“Who will have her? Stained with the devil’s mark”—Osborn motioned to Petra’s face with his hand—“a bastard swelling in her belly.”
“Stop!” Astrid cried, unable to hear another slur cast upon the poor girl. “Stop speaking of her in such a way!” She rose to her feet on trembling legs and rounded the table in a swish of skirts. “Come, Petra. Let’s walk.”
Seizing the young woman’s arm, she led her quickly from the dining hall.
The men resumed talking, clearly unbothered by Astrid’s outburst, their voices a deep rumble behind them. Indeed, their hasty departure went unnoted.
By all save one.
One pair of eyes followed her.
She felt his stare drilling into her back with familiar intensity—would recognize it anywhere. Unable to resist, she snuck a glance over her shoulder to find Griffin watching her, his gleaming eyes unreadable.
Her heart beat faster, wondering what he thought of her now—wife to the man that had ruined his kinswoman.
Another realization settled heavily in her chest.
Now free of any suspicion in Bertram’s death, Griffin was released, free of his vow to protect her. He need no longer feel obligated to personally escort her to Edinburgh. He could not argue the need for her to remain even one day longer at Balfurin—with him.
Nothing barred her from leaving.
So why did her heart squeeze painfully in her chest at the thought?
A
rms looped together, the two women stepped outdoors into the thin wintry mist. Astrid shivered from the sudden blast of cold. Petra slowed beside her.
“Should we go back for your cloak?”
“No.” Astrid shook her head, the notion of possibly facing any of the men again holding little appeal. “Let us walk. I’ll warm quickly enough.”
“The view is lovely from the ramparts,” Petra offered, lowering her hood back over her head to ward off the cutting wind.
They took the slick stone steps leading to the high walkway carefully. At the top, Astrid stared out over the scene. The sun had dipped low between the mountains, streaking the dark waters of Balfurin’s lake several shades of gold.
“It’s beautiful,” Astrid murmured, the wind biting her face.
“It is,” Petra agreed. “I come here often when I visit. Always have.”
Astrid glanced sideways at the cloaked figure beside her, imagining her as a young girl, escaping the family that treated her as though she were invisible. She could well identify. Conversations with her father had been few, and those mostly centered on her responsibilities to him as a daughter. She grimaced, supposing she should be glad the conversations numbered in the few.
The wind played with Petra’s hood, and Astrid leaned forward for a glimpse of her face.
“The devil’s mark.” Petra’s soft voice stroked the air.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The mark on my face?” Petra pushed back her hood and held her face high, revealing the port-stained birthmark. “It’s always a point of interest.”
“I wasn’t staring at that,” Astrid hastily assured. “I just could not see your face.”
“I’m accustomed to people staring at me. At my mark.”
Astrid nodded, after a moment murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I’m not marked by Satan.” A humorless smile hugged her lips. “Only now”—she held her arms wide, parting her cloak to reveal her swelling belly—“everyone will believe they were right.”
Astrid sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, hating Bertram all over again. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”
“Why are
you
sorry?” Petra asked with surprising evenness. “None of this is your fault.”
Astrid winced, reluctantly reminding, “He was my husband and—”
“And what? If you had been a better wife he might not have done the things he did?” She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t think so.”
Astrid fell silent, mulling over her words, and after some moments deciding Petra was correct. For once, she did not need to blame herself. Her husband’s actions had been beyond her control. Bertram was Bertram before she ever married him, entrenched in vice and corruption that went beyond the customary pursuits of gentlemen: conducting illicit relationships with the demimonde that he could ill afford, gaming away a fortune, forging banknotes. It was only a matter of time before he tangled himself in a peccadillo from which recovery was impossible. Evidently public trial and the threat of hanging had not been risk enough.
Shaking her head, her gaze slid back to Petra. “You mustn’t blame yourself. Or feel ashamed. Bertram could be charming. Persuasive. It is what made him such a consummate swindler.” A bitter smile curved her mouth. “I remember the first few times we met—”
“It wasn’t like that,” Petra cut in, her voice sharp as a whip, all her earlier softness gone.
Astrid frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I never thought he was particularly charming. At least he never was to me. He focused most of his attentions on Father and the subject of my dowry. I never wanted to marry him and told my father as much.”
