Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(60)

“No,” Astrid croaked, a red haze tingeing her vision. Knees weak, she fell back into her chair, staring pityingly at the woman who had clearly fallen victim to Bertram’s charm.

“Och,” MacFadden grumbled with a shake of his head. “How could you permit such a thing, Thomas?”

“They were weeks from marriage,” Osborn cried. “I did not think they required constant supervision.” He released Petra as if her touch repulsed him. “Now what shall I do? I’ve a ruined daughter on my hands.”

“Clearly she needs a husband,” MacFadden stated.

“Who will have her? Stained with the devil’s mark”—Osborn motioned to Petra’s face with his hand—“a bastard swelling in her belly.”

“Stop!” Astrid cried, unable to hear another slur cast upon the poor girl. “Stop speaking of her in such a way!” She rose to her feet on trembling legs and rounded the table in a swish of skirts. “Come, Petra. Let’s walk.”

Seizing the young woman’s arm, she led her quickly from the dining hall.

The men resumed talking, clearly unbothered by Astrid’s outburst, their voices a deep rumble behind them. Indeed, their hasty departure went unnoted.

By all save one.

One pair of eyes followed her.

She felt his stare drilling into her back with familiar intensity—would recognize it anywhere. Unable to resist, she snuck a glance over her shoulder to find Griffin watching her, his gleaming eyes unreadable.

Her heart beat faster, wondering what he thought of her now—wife to the man that had ruined his kinswoman.

Another realization settled heavily in her chest.

Now free of any suspicion in Bertram’s death, Griffin was released, free of his vow to protect her. He need no longer feel obligated to personally escort her to Edinburgh. He could not argue the need for her to remain even one day longer at Balfurin—with him.

Nothing barred her from leaving.

So why did her heart squeeze painfully in her chest at the thought?

Chapter 22
Arms looped together, the two women stepped outdoors into the thin wintry mist. Astrid shivered from the sudden blast of cold. Petra slowed beside her.

“Should we go back for your cloak?”

“No.” Astrid shook her head, the notion of possibly facing any of the men again holding little appeal. “Let us walk. I’ll warm quickly enough.”

“The view is lovely from the ramparts,” Petra offered, lowering her hood back over her head to ward off the cutting wind.

They took the slick stone steps leading to the high walkway carefully. At the top, Astrid stared out over the scene. The sun had dipped low between the mountains, streaking the dark waters of Balfurin’s lake several shades of gold.

“It’s beautiful,” Astrid murmured, the wind biting her face.

“It is,” Petra agreed. “I come here often when I visit. Always have.”

Astrid glanced sideways at the cloaked figure beside her, imagining her as a young girl, escaping the family that treated her as though she were invisible. She could well identify. Conversations with her father had been few, and those mostly centered on her responsibilities to him as a daughter. She grimaced, supposing she should be glad the conversations numbered in the few.

The wind played with Petra’s hood, and Astrid leaned forward for a glimpse of her face.

“The devil’s mark.” Petra’s soft voice stroked the air.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mark on my face?” Petra pushed back her hood and held her face high, revealing the port-stained birthmark. “It’s always a point of interest.”

“I wasn’t staring at that,” Astrid hastily assured. “I just could not see your face.”

“I’m accustomed to people staring at me. At my mark.”

Astrid nodded, after a moment murmuring, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I’m not marked by Satan.” A humorless smile hugged her lips. “Only now”—she held her arms wide, parting her cloak to reveal her swelling belly—“everyone will believe they were right.”

Astrid sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, hating Bertram all over again. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“Why are you sorry?” Petra asked with surprising evenness. “None of this is your fault.”

Astrid winced, reluctantly reminding, “He was my husband and—”

“And what? If you had been a better wife he might not have done the things he did?” She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t think so.”

Astrid fell silent, mulling over her words, and after some moments deciding Petra was correct. For once, she did not need to blame herself. Her husband’s actions had been beyond her control. Bertram was Bertram before she ever married him, entrenched in vice and corruption that went beyond the customary pursuits of gentlemen: conducting illicit relationships with the demimonde that he could ill afford, gaming away a fortune, forging banknotes. It was only a matter of time before he tangled himself in a peccadillo from which recovery was impossible. Evidently public trial and the threat of hanging had not been risk enough.

Shaking her head, her gaze slid back to Petra. “You mustn’t blame yourself. Or feel ashamed. Bertram could be charming. Persuasive. It is what made him such a consummate swindler.” A bitter smile curved her mouth. “I remember the first few times we met—”