A
hard hand on her shoulder shook Astrid awake.
“Make haste. Dress yourself and gather your things.”
Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, her eyes adjusting to the dim chamber. Embers from the fireplace provided minimal light. Griffin moved about the room quickly, a dark shadow collecting his saddlebag and swinging it over his shoulder.
Astrid dressed herself in her striped poplin gown. Out of necessity, she had learned to dress herself without the assistance of a maid several years ago, but even long practice did not stop her fingers from stumbling over the buttons.
Looking up, she stated rather obviously, her voice still scratchy with sleep, “We’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. Laird Gallagher ran a lively household. That much she had observed in their brief stay. Even at this late hour, someone would be found lingering in the hall. They could not simply stroll unnoticed into the bailey.
“How can we?”
He stopped before her, his stare cool, unmoved. “I’m aware that you don’t trust me.” His lips twisted wryly at this. “But if you wish to leave here, you will follow my instructions without question. Do you understand?”
The
without question
part rankled. She was not the sort to follow blindly. She had been forced to look to herself for too many years to blindly follow anyone.
He must have read her hesitation. He stepped so close their noses almost touched. “If not, then we might as well remain here.” He gestured toward the door. “If you badger me with questions out there, if you so much as hesitate, we
will
be caught.” His eyes glinted darkly. “With you, it’s a certainty. And I assure you that once we’re caught, an opportunity to escape shall not come again.”
Astrid gave a tight nod, disregarding her stinging pride. “Fine. I’ll do as you say.”
“Good.”
Griffin moved to the chamber’s lone window and pried the stained mullioned glass open, its ancient hinges creaking in protest. Sticking his head out into the cold night, he looked below. Taking his bag, he dropped it.
Looking back at her, he motioned her near. “Is your valise ready?”
Despite her curiosity and the questions that burned on her tongue, she handed over her valise, wincing as he dropped it out the window, grateful for the well-worn leather that likely would not crack.
Griffin moved toward the bed then, and she took advantage of the moment, peeking her head out into the frigid night air.
A pale smudge of face looked up at her from below, their bags waiting at his feet.
Turning, she watched Griffin secure a rope around one of the thick bedposts. Positioning his foot against the bed, he yanked hard to make certain it held fast.
Dread sinking into her belly, she shook her head. “You cannot mean—” She stopped cold when he tossed her a dark look, his warning clear. Recalling her promise of moments ago, she bit the inside of her cheek.
Striding past her, he flung the rest of the rope out the window. Presenting her with his back, he squatted. “Hop on.”
Astrid blinked. Tucking a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear, she hesitated for so long that he looked over his shoulder. One look into his steady blue gaze and she knew he was deadly serious. He meant for them to climb out that window.
Trust him
, a voice whispered across her mind.
Drawing air thinly through her nose, she moved behind him, looping her arms around his neck. He rose with her in one smooth motion, the burden of her weight seemingly insignificant.
Grasping the rope in both hands, he swung a leg over the window and lowered them out. Astrid squeezed her eyes shut, her arms tightening about his neck as the night’s cold air washed over her.
“You might not want to choke me,” Griffin wheezed.
Her eyes flung wide open and she looked down. And quickly realized she should have kept her eyes closed.
With his feet braced upon the wall, they hung above the earth. The ramparts loomed tall beside them, emphasizing how high they dangled from the ground. Her chest squeezed, lungs constricting until she could not draw breath.
“Astrid!”
The sharp sound of her name penetrated her panicked thoughts. She loosened her arms around his neck—even if it terrified her to relax her hold—both relieved and alarmed when he began to move, as deft and limber as any jungle creature. Hands moving one after the other, he lowered them down the wall.
She permitted herself to breathe once they touched down. Sliding off his back, she shook her skirts and plucked her valise from beside the waiting man, eyeing him inquiringly. Failing to recognize him from their exploration of the castle today, she wondered when and where Griffin had made his acquaintance.
The man’s hand shot out, his palm a pale flash in the dark. He snapped his fingers impatiently.
Griffin reached in his jacket, pulled something out from inside and handed it over.
She leaned forward, trying to see what passed between the two men.