She blinked and swiped a loose strand of hair back from her cheek. “You did?”
“We met Bertram while in Aberdeen.” She heaved a sigh. “Soon, he became part of the furniture. Once, in the hotel lobby, Father and Bertram were talking to a group of gentlemen, ignoring me.” Her lips twisted grimly at this comment. “A lady approached me and asked if your husband was the Duke of Derring. I said no, but she seemed so certain. I could not forget about the encounter, and I began to wonder what if she wasn’t mistaken? When Father invited him home with us, I decided to find out for myself if he was who he claimed to be. I made inquiries that led me to you.”
“You wrote the letter!” Astrid exclaimed, her respect deepening for the young woman who had the courage and strength to protect herself when she questioned her father’s judgment. Had Astrid done such a thing, had she not been trained so well in duty and stoicism, following her father’s edicts without question, she may have avoided marriage to Bertram altogether.
“Aye.” Petra nodded. “I feared you would not arrive in time.” She exhaled, her warm breath puffing out in a frothy cloud on the cold air. “So I went ahead and told Bertram I did not want to marry him. That my father could not make me. That I loved someone else.” She looked down at her hands suddenly, as if seeing something there beyond flesh and bones.
Shock rippled through Astrid. “You love someone else?” She shook her head and stammered, “Th-Then how could you allow Bertram to seduce…”
“He raped me.” The words fell bluntly, sharp as broken glass scoring her heart.
“What?” The question slipped through numb lips.
Petra turned and resumed moving along the walkway, her steps quick, as if she wished to escape her words.
Astrid fell in step beside her, watching, waiting for her to elaborate, wishing she, too, could escape Petra’s terrible words.
“One evening after dinner, my father retired early and left us alone. Bertram suggested we walk the gardens.” Petra lifted one shoulder in a weak shrug. “There’s a lovely pergola at the center of it where my mother used to read to me as a child. Sometimes we sketched together there. She was a very good artist, my mother.”
Perplexed at the conversation’s digression, Astrid gently prodded, “What are you saying? Bertram forced himself on you in your family’s garden?”
A faraway look entered Petra’s eyes, and Astrid knew she was there again, in that pergola. With Bertram. “I spent some of my happiest days there. Before Mama died and I was left alone with Father.”
Staring into her pale face, Astrid suddenly felt sick. She pressed a hand to her stomach, attempting to curtail the nausea. Sucking in a deep drag of icy air, she watched Petra, praying that it was a mistake, that she had misunderstood, that Bertram had not done such a thing.
Petra blinked as if returning to herself. The distant haze lifted from her eyes. “Afterward, Bertram said that should end any reservations I harbored on the matter of marrying him.”
Astrid’s thoughts reeled, her head spun, flooded with memories of Bertram entering her room in the still of night, his quick pants against her ear and quicker movements over her…
The indignity of those trysts paled beside what Petra must have endured.
“Your father knew that Bertram…” she paused, the words choking in her throat, mingling with the bile coating her tongue.
Petra nodded. “I told him. He only insisted we wed sooner.”
Astrid stared hard at the shadowed face of the woman Bertram had abused. Her stomach churned, imagining what Petra must have felt…what she still felt.
“And this man. The one you love—”
“Andrew,” she quickly supplied, her chin lifting and a lightness entering her voice. “He still wants to marry me.” And then the lightness faded as she added, “He’s our coachman. Father would never permit it, of course.”
Astrid nodded in understanding. No, Thomas Osborn would never allow his daughter, ruined or not, to marry so beneath her.
Astrid shivered, rubbing her arms, knowing it would be a long time, if ever, before guilt did not run through her like a frozen wind. Bertram had been her husband, after all. That linked them whether she wished it or not.
“Shall we go back inside?” Petra asked.
Astrid sighed. “Must we?”
A faint smile curved Petra’s lips. Taking Astrid’s arm, she turned them around. “Since they’re likely discussing my fate, I’m interested to hear their plans.”
“Of course,” Astrid murmured, smiling over Petra’s droll tone.
