Surrender To Me

For Rosanne
Thank you for all the love and time
you so generously give.
Your heart knows no bounds.

A
fter nearly an hour in the Countess of St. Claire’s drawing room, the long-suppressed words finally stumbled past the Duchess of Derring’s lips. “He’s alive.”

Conversation halted and all heads swiveled to gape at her. Astrid smoothed a trembling hand over her faded muslin skirts and suffered the wide-eyed stares, wondering if there might have been a more prudent way to introduce the topic that had burned on her mind and left her staring into the dark long after she retired to bed last night.

“Bertram,” she clarified, pausing to clear her throat. “Bertram is alive.”

The room’s other occupants—the Dowager Duchess of Shillington and Lord and Lady St. Claire—continued to stare at her as if she had sprouted a second head. Only Lord and Lady St. Claire’s baby, bundled on the lap of her mother, appeared unaffected by the announcement, letting loose several happy shrieks, incongruous to the charged silence.

Lady St. Claire was the first to gain her voice. “Bertram lives?”

Astrid nodded to Jane as she bit into a savory tart. If she dined now, she would not need to eat later, which meant more food for the servants.

Cheeks full, she chewed slowly, the flaky crust and burst of pungent truffles and minced onion resembling dust on her tongue. Unfortunate that she could not appreciate the fine fare. Her own cook was good, but she could only do so much with the paltry sum Astrid gave her for market every week. Astrid shook off the thought.
No sense worrying over what could not be helped.

“Bertram?” Lord St. Claire echoed beside his wife, his expression politely inquiring.

Jane smoothed her hand over his larger one, the gesture intimate and loving in a way that made Astrid squirm in her seat. Likely it was the strangeness and unfamiliarity of it that disturbed her so. Sentimentality, genuine affection between a man and a woman, struck her as…odd.

“Astrid’s husband, dear,” Jane explained in a hushed voice, looking Astrid’s way almost apologetically—as if she knew how much that particular truth aggrieved her.

Husband
. Unfortunately, she could not deny it. She was in fact married, no matter that some days she managed to forget…managed to pretend she was not.

Perhaps it was insensitive, but she found it easier to believe Bertram dead than the cold truth of the matter—that he lived his life blithely unconcerned of her and the family he left behind.

Only a part of her always knew he lived. And now she possessed a letter indicating her instincts were correct.

“How do you know he’s alive?” Lucy, the Duchess of Shillington, asked. “It’s been a long time—”

“Five years,” Astrid quickly replied, the number embedded in her mind as sharply as her own name. Five long years she had waited. Even knowing he would never return. Not for her. Not for his responsibilities. And certainly not for the hangman’s noose that faced anyone found guilty of forgery.

She had waited, clinging to a thin thread of hope. The hope that perhaps homesickness, at the very least, would seize him and bring him back to face his crimes…and set matters right.

With shaking fingers, she loosened the tattered strings of her reticule and removed the anonymous letter she had read countless times since its delivery yesterday. Without a word, she handed it to Jane, then reached for another biscuit.

Jane accepted the letter, transferring baby Olivia to Lord St. Claire’s arms. He tickled one of the rolls beneath the infant’s chin and she made a gurgling sound, halfway between a coo and giggle. The sound was bittersweet. Astrid closed her eyes against it, against the reminder of all her life might have been. At nine and twenty, the prospect of hearing her own children’s laughter winked dully, a gem without life or luster.

She opened her eyes and schooled her features into the familiar mask she had mastered over the years. Even before she had married Bertram, she’d made impassivity an art form. Duty and forbearance. Chin high. Eyes straight ahead. Keep the emotion out. With good reason. Emotion led people astray and ruined lives. A lesson learned well when her mother abandoned her for the arms of Mr. Welles, Astrid’s dancing instructor.

Hiding had become as natural as breathing. A vague smile, a cool look, all calculated to reveal absolutely…nothing. A Drury Lane actress could give no better performance.

“No,” Jane gasped, her hazel-gray eyes wide as they lifted from the missive. “Bertram’s in Scotland?”