The other man glanced at whatever it was and shoved it into his pocket with a satisfied grunt. “Come,” he rasped from beneath his hood, the thread of anxiety in his voice unmistakable, heightening Astrid’s own tension. “Your mounts wait beyond the trees.”
Burrowing deeper in her cloak, she glanced around them at the encroaching shadows.
The Scotsman led them quickly through the bailey. “Last I checked, the guard on duty was tupping Hilda. But he’s well in his cups, so I don’t count on that lasting long.”
The yard was silent this late hour, the few torches flickering in sconces along the far stone walls lending eerie shadows to the night.
Tension knotted her shoulders as she followed Griffin, fixing her gaze on the broad expanse of his back. They slowed at the gatehouse. Their guide motioned for them to wait as he went ahead.
She shifted from foot to foot as they waited, the heavy fall of each second convincing her that the man had been intercepted and only moments remained until they were caught.
“Easy,” Griffin whispered near her ear, his warm breath rustling loose tendrils of hair. She shivered. And not entirely from her current state of anxiety.
She nodded jerkily and leaned against the chilled stone wall outside the gatehouse.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice rumbled over the night.
Astrid jolted off the wall, squinting at the dark shape materializing from the shadows.
One of Gallagher’s men approached, eyes wary as he surveyed them. “What are you two doing down here—”
Griffin cut off the rest of his words with a swift, merciless blow to the face. The man fell in a graceless heap. Astrid jumped clear at the last moment, saving herself from being dragged down with him.
Griffin reached out and grabbed him by the shirt, assessing his half-closed eyes for a moment to make certain that he had in fact been rendered unconscious. She sighed, grateful when the man’s eyes fell completely shut, saving him from a second blow.
The other Scot returned then, gaping between the unconscious man and Griffin. “What the hell did you do to him?”
Shaking loose his fist, Griffin growled, “Seeing that he doesn’t alert the entire castle of our escape. What else was I to do?”
Scowling at his felled compatriot, he bit out, “Very well. I’ll put a bottle in his hand and drag him into the hall after I finish with you two. Come on with you, then, before someone else comes along.”
Some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders as he led them forward. Apparently the guard on duty was still occupied with Hilda. Hopefully, they would have no more incidents.
They passed through the gatehouse and beneath the half-raised grate. Astrid stood to the side and watched as Griffin and their guide lowered the drawbridge, grateful for the well-oiled chains and levers. Not a creak or clang broke the silence.
The bridge set down and Griffin swung his bag over his shoulder. Taking her valise from her hand, he tucked it beneath his arm. His eyes met hers briefly, conveying urgency. “Ready? You must be swift. We cannot be spotted.”
She nodded, a tremor of excitement skating down her spine as he closed his hand around hers.
Crazy
. She should feel nothing but fear. Not excitement. Not…freedom. Not pleasure in touch.
Cold wind whistled through the air, chapping her cheeks. She watched him as he lifted his gaze to the sky.
“One moment,” he whispered, strong fingers flexing around hers.
She followed his gaze, watching the fast-moving clouds skim the night sky, drifting like smoke over the nearly full moon. Suddenly the clouds thickened, obscuring the bright orb and washing the land in darkness.
“Now,” he commanded, his voice fierce.
Adrenaline shot through her. Together, they dashed forward, racing across the wood planks of the bridge and into the wind’s sharp teeth, her hand still clamped in Griffin’s as they fled across the open grassland surrounding the castle.
Her breath puffed ahead of her in frothy gusts. She struggled to keep up, pumping her legs as hard as she could. The cold wind rushed her, smelling of snow, clawing at her hair and whipping her cloak back from her shoulders as they plunged ahead. The ties of her cloak chafed her throat. Her heart hammered in her breast, whether from exertion or fear or delight she could not say.
The dark line of trees loomed ahead, and they dove within. Griffin released her hand and dropped their bags at his feet. Gasping, she leaned against a trunk for support.
“Wait here,” he instructed, disappearing deeper into the trees.
Silence hung thick around her, punctuated only with the howl of wind and heavy pants of her breath. Clouds moved overhead again, parting. The glow of the moon washed the earth again, limning the craggy snow-capped mountains in the horizon. Hugging herself, she waited for Griffin, studying the chill-encircled castle, a thing of beauty in the night.
