in dire straights?” It was more statement than question. At her silence, he made a disgusted sound.

“I don’t expect anything from them,” she hurriedly explained. “Not after what I did.”

“Her brother abandoned you. I don’t think it unfair to expect a little assistance considering she is in a position to lend it. Enough at least to put some meat on your ribs.”

“I could never ask—”

“She and her husband should offer.”

She shook her head stubbornly.

“So this is your great sin?” he demanded. For some reason he sounded angry, his voice like a lashing whip. “Why you insist you’re not a nice person?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it? If Portia had not escaped, she would now be married to the wrong man when she loved another. Then you would not be so quick to shrug off my actions.”

His brow furrowed. “And how is it she escaped?”

She waved a hand. “I’m not sure of all the particulars…I sent the earl after her and—”

“Wait.” Griffin held up a broad palm, shaking his head. “You sent her earl after her? You’re saying you helped save her?”

“Yes, but I’m the one who placed her at risk in the first place.”

“Look, I can see you’re determined to wear the hair shirt for the rest of your life, but think on this: you made a mistake, one not so unforgivable in my estimation, but then you repaired it. That’s all anyone can hope to do.”

She stared at him, amazed he did not find her actions so unpardonable…and tempted to believe they weren’t.

“No.” She shook her head. “I could have never made the mistake in the first place.”

Whether one was sorry or regretful or tried to make amends, failed to signify. Mistakes, her father had taught her, were forever that. A weakness in character not to be overlooked. Which explained why, when her mother sent word that she was stranded and without funds in Paris, he had refused to send for her. He didn’t want her back. Not after her betrayal. A person receives only one chance in life, Astrid, and your mother had hers. She can rot in a French gutter for all I care—a fitting whore’s death.

One chance.

Astrid may not have abandoned her husband and child for the thrill of a lover’s touch, but she, too, had dispensed her share of betrayal. She already had her chance. She’d gone too far with Portia. Her actions couldn’t be undone.

What had she been thinking to come to Scotland? To try and stop Bertram? Like her mother, dead of an unforgiving French winter, redemption was not hers to have.

“Yes, well, life doesn’t work out that way, does it? We’re not perfect creatures,” he bit out.

She stared hard at his furious expression, confused at why he should be so angry.

“We all make mistakes,” he continued. “For some of us, the mistakes are far worse than the one for which you punish yourself.”

“Oh. And what terrible mistakes have you made?” she demanded.

He looked at her intently, the pale blue of his eyes darkening. “I’ve killed. In the war.”

“Soldiers fight. They kill,” she returned. “I wouldn’t call that a mistake. It was your duty.”

“Do soldiers kill women?” The question fell hard, heavy. “Is that part of their duty?

Unease tripped down her spine. Her fingers flexed around her knees. “What do you mean?”

He continued to stare at her, his gaze steady, unflinching…searching. “You remind me of her,” he whispered.

She frowned. “Who?”

“Not your face. Not your hair. But the first time I saw you…I saw her.” He rubbed a finger beneath his eye. “I can’t explain it. It’s the eyes. Dark as coal.”

Her chest tightened, the breath freezing in her lungs. He no longer seemed to see her as he talked. No longer seemed to be with her at all. His gaze drifted over her head.

“Her eyes were so dark. You could see your reflection in them.” His eyes snapped back to her then. “The same as yours. Haunted. Sad.”

“Who?” She asked again, needing to hear, even as she feared his answer.

He shrugged. “I don’t know who she was. A laundress. A prostitute. There were a few women there. Amid the blood and gore.”

“And you killed her?”

“I didn’t save her,” he countered, eyes flashing.

“Another soldier killed her, then,” she surmised. “You can hardly blame yourself for that.”