Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(72)

“Griffin,” MacFadden began, “how could you aid your own kinswoman in…in,” his grandfather paused, sputtering for words, waving a broad hand as though he could catch the words on the air. “Do you care so little for the lass that you would aid her in wedding someone so beneath her? And then send her halfway across the world to God knows what fate?”

“Petra and her husband carry signed letters from me granting them management of my lands in Texas for a period of two years. If after that time, they are content with their life there, and I am satisfied with reports of their progress, I will sign over the deed.”

“Lands?” Osborn sneered. “You mean a farm. You’ve sentenced my daughter to life as a farmer’s wife in some primitive Godforsaken frontier.”

“Andrew’s accustomed to hard work. And Petra will thrive there…a place where people will not judge her for her rape or the mark on her face, but by the merit with which she lives.”

Silence met his announcement.

MacFadden’s dark brows drew together in an expression of deep contemplation.

Griffin looked to Astrid, the only person, he realized, whose opinion really mattered to him.

Her dark eyes glowed as they looked at him, her approval shining through. The precise look he had missed seeing in his father’s eyes. The look in her eyes wiped clean all the guilt he had harbored over the years.

And in that moment, he knew it was worth it. Helping Petra, giving up his lands, everything he had ever worked for, everything he had ever known, in order to remain here…it was all worth it. She was worth it. They both were.

Griffin cleared his throat. “I will remain here.”

MacFadden lifted his head, losing the rather dazed expression on his face. “Aye. Well. That, at the least, is right.” He nodded, looking vastly pleased. “This is your home now.”

“Well, this is bloody convenient,” Osborn hissed, his voice sharp as cut glass. “Petra dispatched, forever lost to me. And Shaw here claims my inheritance as his due. But what of me?” he demanded, pounding his chest. “What am I left with?” His nostrils flared with a harsh release of breath. “Nothing, I tell you. I obtain nothing out of all this!”

“Hell, man,” Gallagher snorted. “Quit your bleating. You’re hurting my ears.”

Osborn flushed as Griffin’s grandfathers shared a chuckle.

Griffin said nothing, merely trained his attention on Astrid, wondering what had motivated her to help Petra elope when she had been so vocal about him marrying the girl, when she had been as irksome as everyone else, more so, assuming she knew what was best for him.

“Astrid,” he murmured, as if no one else was in the room, as if he spoke to her alone, with no prying ears—or eyes.

Her earlier words played in his mind like a tune he could not quit. All I know is that I want to leave…to go home. I’d like to forget everything.

Including him?

With his heart pounding fiercely against his chest, he glanced again at her well-worn valise. “You truly mean to leave?”

Something flickered across her face, an emotion he could not name. But emotion nonetheless. Not the inscrutable mask. Not the cool, unaffected expression. No. Her eyes gleamed. A feverish light glinted at the dark centers.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her fair head and taking several halting steps toward him.

He nodded, something lifting, easing within him as he gazed into her eyes.

“Reverend,” he called, gaze still fixed on her, devouring her. His fingers twitched at his sides, the urge to pull her to him and never let go overwhelming.

The reverend rose from where he sat, dabbing at his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed his bite of food. “Mr. Shaw?”

His heart swelled, beating fast and hard as a drum against his chest. “I’d like you to perform that other ceremony I mentioned. Now. If you please.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Walter’s gaze shifted to Astrid, along with everyone else’s in the hall.

“Lad,” MacFadden’s voice rumbled gruffly across the air. “You cannot mean to consider this Sassenach for your wife.”

“I can. I do.” His lips twitched. “I’ve grown quite fond of this Sassenach,” he added, adopting his grandfather’s thick burr.

“She’s a cold one,” Gallagher reminded.

Griffin smiled, recalling that he had thought the precise thing when he first met her. “I’ve never met a woman who makes my blood run hotter.”

Astrid’s cheeks pinkened.

“Och,” Gallagher mumbled, sagging back in his chair and clapping a hand over his brow. “She’s bewitched him.”

Osborn thrust his face near Astrid’s. “You’re naught but a troublesome harpy sent to wreak havoc in my life.”

“Indeed,” she retorted before Griffin had a chance. “I planned for you to murder my husband so that I might be free to wed another. All to vex you.”

Osborn’s face burned a vivid red, lips working feverishly as if searching for words foul enough to hurl.

Dismissing the man, Astrid’s gaze sought Griffin’s. “Now step aside,” she commanded. “I’ve important matters to attend.”

MacFadden made a slight noise in his throat, a cross between a laugh and a cough. “Perhaps she has the making of a MacFadden after all.”