A smile curved her lips. In that moment, if she never returned to Town, she could not summon a scrap of regret.
A horse neighed softly and she looked over her shoulder as Griffin emerged leading their horses. In the soft spray of moonlight, his features looked carved of stone, every angle and line cut from a sculptor’s blade, his bruises mere shadows.
“Didn’t think we were going to walk out of here, did you?” Anger still hummed in his voice, evident in the curl of his lip as he added, “I said I’d get us out of here.”
She didn’t reply, merely moved to her mount, accepting his assistance as he boosted her up.
Looking over her shoulder as they rode away, she snuck one last glance at the dark outline of the castle, more mythical than real in the shimmering moonlight—the place where she had surrendered to desire, where she had released her long-suppressed emotions…her heart. Where, as a prisoner, she had tasted freedom for the first time in her life.
She stared behind them until the castle was swallowed up by the thick growth of trees.
And then she turned. Facing forward, her back to what was now the past.
“W
hy are we stopping?” she asked, looking down at Griffin as he dismounted, the first words she had spoken to him since their escape from Cragmuir.
She slid from her mount unassisted, clinging to the saddle until the feeling returned to her feet. The fear of pursuit still nagged at her. “Don’t stop on my account. I would not be the reason we’re caught.”
“You need to rest.” This he uttered without once looking her way, his blue eyes intent on the task of unsaddling his mount, dark brows drawn tightly as though in concentration.
“I’m fine,” she protested. “We’ve traveled only a few hours.”
“We rest,” he declared, firm lips barely moving around the inflexible words. “A little sleep will do us both some good.”
Sighing, she gave a brief nod and glanced up, squinting at the thick canopy of branches high above them, an impenetrable ceiling of foliage, so dense they obscured the sky from her gaze and made it impossible to tell how close they were to daybreak. She wondered if they had even been missed back at Cragmuir yet.
“They’ll expect us to ride south. In the area they first encountered us,” he offered after some moments. He lifted one shoulder. “So we’ll head west and then circle around. It will take a bit longer to get you to Edinburgh, but it’s the wisest course.”
She stared at him for a long moment, something she could do at her leisure since he continued to avoid looking at her.
Suddenly he looked up, snaring her with his chilly blue gaze. “I’ll get you there. As I promised. The good news is that the authorities in Dubhlagan won’t likely look for you in Edinburgh so many days after your husband’s death. They’ve likely quit any search they put forth.”
She released a shuddery breath. “Good,” she managed to say, wondering at the sudden burn in her eyes. With unsteady hands, she hastily turned and began to uncinch her saddle.
The prospect of reaching Edinburgh, of taking the train home, filled her with a decided lack of cheer.
Home
. The word echoed dully in her heart. Soon this would all be over. And she’d be
home
. Out of each other’s lives for good.
He was soon at her side, brushing her hands aside as if they were insignificant gnats. She stood back, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling useless as she watched him tend to her mount.
Turning, she moved to a large ash tree. Leaning against its broad trunk, she slid to the ground, indifferent to the rough scrape of bark through her cloak—the stinging burn welcome for the feeling it brought, penetrating the numbness that tingled up her backside to her lower back from long hours in the saddle.
Her gaze followed Griffin moving about the clearing. Propping her chin on her knees, she swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She had not thought his coldness capable of wounding her. Not her—she, who lived in a state of self-imposed emotional exile. From the start, she had wished for distance from this man, had fought to maintain it, to shy from the fire that drew her, threatening to thaw her.
Now she found the cold unbearable.
He dropped their saddles near her and tossed her the bedroll. “Here.”
Without another word, he disappeared, leading the horses from the clearing, no doubt to a nearby pond or brook. He always made a point of camping near a water source.
She made quick work of unrolling the bedding, her hands smoothing out the edges of the tarp, trembling in the most vexing way.
They would no doubt sleep side by side again. It was only practical. Especially in this cold. The smell of snow hung on the air. It would likely grow colder as the night unfolded.
Her heart raced at the prospect of them so close, bodies side by side throughout the night, sharing their heat…sharing each other. And yet how could she sleep beside him and not remember, not relive their time together, not turn to him like a moth seeking flame, hungry for him, for more of what her body could not forget?
