Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(62)

Griffin watched her intently, his pale blue eyes shrewd, leaving her little doubt that he could see the truth. Perhaps not what troubled her, but that she was troubled, greatly so.

He began to rise to his feet, but Astrid waved him back down. Turning, she opened her mouth to bid good evening to Petra when MacFadden’s voice stopped her.

“Ah, there you are, Petra. Excellent timing. We’ve settled your future.”

Both intrigued and alarmed at how they could have reached a decision in so short a time, Astrid closed her mouth and waited.

Osborn leveled hard eyes on his daughter, plucking a bread roll from the platter before him and waving it at her. “You will marry. With all haste.”

“Aye,” MacFadden exclaimed. “Can’t have you shaming yourself or this family.”

Astrid glanced at Petra, her nails digging into her palms as the young woman’s lips thinned in martyr-like resolve. Unable to hold her tongue a moment longer, she announced, “I think something needs to be understood—”

Petra grasped her arm, her face pale. “Please, no—”

Astrid held up a hand, determined to say what Petra would not. “Petra did not willingly bring about her…condition.”

“Condition?” Gallagher echoed.

“What do you mean?” Griffin asked, dark brows drawing together.

“Bertram raped her.”

A momentary hush fell over the hall before Petra’s father spoke. “A moot point. It does not alter the fact that a bastard grows in her belly. She needs a husband.”

MacFadden shook his head gravely, sending an almost regretful look at Petra. “Aye. He’s right.”

“It should at least alter your perception enough to concede that Petra deserves some say in choosing a husband.”

Osborn flung a hunk of bread into his bowl, producing a splatter of gravy on the table. “Who is this female to give her opinions as if they are welcome?”

“Someone with more scruples than you, a man that would do nothing over his daughter’s rape save demand she marry her violator,” Astrid cried.

Ugly red mottled Osborn’s face. “Hold your tongue, wench, lest I remove it from behind your teeth.”

Griffin surged to his feet and settled one hand on the back of Osborn’s chair. “Have a care,” he warned, leaning over him.

Osborn glared up at him, taking a long moment to reply. “Is that the way of it then? You’ve appointed yourself her champion?”

Griffin did not respond, merely moved around the table to stand beside Astrid, crossing his arms over his broad chest, letting that serve as answer.

Astrid suppressed a small thrill at his display of protectiveness.

With a grunt, Osborn returned his attention to MacFadden, ignoring both Astrid and Griffin, doing his best to behave as though he had not been cowed. “The crux of the matter is that no man in his rightful mind will have Petra if he has to stomach raising another man’s whelp.”

MacFadden sighed and nodded in agreement. “Aye, we will have to look to our own, then. A loyal kinsman…” The old man’s eyes swung to Griffin, narrowing.

Astrid’s stomach clenched, suspicion slipping into a heart grown suddenly cold.

Osborn followed his cousin’s gaze. “What? Him?”

“Aye,” MacFadden drawled, a slow smile spreading across handsome, craggy features. “Him.”

Him, indeed. Who better than the long-lost son and heir to marry Petra? What better way for Griffin to claim his position, to prove his loyalty?

A sound solution all around. For Petra. For Griffin. Both would have what they lacked, what they needed, wanted even—though perhaps they did not know it.

Petra would marry a good, decent man, even if not of her own choosing, even if not the love of her heart.

And Griffin would marry a good, decent woman, and have gained his family’s acceptance and esteem in the process. The very thing he craved, whether he admitted it or not. The very thing lost to him in Texas.

Astrid swallowed and blinked against the unwelcome burn at the backs of her eyes. Cursing her sudden urge to weep, she reminded herself that her preferences bore no significance. Griffin was not hers. No matter how her heart may have pretended otherwise.

It was time to let go. To move on.

She did not deserve Griffin. Not as Petra did. The most decent thing she could ever do would be to encourage a union between Griffin and Petra. Perhaps this was it. Her chance to redeem herself.

Why should such a gesture hurt so much, then?

Chapter 23
Griffin stared in amazement as spirited conversation erupted around him—conversation concerning him, his life, and most astounding, with whom he would live it.

Were they serious? Did they think he would permit others to decide his fate? That he ascribed to some medieval notion of arranged marriages? A man forged his own path in life. A man chose the woman with whom he wanted to share that life.

His grandfathers and cousin talked, droning on without pause, without consideration that he—or Petra, for that matter—might wish to choose their own fates. Both his grandfathers, bitter rivals only earlier, now nodded in perfect accord.

“’Tis right,” MacFadden announced.

“Aye, and she is a proven breeder,” Gallagher reminded.

“My Petra has the hips of a breeder,” Osborn quickly agreed, nodding eagerly.