Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(69)

Without gracing him with a reply, she turned and hurried back to her chamber.

Salvage your pride and leave.

The fact that his suggestion mirrored her intentions did not make it any easier to hear.

Pacing the length of her chamber, she rubbed her neck, the feel of his hand an irksome imprint there.

She was not fool enough to think Osborn cared about her or the status of her pride. She knew his intent. He wanted her out of the way. Would not risk Griffin changing his mind with the shadow of her presence. Apparently only she knew the unlikelihood of that happening, knew that honor would prohibit Griffin from going back on the promise he had made to Petra.

But Petra would not be here, a small voice reminded. Surely you could stay…

And what? Be pathetic, desperate, lacking in all dignity? Sniffing about Griffin in the hopes of a future together?

She still had the matter of her own life to resume. She needed to notify Bertram’s family of his death, meet with the solicitors, inform the next in line that he had inherited the vast, insolvent estates of the Duke of Derring. No. Better that she leave now. Before Griffin returned.

Petra might have taught her that denying one’s duty and obligation for the sake of love was not such a transgression. She might in fact have changed Astrid’s thoughts concerning her mother, made her look at that long-ago night, when her mother had slipped from their townhouse, differently.

Closing her eyes, she sank down onto the bed and saw her mother as she had been that night, standing beneath the streetlamp, her expression both anguished and eager in the muted glow. For the first time in her life, Astrid recognized the doubts that must have plagued her mother to leave all that was familiar…to leave Astrid.

And yet she had done it, had walked into the unknown. Despite the risks, she had followed her heart and taken a chance…however badly it ended. However wrong it may have been.

Tears blurred her eyes. At last, Astrid understood. Living meant taking chances. Risks. Mistakes even. Better that than running, or hiding as she had been doing.

Opening her eyes, she stared ahead of her, seeing nothing in the still and silent room before her, seeing all.

If only she had spent her time loving Griffin—truly loving him—perhaps he could have loved her back. Instead she had worked so hard at pushing him away, encouraging him to wed another, convincing him nothing existed between them. Nothing worth keeping, at any rate.

No wonder he had decided to wed Petra. If he had felt anything at all for her, she had killed it.

A chill feathered her spine. If she had fought for them, then perhaps the thought of waiting for him at Balfurin, of taking a chance on him—on them—might not have seemed so very impossible.

She shivered, hugging herself as the chamber’s coldness seeped into her bones. She glanced at the fire, noting that it still smoldered in the hearth. And yet it felt as though the temperature had dropped.

Rising to her feet, she made her way to the mullioned window, the room’s chilliness increasing as she approached the fogged glass. Rubbing her fingertips over the icy surface, she peered out, gasping at the sight of swirling snow in the air. It fell thickly, blanketing the ground. Beyond the lake, blinding white stretched across the countryside. Squinting against its brightness, she strained to locate the road, already buried beneath the snow.

Leaving suddenly posed a new challenge.

Chapter 25
Griffin buried his chin in his coat and pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes in an attempt to ward of the sting of snow and wind. Waya lifted his legs high to pass through rapidly rising drifts. The Reverend Walter’s mount trekked behind him, falling in his tracks.

“How goes it, Reverend?” Griffin called over the howling wind.

The man nodded from deep within a scarf of tartan, squinting out at the winter-shrouded landscape, lashes tangled with white frothy flakes. “Told you we should have waited out the storm,” he called.

Griffin pressed his lips into a grim line. The reverend had done his best to discourage their departure, but after lacing his palm with coin, the good man quit his warm cottage.

Griffin was eager to return to Balfurin, regretful of his hasty departure, and impatient to see Astrid’s dark eyes again. Ironic that. Especially considering he had only ever sought to escape a similar pair of eyes. Now he longed for the sight of them.

He should have spoken to Astrid before he’d left, but he’d been too damned aggravated to spare a moment for her.

Instead he had left her alone, under the dubious care of his newfound family.

A tightness gripped his chest, an uneasiness he could not shake. He had to get back. Had to see her. Touch her. He would not breathe easy until he did.

Hefting her valise, Astrid made her way downstairs, intent on locating Laird MacFadden and seeing about arranging an escort, storm or no storm.

A mocking smile twisted her lips. At the very least, Osborn would he happy to accommodate. Certainly his carriage could navigate the snow-laden roads, and she knew how badly he wanted her gone before Griffin’s return.

Raised voices drifted on the air. Slowing her pace, she advanced cautiously through the dining hall’s tall double doors, observing Griffin’s family at their breakfast. The smell of sausage pudding rose pungent on the air. No one paid heed to her.

Osborn leaned forward in his chair and shook his head in agitation over his half-eaten plate of food. “We have to go after them! They cannot have gotten far…”