Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(63)

Griffin shot a quick glance to Petra. Her head was lowered, eyes downcast, making it impossible to read her thoughts, to see if she felt as outraged as he over the discussion. He attempted to speak over the voices. “I’d like to say something—”

Osborn spread his hands wide in front of him in a generous gesture. “I must admit that I can now see the family resemblance to Conall.”

Griffin snorted, crossing his arms.

Osborn continued, “It relieves me greatly to know that my only child will marry the future Laird MacFadden.”

Griffin felt his lip curl with disgust. “Convenient,” he muttered beneath his breath. Now Osborn solidly believed in his paternity.

Astrid cleared her throat portentously. “It makes a good deal of sense,” she announced in that clipped way of hers.

Something dark and dangerous brewed deep in his chest.

Sense?

“A most practical solution,” she went on.

Practical solution? This was his life. And Petra’s. Not some damned equation. And yet even Astrid discussed him marrying Petra as if it were a business merger to be negotiated with cool calculation. Damned English. And Scots, for that matter.

Anger seethed through him like a prowling beast. He raked his gaze over the woman who had occupied far too much of his thoughts lately. So much so that he had begun to harbor doubts over returning home. That the woman to inspire such feelings should now inform him so matter-of-factly that he should marry another—that doing so was a most practical solution—went down in a bitter wash of betrayal.

Apparently his fascination for her was one-sided.

Apparently Astrid suffered no softer sentiments for him.

Not if she failed to blink at the prospect of him marrying another, but in fact encouraged it.

MacFadden’s voice penetrated slowly, worming its way through the anger clouding his head.

“…we’ll need the reverend.”

They had begun making arrangements, and all without a word from him. Or Petra. And they thought he would go along? He could have laughed at the absurdity of it all—if the maddening female beside him did not choose that moment to say, “It seems most sensible if the reverend were brought here. In her condition, Petra should not travel. Nor in such weather.”

The men nodded, murmuring their assent. Astrid, though unusually pale, nodded, too.

Their words vanished in a searing flash of rage. He’d had enough. With a curse, he snatched hold of Astrid’s wrist. Indifferent to the shocked stares, he dragged her from the hall.

“Griffin,” she hissed as she hurried to keep up. “What’s wrong with you?”

What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with her? With all of them?

He ground his teeth, saying nothing until he reached the privacy of their room. Spinning her before him, he uncoiled his fingers from her wrist and slammed the door shut, the thick wood reverberating loudly, echoing in the stone-walled chamber, sealing them in, prisoners in a tomb.

She hurried to the center of the room, watching him with wide, wary eyes. Her fingers curled around one of the thick bedposts. Her chin went up in that infuriatingly indignant lift he knew so well.

“Why did you drag me out of there? What must Petra think?” she demanded, her fingertips turning white and bloodless where they dug into the wood.

He advanced on her, stalking her as a predator would. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. Never have. Where I come from men live their lives according to their own rules. They certainly don’t allow someone else to pick their spouse.”

“How terribly convenient,” she spat, her thin nostrils quivering, “to live your life so recklessly, free of responsibility.”

“I didn’t say that.” He took a steadying breath, fighting for calm, and the overwhelming urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. “Look, I realize you’re a product of an archaic society—”

“Archaic?” Her entire body quivered with indignation. She pressed a palm to her chest. “I belong to an archaic society?”

Unable to stop himself, his gaze dropped to the curve of her breasts trembling beneath her hand. His palms prickled, remembering the shape and feel of those breasts, the soft undersides so sensitive to his touch. His mouth dried as hunger swept over him.

Shoving the distracting thoughts from his head, he smiled grimly. “If you would pull your head from the sand, you would see that the world’s changing.”

“Indeed?” she sneered. “Is it changing here, then?” She waved a hand wildly behind her to the thick oak door. “Your own cousin sits below with another man’s blood on his hands. But all is forgiven based on an archaic system of beliefs.”

“That aside, the world is changing, Astrid,” he maintained, refusing to let her distract him from what he wanted to say, what needed to be said. “It’s actually a place where you might find happiness, freedom…if you would only take it.” His eyes drilled into her, and suddenly he knew he was talking about more than her arrogant presumptions regarding whom he should wed. He was talking about them. About what might happen between them if they would only let it. If she would let it…

“No,” she muttered, shaking her head and averting her gaze.

He made a sound of disgust. “Very well. Be stubborn. Only know that I’m in Scotland because I want to be, and I’ll leave when I want to.” He pointed to the door. “They don’t decide my fate. Nor do you.”