Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(49)

His eyes locked on hers. “Can’t I? I was there. A party to it all. We won the day. There was no need to keep on killing…to kill her. A woman…” His voice faded to a whisper, but she felt that whisper deep in her own soul. Knew the echo of it, ceaseless, merciless, flaying your heart to ribbons, rendering you useless, worthless for yourself or anyone else.

“My father never looked at me the same way after that.”

“Was he there, too?”

“No, but he heard the stories.” He laughed then, the sound hoarse. “And I told him about her. I shouldn’t have, but I was drunk.”

“I’m sorry, Griffin.”

“You see,” he murmured, his face strangely unmoved as he looked at her, as though he fought to keep emotion at bay. A practice she well knew. “Your sin’s not so great.”

She opened her mouth to tell him neither was his. That he couldn’t blame himself for the actions of other soldiers, that war was ugly for all involved…but something in his eyes stopped her, trapped the words in her throat. Nothing she said could alter his thoughts on the matter. Just as nothing he said could change her.

She slid down against the saddle. Folding her arms over her chest, she turned her face to the side, away from him, and closed her eyes.

Chapter 18
Her eyes flung wide open on the wind of a gasp. She drew another gulp of air deeply into her lungs, starved, desperate for breath as she blinked against the cold night. Moonlight filtered through the treetops. Wind whistled through the rustling leaves.

“Astrid?”

Griffin’s shadow rose beside her. Instantly, she knew him. His touch, his heat, his smell. She knew. She remembered. And she craved more. Again.

His hard arms surrounded her. Wide-palmed hands flexed over her flesh, long-fingered and strong, expertly running along her body, drawing soothing circles on her back and making her breath come quicker.

The nightmare was familiar. Rocks. One after another they came, pressing down on her, pushing the air from her chest. Faces loomed above her, each one adding a rock to the ever-growing mound atop her. Her father. Portia. Bertram.

“Only a bad dream.” Griffin’s deep drawl slid through her, chasing the chill, purging the terror of moments ago, liquefying her bones, imbuing her with a languid warmth, almost as though she had imbibed one too many glasses of sherry.

“I’ve dreamed my share,” he confided, his voice rumbling from his chest and vibrating against her body.

“Yes.” Her fingers tightened their grip on his shirt, pulling him closer. “I imagine you have.”

His breath ruffled her hair.

Her gaze lifted to his. Blue ice glittered down at her, hooded beneath a fringe of ink-dark lashes. Her breath snagged in her throat. He brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek, the rasp of a callused thumb dragging across her skin.

“You said the first time you saw me…you saw her.”

He tensed against her.

The notion of him seeing death—seeing all he believed himself to have failed at in his life—when he looked at her filled her with a gnawing ache. She did not want to inspire ghosts or ill memories.

She wanted to inspire him.

Her fingers flexed against him. “Do you still?”

He spoke, his words rough and deep, feathering against her cheek. “I see you.”

His words sent a small thrill up her spine, igniting a tiny flame of feminine power within her. She nuzzled the cold tip of her nose into the warm skin of his neck with a small sigh, inhaling his manly scent.

“Cold,” he hissed on a strangled chuckle.

Warm me, she thought, pressing herself against the length of him with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.

He shifted, hands falling firmly on her arms, distancing her from him.

The fire had burned low, the burnt wood mere embers. Shadows sheltered them, the only light that of the moon and the gleam in his blue eyes.

“Don’t,” he breathed, the single word final, inflexible, for all she barely heard it.

She held his gaze, understanding what he was telling her with that single word…but too aroused from the feel of him, the smell, the look to care that she was going against the very rules she had set forth.

She snuggled against him, dipping her face into the crook of his neck, parting her mouth so that her breath fanned the swiftly thudding pulse at his throat.

“Astrid,” he warned, his voice a dry whisper, his throat vibrating beneath her lips. “I’m only a man.”

She slid her hands between them, flattening her palms over his shoulders. “That’s all I want you to be.”

With a stinging curse he rolled her onto her back, the full weight of him coming over her, a wall of humming heat pressing her into the tarp as his lips crushed hers.

His hands dropped between them, hiking up her skirts and sliding her drawers down in a rough, anxious move.

Her breath hitched, his eagerness heightening her own desire.

“Are you cold?”

With him? Never. She shook her head fiercely in response.

He paused, taking care to cocoon them beneath the blanket. She felt sheltered, safe, cherished. He braced one arm beside her head. His other hand delved between them to free himself from his trousers. Without a word, she parted her thighs, allowing him to settle between her legs. She tilted her hips, eager and ready for him.