When they returned to the hall, the men were still deep in discussion. Osborn now occupied Astrid’s chair, a plate before him, utensils untouched as he used his fingers to pick at stringy meat swimming in thick gravy. Licking his fingers, he looked up as they entered the dining hall, his eyes skipping over Petra to crudely assess Astrid, his gaze crawling over her breasts and hips.
Griffin watched her intently, his pale blue eyes shrewd, leaving her little doubt that he could see the truth. Perhaps not
what
troubled her, but that she was troubled, greatly so.
He began to rise to his feet, but Astrid waved him back down. Turning, she opened her mouth to bid good evening to Petra when MacFadden’s voice stopped her.
“Ah, there you are, Petra. Excellent timing. We’ve settled your future.”
Both intrigued and alarmed at how they could have reached a decision in so short a time, Astrid closed her mouth and waited.
Osborn leveled hard eyes on his daughter, plucking a bread roll from the platter before him and waving it at her. “You will marry. With all haste.”
“Aye,” MacFadden exclaimed. “Can’t have you shaming yourself or this family.”
Astrid glanced at Petra, her nails digging into her palms as the young woman’s lips thinned in martyr-like resolve. Unable to hold her tongue a moment longer, she announced, “I think something needs to be understood—”
Petra grasped her arm, her face pale. “Please, no—”
Astrid held up a hand, determined to say what Petra would not. “Petra did not willingly bring about her…condition.”
“Condition?” Gallagher echoed.
“What do you mean?” Griffin asked, dark brows drawing together.
“Bertram raped her.”
A momentary hush fell over the hall before Petra’s father spoke. “A moot point. It does not alter the fact that a bastard grows in her belly. She
needs
a husband.”
MacFadden shook his head gravely, sending an almost regretful look at Petra. “Aye. He’s right.”
“It should at least alter your perception enough to concede that Petra deserves some say in choosing a husband.”
Osborn flung a hunk of bread into his bowl, producing a splatter of gravy on the table. “Who is this female to give her opinions as if they are welcome?”
“Someone with more scruples than you, a man that would do nothing over his daughter’s rape save demand she marry her violator,” Astrid cried.
Ugly red mottled Osborn’s face. “Hold your tongue, wench, lest I remove it from behind your teeth.”
Griffin surged to his feet and settled one hand on the back of Osborn’s chair. “Have a care,” he warned, leaning over him.
Osborn glared up at him, taking a long moment to reply. “Is that the way of it then? You’ve appointed yourself her champion?”
Griffin did not respond, merely moved around the table to stand beside Astrid, crossing his arms over his broad chest, letting that serve as answer.
Astrid suppressed a small thrill at his display of protectiveness.
With a grunt, Osborn returned his attention to MacFadden, ignoring both Astrid and Griffin, doing his best to behave as though he had not been cowed. “The crux of the matter is that no man in his rightful mind will have Petra if he has to stomach raising another man’s whelp.”
MacFadden sighed and nodded in agreement. “Aye, we will have to look to our own, then. A loyal kinsman…” The old man’s eyes swung to Griffin, narrowing.
Astrid’s stomach clenched, suspicion slipping into a heart grown suddenly cold.
Osborn followed his cousin’s gaze. “What? Him?”
“Aye,” MacFadden drawled, a slow smile spreading across handsome, craggy features. “Him.”
Him
,
indeed
. Who better than the long-lost son and heir to marry Petra? What better way for Griffin to claim his position, to prove his loyalty?
A sound solution all around. For Petra. For Griffin.
Both would have what they lacked, what they needed, wanted even—though perhaps they did not know it.
Petra would marry a good, decent man, even if not of her own choosing, even if not the love of her heart.
And Griffin would marry a good, decent woman, and have gained his family’s acceptance and esteem in the process. The very thing he craved, whether he admitted it or not. The very thing lost to him in Texas.
Astrid swallowed and blinked against the unwelcome burn at the backs of her eyes. Cursing her sudden urge to weep, she reminded herself that her preferences bore no significance. Griffin was not hers. No matter how her heart may have pretended otherwise.
It was time to let go. To move on.
She did not deserve Griffin. Not as Petra did. The most decent thing she could ever do would be to encourage a union between Griffin and Petra. Perhaps this was it. Her chance to redeem herself.
Why should such a gesture hurt so much, then?