Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(54)

“Aye,” he grunted, giving a single, quick nod. As if everyone understood they had reached some level of harmony, they began to move out, Gallagher and MacFadden’s men riding side by side. Griffin wondered the last time such an event had taken place. If ever.

“And who is this skinny lass with you?” MacFadden asked after several minutes had passed. He looked around Griffin to Astrid. “Someone I should know? A daughter-in-law?”

“No,” Astrid quickly supplied.

“You’re not married, then?” Gallagher asked with a shake of his head. “But you said—”

“No, we’re not.” She held Griffin’s gaze, clearly daring him to object.

Deciding her virtue faced no threat from either one of his grandfathers, he agreed, “No, we are not.”

“I see,” MacFadden murmured, his gaze turning decidedly lascivious as it roamed over Astrid. And Griffin could imagine what it was he saw. Too late, he realized that by telling the truth he had permitted his grandfather to form a decidedly vulgar opinion of her.

Color swept over Astrid’s cheeks, anger lighting the centers of her dark eyes. He suppressed a wave of protectiveness, reminding himself that she had opted for the truth and brought this on herself. Yet again.

“We’ve plenty of hardy lasses you can wed at Balfurin.”

“And Cragmuir,” Gallagher quickly chimed.

“Perhaps a young widow,” MacFadden suggested with a withering look for the other laird, indicating what he thought of Griffin wedding a girl from Cragmuir. “One that has proven herself a good breeder.”

Gallagher nodded. “Aye, we’ll be needing sons from you.”

Astrid made a disgusted sound between her teeth. “Yes,” she mocked, “best find a proven breeder.”

Griffin shot her a warning look. “Don’t encourage them.”

Mumbling under her breath, her gaze dropped, appearing to find the earth below of vast interest.

“Aye.” MacFadden tossed her an approving look. “Listen to the wench. She has the right of it. Face it. There are women you wed, and women you bed.” He chuckled at his quip, his look turning faintly leering. It was clear into which category he thought Astrid fell.

Griffin slid her a dark glare. They should have continued their pretense. Instead his little duchess would have to bide her time at Balfurin with everyone thinking her little better than a whore.

“Griffin.” His name fell from her lips in a harsh plea. Those dark eyes pulled him in, compelling as ever.

“Perhaps you could impose on”—her gaze darted to his grandfathers—“one of these gentlemen to see me escorted to Edinburgh?”

Anger sizzled through him. She would ask him to let her go now? To release her? As simple as that?

“No.” His answer fell heavily between them.

She pulled back slightly in her saddle. “No?” she echoed, her voice as tremulous as a feather on the wind.

“No,” he repeated, shooting a hard glance to the openly curious men riding alongside them, disliking that they should witness the exchange. He lowered his voice. “I made a promise I intend to keep.”

She held his gaze, her dark brows drawn tightly over her dark eyes in a puzzled expression.

He looked away, training his gaze ahead of them. “Do not ask me again.” He nudged his heels and sent Waya ahead, wondering at the real reason he would not release her, for he had no reason to keep her with him anymore.

Chapter 20
Balfurin sat in the midst of a great lake, a single narrow stretch of road extending from the mainland to its front gates. The water surrounding the stronghold gleamed like glass. Craggy mountains stood sentinel around the lake. Sunlight fought to free itself from a sky of swollen gray clouds, almost the same shade as the castle’s gray stone. It was an awesome sight, and one he might have enjoyed if his thoughts were not so tangled up in the woman beside him.

Arriving in the yard, he lifted Astrid off her horse, none too pleased at the bold glances MacFadden’s men sent her way. He closed a hand around her arm possessively and shot the men dark looks as he followed his grandfathers inside the castle.

They passed through a great hall until they entered a drawing room of well-polished wood. Thankfully, the men and their insolent stares were left behind.

His grandfathers made themselves comfortable, one on a sofa, the other in a wing-backed chair.

“Becky, drinks,” MacFadden commanded, sending a young, eager-faced maid flurrying into motion. Glass clinked as she poured drinks from a sideboard and arranged them on a tray.

Griffin sank down onto a settee, pulling the silent Astrid down beside him, her body radiating tension next to him.

The maid carried the tray around the room, offering each of them a glass of what appeared to be whiskey. When she reached Astrid, she asked politely, “Can I fetch you some tea, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank—”

“Becky, do something with the lass, would you?” MacFadden interrupted, looking at Astrid with something akin to annoyance, almost as though she had snuck into the room with them uninvited.

Color spotted Astrid’s cheeks.

Becky looked from Astrid to MacFadden, clearly confused. “Do something?” she asked faintly.

MacFadden flicked a hand in Astrid’s direction, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Aye. Put her some place. Anywhere. I wish to speak with my grandson.”