Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(51)

Griffin positioned himself before her, but she had no difficulty assessing the assemblage of men, instantly recognizing that they were not Gallagher’s men.

An older man rode to the front, eyeing Griffin up and down with an oddly intent stare. He was a handsome man, still well formed, his exact age indeterminate. The frigid wind lifted the hair off his shoulders, the long dark locks streaked liberally with gray. “Who are you?”

“Griffin Shaw. We’re on our way to Edinburgh.”

The old man didn’t blink. His blue gaze glittered across the distance, fixing on Griffin in a way that made Astrid’s hands flex over her reins uneasily. “And what would your business in Scotland be, lad?”

“That’s of no concern to you.”

A heavy pause fell.

The older man growled, “My name is Hugh MacFadden, and I’ll be knowing your name and business.”

“MacFadden,” Griffin murmured. “Of Balfurin.”

Astrid’s gaze flew to Griffin. Anticipation coursed through her. Here he was, then—the clan’s laird himself, the very man Griffin sought.

“Perhaps we might speak alone,” Griffin suggested, revealing none of the excitement she felt.

Something dark and desperate glittered in the older man’s eyes as he stared at Griffin, an urgency that seemed unwarranted in the situation. “I’ll have your purpose here. Now.”

Astrid nudged her horse forward, and glanced at Griffin’s profile, starting in surprise to find the same look there. The same intense blue eyes rife with questions—a hungry need for answers. She looked back and forth between the two men, acknowledging that words were being spoken, passing between them without a sound.

“Who are your people?” the laird demanded.

“My father is dead. Died of a fever crossing the Atlantic. I was told his surname. MacFadden.”

MacFadden flinched as if dealt a physical blow.

A subdued hush fell over his men and Astrid suddenly knew that everyone else in the shaded glen knew more than she did about what was transpiring.

“Your father. What was his Christian name?”

Silence fell again. Griffin’s gaze skittered over the dozen men flanking Hugh MacFadden. That telltale muscle in his jaw knotted, the only outward sign of the tension swimming through him…swirling around all of them like an invisible mist.

“Conall MacFadden,” he answered at last.

MacFadden’s chest lifted on a deep breath, color bleeding from his face. He looked to his left and right with a slow turn of his head, his pent-up breath releasing in a wintry puff of air. Without a word, he lifted his hand and motioned toward Griffin.

With that single gesture, his men dismounted and mobbed Griffin, hauling him off his horse with quick hands and grim, resolute faces.

Griffin struggled against the horde of men.

“What are you doing?” Astrid shouted.

No one paid her heed as Griffin was flung to the ground and stripped of his jacket, vest, and shirt.

Astrid lurched forward with a strangled cry, hand outstretched as if she could reach him.

Griffin struggled, snarling like a beast, dark hair tossing fiercely about his head as he knocked several Highlanders to the ground with his fists.

Even in her horror, awe filled her as he fought off his attackers, the thick cords of muscles and sinews rippling beneath bronzed skin.

She winced as they overpowered him, forcing him down, his bare chest slamming flat with the icy earth.

One of the clansmen shoved Griffin’s face into coarse soil. Another placed his boot to his neck, pinning him still while others held down his arms.

Astrid slid down from her mount and charged forward, only to be yanked back by a burly Scot. An arm locked around her shoulders, and she watched, helpless, as Hugh MacFadden nudged his horse forward to peer down at Griffin’s broad back on display before him.

“There.” One of the Highlanders pointed to the small crescent-shaped birthmark high on his muscled shoulder. “Just as Molly said it would be.”

“Molly,” Astrid snapped, her brow knitting. “The woman from the inn?”

A few of the men glanced at her before returning their attention to their leader, anticipation writ upon their faces.

MacFadden’s gleaming gaze fixed on Griffin’s back, his eyes strangely moist as his breath fell harshly, fracturing the air with harsh wintry gusts.

“Let him up!” Astrid cried, jerking against the unrelenting grip on her arms. “It’s freezing!

MacFadden lifted his gaze and gave a hard nod to his men.

Griffin was released. He vaulted to his feet, arm lashing out in a blur. His fist cracked the jaw of the man whose boot had pinned him by the neck. The fellow fell to the ground with a thud, hand cupping his injured jaw.

Several clansmen lunged forward, no doubt ready to retaliate for the attack, however earned, but the laird’s voice froze them all.

“Leave him.”

With his bare chest heaving as if he had run a great distance, Griffin eyed the older man, venom a cold, dull luster in his blue eyes. Grunting, Griffin pointed an unyielding finger at the man with his arm locked around Astrid. “Unhand her.”

The man complied. Freed, she lifted her skirts and stumbled to Griffin’s side, pausing to snatch his clothes off the ground and hand them to him.

He took them and redressed, a dozen Highlanders watching his every move as if he were some oddity at carnival. “You’re my grandson,” the laird announced.