Surrender To Me (9 page)

A
n arctic cold arrived around dawn. With a shiver and several groggy blinks, Astrid lifted her head and assessed the mist-shrouded surroundings.

She and Griffin no longer slept with their backs to each other but, in this early morning cold, sought warmth and cocooned together. Her upper body was pressed against his, breasts cushioned on the warm wall of his chest.

Cheeks flaming, she attempted to slide her leg out from between his but found it wedged tightly between rock-hard thighs.

His voice purred in her ear. “If you wanted on top, you only had to ask.”

Her gaze collided with his heavy-lidded blue stare. Heat scored her cheeks. Her hair had come loose in the night and she blew at the blond strands falling in her face.

Pressing her hands on either side of him, she pushed herself up, opening her mouth to reprimand him, well accustomed to putting gentlemen in their place.

His hand came up, seizing her by the back of her head and dragging her down to him, smothering her words with the hot press of his mouth.

His lips claimed hers, warm and soft, a tender caress that seemed at odds with such a rough man.

He angled his head, taking more, trailing the warm tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips in a quest for entrance. She gasped and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, gliding it against hers in a sinuous dance like nothing she had ever experienced.

A lick of heat twisted in her stomach, thrilling in its strangeness. Frightening.

She relaxed against him, melting into his hard length, her blood simmering, liquefying her bones.

He tasted good, so good, like the way he smelled. Of wind and woods and man. For an insensible moment, her hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, mashing her breasts into his chest.

He growled against her mouth, rolling her beneath him, settling himself between her thighs. Even with her skirts bunched between them, she felt the hard ridge of him, prodding and insistent against her belly. He shifted lower, rubbing against her groin, the very center of her—a place that throbbed with desperate intensity, a burgeoning ache that demanded satisfaction and made her squirm in need.

Her fingers clenched the warm wall of his chest, clawing and twisting the fabric of his shirt. Her hips rose, thrusting against the delicious hardness of him.

His lips lifted from hers on a hiss of air, just long enough for him to grit a single word against her mouth. “
Duchess
.”

His lips fell back on hers, ravenous, his tongue delving past her lips…still, that feverish utterance struck like an arrow to her heart, reminding her of who she was. Who he was. Only one day widowed and she was rolling around on the ground with a man she barely knew? Without dignity. Without pride. No better than her mother. Easy pickings for some silver-tongued devil’s misuse.

She shoved him off her, disentangling herself from the solid strength of his arms. Scrambling back, she put distance between them. Hugging her knees to her chest, she glared at him in the light of dawn.

He rolled onto his side, watching her with a lazy, seductive gaze that fired her blood…and indignation.

“Don’t think that my gratitude runs this far,” she hissed, rubbing the back of her hand over her mouth as if she could wipe clean the burning imprint of his kiss.

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes turning hard, the gleam of desire fading. “Gratitude?” he echoed.

“Yes. Accepting your assistance does not grant you free use of me.”

“I don’t recall forcing you to crawl atop me.”

“It was unintentional, I assure you—not an invitation!”

“And when we kissed? I heard no protests. Far from it.” One of his dark brows winged high. “You certainly did not hesitate to rub yourself against me.”

Heat flooded her face. “I did not!”

He laughed cruelly. “The sweetest whore never responded so readily.”

“Oh!” She lurched forward, swinging a fist at his face.

He caught her hand and hauled her against him. “Enough,” he growled, squeezing the breath from her. “Your virtue is safe with me. I don’t make it a habit to force myself on unwilling women.” His lips twisted. “One word of advice, though…if you are unwilling, you best learn a little restraint. Otherwise, you may find yourself on your back and getting more than you bargained for.” His hand splayed wide on her waist, fingers digging through her garments, searing into her flesh. “Understand?”

She nodded fiercely.

Chuckling, he released her. Astrid dropped back on the tarp, glaring at him as he rose to his feet and strode from the clearing.

She trembled with fury. Restraint, indeed. As if she needed lessons on restraint. Her whole life had been about restraint. More than the likes of him would ever know. She was not about to change now.

