Surrender to Me (The Derrings #4)(9)

Each day she woke to the unwelcome fact that she was the Duke of Derring’s wife. A married woman. Even if he had forgotten, she had not. Could not.

Moving to the corner, she removed her shoes and lowered herself to the hard-backed, utilitarian chair that overlooked the inn’s yard. From her vantage point, she wriggled her stiff toes and watched Coral stride across the yard, never once looking back. And why should she? She had met her goal to further her credentials.

On the other side of the busy yard, John talked to a cluster of men near the stables, motioning to his head, no doubt diverting them with his tale of near death at the hands of highwaymen.

Astrid rubbed her forehead tiredly, easing the worry lines with her fingers. At least the innkeeper was letting John bed down in the stables at no cost. Perhaps not the most comfortable arrangement for the coachman, but one less worry for her. And his bed of hay was doubtlessly better than the chair in which she would sleep.

She glanced across the room to her rescuer, eyeing the steady rise and fall of his muscled chest, the dark stain of his hair on the white pillow…helpless against the quickening of her pulse. The virile sight of him certainly bore no resemblance to the properly dignified gentlemen in Town. Astrid’s lips twisted. But then she knew most of those gentlemen to be anything but proper or dignified.

She shifted on her seat, searching for a comfortable position. Finding that elusive, she gave up. A long night loomed ahead.

The man on the bed moaned and shifted restlessly. The blanket slipped lower, revealing a glimpse of lean hip and a dark line of hair trailing down his navel.

Definitely a long night.

Chapter 4
Astrid woke with a jerk, lurching upright in her chair. Her body protested from the sudden change in position. Pain lanced her neck, shooting down her spine. Rubbing at the painful crick, she blinked against the gloom, wondering if the floor might not have been more comfortable.

Scrubbing her eyes with the base of her palm, she surveyed the darkened room. The tray Molly had brought sat where she had left it on the bedside table, not so much as a crumb littering the dishware. Astrid had devoured the tasty soup and bread, falling asleep shortly after.

The lamp had burned out sometime during the night and the coals in the grate smoldered low. Moonlight spilled through the mullioned window, making the hardwood floor gleam as if it had actually been cleaned in the course of the year.

It soon became clear what woke her. Her patient thrashed on the small bed, moaning unintelligible words. Rising, she drew closer, the hardwood floor cold and gritty against her stocking-covered feet.

Peering down at him, she hesitated before finally pressing a hand to his brow, frowning. The late winter chill permeated the room, enough to keep one from feeling so warm. Yet his skin roasted her palm.

She trailed her fingers down the plane of his cheek, over the dark bristle, telling herself that the texture of his flesh, so unlike hers, did not intrigue her in the least…that the man did not. Her nails gently scoured the stubble over his hard jaw, enjoying the sensation.

“No!” His sudden hoarse cry caused her to jerk her hand back.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Not her! Leave her be!” With his eyes still closed, his head tossed wildly against the pillow. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice quieter, smaller, almost like that of a child. “So sorry.”

Astrid felt his despair as keenly as a blade to her skin, could not stop herself from reaching down to stroke his burning brow.

His hand flashed out with the speed of wind, ripping a cry from her throat. Hard fingers locked around her wrist, the pressure excruciating. With a tug, he brought her tumbling over his chest.

With a cry, she pushed against the feather mattress on either side of him, arching her back, staring down into eyes that glowed through the room’s gloom, lucid and awake, a pale blue, frosty as ice-covered water. Clearly, he had escaped whatever nightmare had held him in its grip.

Inhaling through her nose, she grasped for the composure that always carried her through. Of course she had never found herself in a situation like this before. Since Bertram, she had been careful to keep men at arm’s length. Her life was difficult enough without adding a man into the fray.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded in that velvet voice, the deep, guttural incantation unidentifiable to her ears.

His gaze skipped beyond her, assessing their surroundings. “Where am I?”

“You don’t remember?” Astrid asked, her voice a breathless croak. “Earlier today? The highwaymen on the road?”

“Highwaymen?” he echoed, scowling, dark brows drawing tightly over his eyes.

She studied him carefully. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his eyes seemed to look through her. Grimly, she acknowledged that he was in the grip of fever.

Adopting the voice she heard Jane use when talking to Olivia, she said gently, “You’re ill. Release me, so I can tend to you.”

His brow furrowed as if trying to decipher her words.

“Release me,” she repeated, “and I can help you.”

His fingers came up to her arms, flexing into her flesh, and for a moment she thought he would hold her all night.

“Please,” she added, her voice a ragged whisper. His hands loosened, dropping to the bed.

Clambering off him, she relit the lamp on the small dresser and slid her boots from underneath the chair. Sitting, she slipped them back on her chilled feet.