Finished with arranging the bedding, she propped a saddle against the tree and leaned her back against it, wondering how she might bridge the gap that she herself had forged…and why she even wished to. Because quite simply, she must not.
But shouldn’t they be civil toward each other? Considering they were stuck together, at least for the time being, it was the proper thing to do.
Proper
. She let the word roll through her head, telling herself that was her sole motivation. Not because she craved something more. Not because she craved
him
.
Sighing, she scrubbed her hands over her face. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she missed him. As he had been before. Caring. Interested. His eyes hungry on her. And she had pushed him away, a flame too hot to bear touching.
He returned then. Tethering the horses to a nearby bush, he disappeared back into the trees without a word, returning minutes later with an armful of kindling.
She watched as he started a fire, the offer to help on the tip of her tongue, but she held back, clinging to her silence, afraid of speaking. Afraid of rejection from the cold man he had become, the man she had pushed him into becoming.
She studied him in silence, her gaze lingering on his muscular thighs, stretched taut against his trousers as he crouched before the fire. Rising, he went about making camp, continuing to make her feel invisible, a mere shadow. Tormented. He rifled through his satchel and took out the twine-secured package of jerky.
At last, he joined her on the bedroll she had spread out, handing her a hunk of the dried meat.
She cleared her throat. “You never said what you’re doing in Scotland.” Her hands played about the rough edges of her meat.
“Nothing of importance,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.
She watched him in the firelight, disbelieving. Moistening her lips, she persisted. “Why are you here?”
She began to suspect he would ignore her question until he said, “My mother died a few years ago.” Bending his leg, he propped an arm on his knee, rolling his piece of dried venison between his fingers. “I’m headed to a place called Balfurin. The lands of Laird Hugh MacFadden.”
She angled her head to the side. “Gallagher’s enemy?”
He nodded.
She studied his chiseled profile. The fire cast dancing shadows on his face.
Entrancing.
He didn’t look at her as he continued, simply stared into the fire, almost as if he spoke to the nest of crackling fire and not her at all. “My mother was half out of her mind at the end…but she said certain things.” He paused, tearing off another piece of jerky with his teeth. He chewed for some moments and swallowed before adding, “At first, I told myself nothing she said could be taken seriously. The pain she was in…” A muscle knotted along the bruised flesh of his jaw as his voice faded.
She resisted the urge to touch him, to feather her fingers over his bristly cheek in a soothing gesture.
“Let’s just say she couldn’t have known what she was saying. And after she died, I convinced myself to put her words behind me.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“My father wouldn’t answer any of my questions.” His lips twisted and he plucked a twig from the ground, toying with it between his fingers. “Not surprising. We weren’t close. Not since the war.” Something flickered in his eyes at that confession. “He died recently.”
So he was all alone. Like her.
He waved his hand. “So here I am.”
“And why is that?” She angled her head, studying him. “What are you looking for? What did your mother tell you?”
He looked at her then, and the intensity in his blue gaze made her breath trip. “She claimed I wasn’t her son. Hers or her husband’s—the man I had called father all of my life.”
Her heart squeezed at this declaration, knowing the anguish it must have brought him at the time, a son watching his mother die. She knew full well the effect a parent’s words or actions could have, the way they could haunt you for years—a lifetime even.
“And you think you’ll find answers at this Balfurin?”
“Hugh MacFadden, the clan’s laird…he’ll know. He’ll have my answers,” he replied grimly.
“What did your mother exactly say to you…at the end?”
“A fever struck the ship crossing over. My mother took me from a couple who died a day apart of each other. My real parents were Scottish like them, traveling to America for a fresh start…like them.” He smiled harshly.
She envisioned his adoptive parents, a young couple, indigent crofters like so many in Scotland even now, gambling everything on an uncertain future…and a child that wasn’t of their blood.
“But then everyone who comes to America is after a fresh start.” He glanced at her. “Running from something. Running toward something.”
He fell silent, his gaze returning to the mesmerizing dance of flames. And she knew he was talking about himself now. Knew that he was running away from something…running to something. Even if he didn’t know what.
Just as she was. She’d come to Scotland looking for a second chance.