They broke camp quickly. The sun breaking over the horizon did little to chase off the chill, and she burrowed into her cloak as they advanced through trees and gorse thickening all around them, encroaching on their trail and slowing their progress.

When they finally stopped at a sun-dappled glen late that afternoon, she eagerly slid off her mount, not waiting for his assistance, unwilling to risk him putting his hands on her.

A brook burbled nearby. She followed him, ducking under low hanging branches, heeding his warnings of the rocky ground as he led their mounts ahead of them through the heavy undergrowth.

At the brook, she lowered herself to the ground. Succumbing to mad impulse, she stripped off her boots and stockings. With a covert glance at him, she dipped her aching feet in the frigid water, hissing at the first contact.

He grimaced over the back of his mount at her. “You’re braver than I.”

She shrugged. “Doubtful. I can’t even swim. This is as bold as I get.” Frowning, she thought back to her youth, to a day when she was seven. “My mother loved to swim. She tried to teach me. Once.”

She shook her head, resisting the memory of her mother’s face, tight with frustration that her daughter did not share her spirit of adventure, that despite all her efforts Astrid had turned out as dull and remote as her husband.

“Once?” he inquired.

“I didn’t take to the water as she hoped.” Rubbing her chin, she shook off the memory. Looking up, she found him watching her with a thoughtful expression on his face, almost pitying.

Shrugging, she added, “I did not inherit my mother’s adventurous streak.”

“I don’t know about that. Not many ladies that would hare off to Scotland to bring their errant husbands to heel.”

Shrugging again, she clawed a small pile of pebbles into a mound on the ground beside her with focused concentration. “I wouldn’t call it a sense of adventure. Obligation perhaps.” She tossed a pebble into the dark waters before her. “I had to stop him from ruining another woman’s life.”

Tossing another pebble, she watched it plop into the water before shooting him a glance.

He squatted beside her. Plucking a pebble from her little pile, he hurled it, and she watched it splash in the brook with more force than her efforts.

She brought her knees to her chest, propping her chin and taking care to cover her toes beneath the hem of her skirt, mindful that she not reveal even an inch of flesh. She dared not. Not after his wholly unfair remark about her needing to learn a little restraint.
Her
. It was too absurd to believe.

Glancing sideways, she studied his hands as he selected another pebble. They were broad with a sprinkling of hair, the veins running beneath the tanned surface manly and intriguing. She remembered the feel of those callused palms on her. Their texture had been erotic, rough and arousing against her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut in a tight blink before turning her attention back to the swiftly moving waters, willing herself to stop feeling this way around him. In truth, to stop
feeling
at all. To return to the Astrid she knew, the Astrid in control of her emotions, who never let things like anger and desire rule her. Cold. Like her father. Stronger, she had always believed, than selfish, emotional creatures like her mother who thought only of their own pleasure and happiness.

He began to speak, then stopped suddenly.

His eyes changed, grew hard, scanning the landscape like a hawk.

All at once, he reminded her of the man she first faced on the roadside, the primitive who had shot three men dead without blinking an eye.

“What?” she whispered. “What is it—”

His hand sliced the air, the gesture silencing her. Her heart beat faster, the pulse at her neck a furious pounding beneath her flesh.

She looked around them, seeing nothing except the still of a Scottish wood. She glanced back at him, trying to determine what he saw, what he heard.

Suddenly, he grasped her wrist and dragged her off the ground and into his arms with a swiftness that stole her breath. His hands came up on either side of her head, holding her motionless as he stifled her cry with his lips.

She shoved at his chest, stilling the instant she realized he was not kissing her. Not as a man bent on ravishment would. His lips were firm against hers, warm, moving but not caressing…talking, whispering. “They’re watching us from across the brook. In a moment I will move toward my rifle. And you will run. Do you understand? Run for the brush behind me. Hide. Don’t come out unless I call for you.”

They’re watching us from across the brook.

His words and their implication slithered through her like a snake winding in grass.

A hiss of breath escaped her mouth, fanning his cool lips. She nodded, her wide eyes staring into the glittering blue of his.

