Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(53)

If he had simply forgotten his mother’s words and stayed home, none of this would be happening.

What had he wanted? A fresh start? A reunion with family members that did not look at him as his father had, through a tainted veil of war, disappointment rife in their expressions.

He would never have met Astrid. And while an uncomfortable tightness seized his heart at that thought, he knew he wouldn’t have missed what he never knew. He could have lived his life blithely unaware of a woman who existed a continent away, a woman who was a captivating mixture of ice and fire.

Gradually, his attention was pulled away from thoughts of Astrid. To the slow, steady pounding swelling on the air, shaking the earth. Wondering what calamity was about to befall them now, he brought his horse closer to Astrid, meeting her wide-eyed gaze.

He tensed, one hand diving for her reins as more riders burst through the trees.

His grandfather’s men met the onslaught of riders with warrior cries, drawing pistols and swords.

He caught a glimpse of Lachlan’s face, bruised and battered in the melee, as well as the Laird Gallagher himself, large and daunting atop his horse.

“MacFadden,” Gallagher shouted. His gaze halted on Griffin and Astrid, face reddening at the sight of them. “Thieving bastard!” He pointed a gnarled finger in their direction. “They’re mine.”

“Like hell,” MacFadden thundered. “You’ve stolen all you’re going to steal from me. You’ll not take the last of my blood now.”

“I’ve stolen?” Gallagher jerked his monstrous mount closer to the other laird, his bushy brows pulling together like furry caterpillars. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black!”

“Your precious Iona deprived me of my son with her witch’s spell. I’ll not be having you steal Conall’s child from me, too.” MacFadden’s eyes bulged at this declaration, his knuckles whitening about the dagger he clutched in his wiry fist.

Griffin suppressed a groan and closed his eyes in a pained blink, understanding at once. These two braying mules were both his grandfathers. He dragged a hand over his face, suddenly weary. Now he knew what his parents had been fleeing—two crotchety old men that bickered worse than women.

“Conall’s child?” Gallagher whispered, looking around as if he expected to see a toddler tumble from the trees. “You mean my Iona and Conall…”

“Aye! They had a child.” MacFadden waved in Griffin’s direction, swinging down from his mount. “And I’ll not have you making off with him like you do with my sheep.”

For once Gallagher ignored MacFadden, staring only at Griffin. “Iona?” he choked.

“She died,” Griffin answered, understanding what was being asked, “long ago. On a ship to America.”

The burly Scot’s skin turned ghostly white around his beard. He dragged a massive hand over his face, clearly overcome.

Despite himself, Griffin felt the stirrings of sympathy. At least one of his grandfathers took a moment to grieve the death of his child.

“What happened to her?”

“A fever took the ship. Many died. My parents included. Another couple took me in and raised me.”

“My son gave you to strangers rather than send you back to me?” MacFadden demanded. “I don’t believe—”

“Aye, I believe it. You made life so impossible for them, they had to run away together. They’re dead because of you.” Gallagher swung down to stand nose to nose with his foe.

Griffin winced at that stinging accusation, sharp as an arrow hitting its mark.

MacFadden’s face reddened, a vein throbbing dangerously in the center of his forehead. “Likely he and Iona didn’t want to risk you getting your hands on their child.”

“Stop it,” Griffin ground out, wanting nothing more than to knock the two old fools’ heads together. “The Shaws took me because my parents asked them. They claimed you would rip me in half with your squabbling.” At the time, he had not understood what his mother meant when she relayed that particular bit of information, but now he did.

His grandfathers looked very old in that moment. Old and tired. A quiet fell over the gathering of men, the occasional horse’s snort or jangle of harness the only sound.

“I won’t stay here to be fought over,” he continued. “My parents ran away for a reason, I see that now. If you have any desire to know me, to have a place in my life, you’ll end this thing between you two. Now.”

His grandfathers looked from him to each other, their expressions tight and pinched, as if they tasted something sour. They assessed one another for several moments, clearly attempting to gauge the other’s willingness. God forbid one of them bend before the other.

At last, they nodded, mumbled something incoherent beneath their breath, and moved back to their mounts. Heads bowed, shoulders hunkered, they resembled whipped dogs as they remounted their horses.

“Good,” Griffin declared. “If we’re in accord, then we shall all go to Balfurin.”

“Balfurin! I can’t go there,” Gallagher growled.

“If you truly mean to bury the ax, then you should have no issue.” Griffin angled his head, feeling like a mother mediating between two bickering children.

Gallagher’s lips clamped shut.

Griffin arched a brow at MacFadden. “And I expect you to be obliging.”