A chance at…
Staring at his face, realization struck her full force. Her lungs squeezed, chasing the breath from her body. A chance at
this
.
Him
. Freedom. Love.
She swallowed down her last bit of jerky, not tasting it as it settled heavily in her knotting stomach. Why should she want to return to her old life? When she had sampled freedom with him? As crazy as it sounded, this journey had been the most liberating experience of her life. Because of him.
She was more like her adventuresome mother than she ever realized.
“So you’re here to find your family,” she said, regaining her breath, eager to resume talking, to behave as though she had not just discovered a new, unwanted facet to herself.
His gaze cut to hers, hard and fierce in the muted light. “I
had
a family.” He flung the twig toward the fire with a vicious swing. “I don’t know why the hell I’m here.”
She dropped her chin back on her bent knees. “I thought I knew what I was doing here. Why I came to Scotland. Now…” her voice faded and she shrugged lightly, the careless gesture so at odds with the turmoil she felt.
He snorted. “I thought your motivation perfectly clear.”
“Yes. To stop Bertram,” she uttered, frowning as she faced a truth she had tried to ignore. “I’ve never held any influence over my husband. Why did I think I could convince him to do the right thing?” A deep sigh rattled from her chest. “In the few moments I had with him before…before he was killed, nothing I said swayed him to cease his charade. He actually offered to pay me if I would simply disappear and pretend I had never seen him.”
“Bastard,” Griffin growled.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought I could accomplish in coming here.”
“At least you did something. You tried. I imagine it’s more than some ladies would do. It took courage.”
She winced. “Courageous, I’m not.”
“Nor kind. Or so you’ve said.” His look turned speculative. “I’ve never met a woman so resistant to hearing herself praised.”
She fixed her gaze on the flames. “I don’t deserve praise.” She drew a ragged breath and confessed, “There’s much you don’t know about me. I’m not a very nice person.” She announced this without self-pity.
“Well, I’ll confess you’ve been a pain in my ass on more than one occasion since we met.”
Her gaze flew to his, astounded that he would speak so plainly. But that was Griffin, she realized. Plain-speaking. No mincing words.
“And,” he continued, “you can freeze a man with a look.” He leaned forward, capturing her gaze. “But I wouldn’t say you were an evil person.”
She smiled half-heartedly.
“But you think so,” he pronounced. “Why?”
She closed her eyes in a slow blink and shook her head. And then she said the words she had not spoken to another soul. Not even to Jane and Lucy…too afraid to see the disappointment in their eyes.
“When Bertram first left, things were…bad,” she explained, at a loss for a better word. “He took anything of value with him. I didn’t know what to do. His grandmother lived with us and she was ailing.” She grimaced. “We could not even afford a physician. Can you imagine? A Dowager Duchess swallowing down Cook’s remedies…I don’t even know if they helped or not.” She paused, wetting her lips. “And then there was Bertram’s sister.”
She gulped down a breath. “She agreed to marry a wealthy merchant. I thought our problems were solved.”
Griffin nodded.
She bit the inside of her cheek, coming to the hard part, the part where she sold her soul for the promise of security and comfort. The part where Griffin would look at her differently.
“Portia backed out.”
“With her own grandmother ill?” He frowned. “Rather selfish of her.”
“That’s what I told myself…how I justified what I did next.”
“Which was?”
She spoke quickly, as if spitting the words out made her actions less dastardly. “I drugged her and helped smuggle her into the merchant’s carriage so he could take her to Scotland and force her to marry him.” She shook her head. “I thought she merely suffered a loss of nerve. That she would come around.”
“Rather desperate,” he commented, his voice mild, lacking the judgment she expected to hear.
She looked at him sharply, expecting to see censure there and finding none. “I did a terrible thing.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But someone needed to be sensible and save the family. It wasn’t as if you could marry the man yourself.” He broke another twig. “It must have baffled you that your sister-in-law did not share your sense of responsibility.”
Blinking, she gave a single jerky nod, wondering how he understood her motivations so well. “Indeed. I would have married him myself if I could have.”
“So what happened?”
“Portia escaped him.”
Thank heavens.
“Apparently she had engaged the affections of the very wealthy Earl of Moreton. Only I was unaware of their
tendre
for one another.”