He gave a single curt nod. And then released her.

Stumbling, she ran, the metallic taste of fear rising thick in her throat, flooding her mouth. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Didn’t dare. Not even as she heard shouts and splashing water. She did as Griffin commanded, even as her heart clenched at whatever was happening to him.

Panic fed her limbs. Her feet struck the earth in hard thuds, pounding in her ears, matching the heavy thrum of her heart. As she tore through trees and tangled gorse, she soon realized that her racing footsteps were not the only sound. Someone followed her, crashing through the brush, his breath a harsh wheeze, building fast behind her.

She ducked beneath a low hanging branch just as a crack of gunfire split the air. She jerked to a halt, terror striking deep in her heart.
Griffin
.

A hand caught and snagged hold of her cloak, yanking so tightly the strings at her throat cut into her flesh. Gagging, she clawed at the ties. With a spin, she fell into a pair of thick arms.

“Quick little thing,” a thick burr gasped against her ear.

Astrid caught only a flash of dark eyes set within a gaunt face before she was tossed through the air. A brawny shoulder dug into her belly. His every step bounced her until she thought she would be ill. Just when she thought she could stand it no more, he stopped and dropped her unceremoniously to the hard ground.

Wincing, she shoved the hair that had fallen loose from her face and looked about, taking in a scene far different from moments ago. Gone was the peaceful afternoon, the quiet song of the burbling brook, the still and silent woods.

A dozen men garbed both in breeches and kilts circled Griffin. The latter sat in their midst, battered and bloodied, a cross expression marring his face.

Astrid surged to her feet and charged into the circle of men. “What have you done to him?” she demanded, bunching her skirts in one hand and squatting to inspect his ravaged face.

Griffin looked at her with his one good eye, the blue circling the other all the more startling against his tanned and bloodied face.

“Looks worse than it is,” he assured with a wry twist of his mouth, wincing as the stretch of his lips pulled at a tear splitting his bottom lip. Blood seeped steadily from the cut and she pressed her fingers gently to it, the gesture impulsive, tender, and nurturing in a way that she never knew she could be.

“Animals!” she declared, glaring at Griffin’s attackers. “Take our things…or whatever it is you want and leave us be!”

The Highlanders glanced at one other, clearly caught off guard.

Griffin motioned to his saddle bag. “You heard her.”

Silence fell. Only the howl of the wind through the trees and the gurgle of the brook could be heard.

One of the brigands finally spoke, a dark-eyed man that might have been handsome if not for his twisted nose.

“You shot Lionel.”

He waved to a tawny-haired man at the edge of the brook who clutched a bloody thigh, a pained expression tightening his face.

“And what of you?” she demanded, surging to her feet. “Charging us like a pack of wolves! Count yourself fortunate only one of you suffered injury!”

The dark-haired man blinked.

“Astrid,” Griffin growled, voice low with warning.

The leader assessed her, his eyes sliding over her in appraisal. “Are all Sassenach women as sharp-tongued as you?” He chuckled and looked to his men. “Perhaps I need to venture south after all.”

His men laughed.

Griffin grabbed her hand in an attempt to bring her beside him, but she held her ground, chin lifting as she stared down the brigand leader.

“This is no jest. Cease your laughing.”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he continued, sobering. “’Tis dangerous indeed to earn the wrath of so fiery a woman.” His dark eyes fixed intently on her. “I might get burned.” His rangy frame executed a mocking bow. “Lachlan Gallagher. Pleased to make the acquaintance of one so lovely.”

She sniffed, unsettled, but did her best to conceal it.

“What’s your name, lass?” He glanced to Griffin. “Ashley, did you say?”

With a grunt, Griffin pulled himself to his feet. Clasping her arm, he pulled her behind him. “I call her wife. You may call her Mrs. Shaw.”

“That so?” He clucked his tongue. “Pity.”

Astrid peered around Griffin, finding the dark-eyed man’s eyes still fixed on her. A small shiver coursed her spine and any thoughts she held of refuting Griffin’s claims vanished. She would take what protection she could in pretending to be his wife.