Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(70)

Her hand flew to her throat, knowing at once he had discovered Petra missing. It had not surprised her when no one noted the girl’s disappearance yesterday. No one noticed when she was in the room, after all. No. All discussion was on Griffin and his sudden departure.

MacFadden opened his mouth to respond to Osborn’s histrionics, but his eyes fell on Astrid hovering at the edge of the room. “Lass,” he greeted, cool blue eyes dropping to the valise she clutched in her hand. “Going somewhere?”

Striding into the room, she stopped and lowered the valise to her feet. Nodding, she moistened her lips and prepared to voice the request she had rehearsed in her room.

Osborn’s sharp voice stopped her cold. “I’d like to know how you are involved in all this.”

“Me?”

“Aye, you. No doubt you wanted Petra out of the way so you could continue your dalliance with Shaw. What have you done with her?”

“Nothing.” She motioned to her valise with a snort. “And would I be leaving if I wanted Griffin for myself?”

“Who knows the workings of the conniving female mind? Perhaps you wanted to stop their marriage out of spite, eh?” He nodded as though satisfied with that conclusion. “Is that it?”

Ignoring him, she addressed MacFadden. “Would you arrange an escort for me to travel as far as Edinburgh, sir? I see no reason to delay my return home any longer.”

The request did not fall easily from her lips, still she uttered the words that would take her forever from Griffin.

Rubbing his chin, MacFadden assessed her. “Should we not wait for Griffin—”

“Whatever for? Your grandson and I have no…” she paused, groping for the proper word, “ties to speak of.”

“Ties,” Gallagher muttered, leaning in his seat toward MacFadden. “Call it what you will, but sending her away is going to stir a hornet’s nest with Griffin. We’d best keep her here until he returns.”

Heat licked her cheeks and her fists knotted at her sides. “I can assure you my comings and goings don’t bear Griffin’s notice.”

“You’re not leaving until you tell me where my daughter has absconded.” Osborn surged from his chair and rounded the table, a steely light in his eyes.

“I know nothing,” she replied, weary at heart.

“You lie,” he insisted. “I’ll have the truth.”

“What do you recommend, Osborn?” Gallagher queried, his heavy beard lifting around the corners of his smirk. “We torture the lass?”

Osborn stopped before her, eyes glittering with malice as they stared down at her. “I can think of ways to make her talk,” he answered, clearly missing Gallagher’s derisive tone.

Suffering his glower, she did not put such a thing past his capabilities. Lifting her valise, her fingers slick around the handle, her gaze drifted to MacFadden. “I appreciate your hospitality, sir, but I would be grateful if you were to extend it further in the form of an escort.”

Osborn snatched hold of her arm, forcing her to look at him again. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you answer for your part in this.” He jabbed one finger high on her chest below her collarbone. She fought back a wince.

“Even if I knew where Petra was, I would not tell you.”

“See,” Osborn blustered, his face blossoming an unbecoming shade of red. “She knows! She knows, I tell you.”

“Come, lass,” MacFadden demanded, one dark brow arched. “Do you know where Petra has gone?”

She stood stoically before them, thinking of Petra and Andrew making their way south toward Glasgow even now. Toward their life together. Happiness.

Instead of answering, she pressed her lips together. At her mutinous silence, Osborn retorted, “Of course she does.”

“I don’t know where Petra is,” she declared, her temper snapping. “All I know is that I want to leave this place before Griffin returns.” Emotion thickened her throat, bringing with it a damnable sob that burned the back of her throat. She had to. “I want to go home and forget everything.” She swiped a trembling hand through the air. “Forget all of this. This whole bloody journey!” And Griffin. She wished to forget Griffin. Forget loving him.

Heavy silence fell.

Osborn shifted his attention, looking over her shoulder.

A tremor skimmed her spine. The tiny hairs at her neck tingled.

Deep awareness settled in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, she turned.

“Griffin,” she breathed, heat rushing to her face as she realized he had her heard her every word.

He stood in the wide threshold, travel-worn, the hem of his cloak sodden from snow and mud, his hat hanging limply in his hand. Her heart ached at the sight of him, her gaze hungrily devouring him—this man she had thought never to see again.

She spared a quick glance for the reed-thin man at his side. The reverend no doubt. Here to wed him to Petra, the bride she had helped escape. Nervousness coursed through her. How would he react to the news that Petra had fled?

“Griffin!” MacFadden rounded the table. “Why did you not tell us you were leaving? With this wretched storm, I was plagued with worry.”

Griffin’s boots clicked over the stone floor, ringing with quiet command, eyes fixed on her as he removed his gloves. He motioned the reverend into one of the dining table’s high-backed chairs even as he remained standing, a dark brow arching as he eyed her.