First Astrid gave a single nod, swallowing the last bit of her biscuit. The emptiness in her belly still there, she plucked another tart from the tray. Taking an indelicate bite, she chewed as Jane passed the letter around, permitting her husband and Lucy to read the words that had reverberated through her head since yesterday.

“Engaged!” Lucy cried in affronted tones. “That—that wretch! He’s wedding an heiress under an
assumed identity
?”

“A Sir Edmond Powell,” Astrid supplied. Having already investigated the man, she elaborated, “A prosperous gentleman in possession of quite a bit of land in Cornwall. Coal mines. He spends most of his time abroad. It appears he has not stepped foot on English soil in quite some time.”

“A prime identity to assume,” Lord St. Claire murmured dryly. “No one likely recalls the fellow’s face.”

“He must be stopped,” Jane announced, stabbing an elegant finger in the direction of the letter.

Astrid dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “I agree,” she murmured, carefully wrapping herself in a mantle of calm lest she become swept away on the tide of her friends’ burning indignation. “If in fact Bertram is this Powell fellow. That must be the first matter established.”

“How can you be so self-possessed?” Lucy asked with a shake of her head. “I would be an utter wreck.”

Because I’ve been an utter wreck before
.

When Bertram left she had surrendered to emotion. She had let herself
feel
. Dark roiling emotions: rage, betrayal, desperation,
fear
. She had lost her head. And committed an unforgivable act. Sucking a deep breath into her lungs, she shoved the memory back down, the taste bile in her throat.

Lord St. Claire lowered the letter and gazed at her with unflinching intensity. “When do you leave?”

She inclined her head, respecting his ability to know her mind. Likely because an honorable man such as he would not let such an affront slide past.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You mean you intend to go to Scotland?” Lucy blinked.

“Naturally. I have to see for myself if it is Bertram.” She inclined her head slightly. “And if so, I’ve a wedding to stop.”

“B-but how?” Lucy asked. “You—” Her mouth shut with a snap as color flooded her cheeks.

“Haven’t any money?” Astrid supplied, smiling thinly. Five years and Lucy still tiptoed around the subject of her insolvency.

Astrid had stoutly turned down her friends’ offers of money. The idea of taking money from Jane or Lucy turned her stomach. They were the only
good
in her world. She would not use them. Her friendship with them would remain untarnished.

Lucy examined the letter again. “Where is this Dubhlagan?”

“Just north of Inverness,” Astrid answered, having already researched a map of Scotland.

“Good God,” Lucy muttered. “The very ends of the earth. However will you manage to travel there?”

“I’ll take the train to Edinburgh. From there I’ll take the mail coach.”

“Mail coach?” Jane snorted, then sobered when she met Astrid’s solemn expression. “Good Heavens, you’re serious.”

“Take one of our coaches,” Lord St. Claire offered. “My man John is a crack driver and you’ll get there in half the time.” He frowned. “Although you really should have an escort.”

“My maid will suffice.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a man.”

Astrid shook her head. Her father had passed away shortly after her marriage to Bertram. Yet even if he had not, she could not imagine him accompanying her on such an errand. He had not chased after his own wife when she left him, nor welcomed her back when the chance arose. Why would he have supported Astrid in going after her errant husband? He would have advised her to leave well enough alone. That it was Bertram’s shame…as it had been her mother’s. That she should stay put and forbear.
Duty and forbearance
. The noble, dignified path.

Lord St. Claire reached beside him for his wife’s hand. Astrid watched as he folded Jane’s slim fingers into his own, her throat thickening at the display, at how things
could
be between a husband and wife.

“I would accompany you myself, but I cannot leave Jane,” he explained.

“Of course not,” Astrid agreed, clearing her throat with a swallow. Her heart tightened at the idea of a man so devoted to his wife that he would not leave her during her confinement. “I am capable of going alone.”

“Astrid, are you certain—”

“That I wish to confirm whether Bertram is posing as another man? Do I want to stop him from marrying another woman?” Astrid looked starkly into Jane’s eyes and nodded firmly, cold determination sealing her heart. “Positively.”

If she could save another woman from Bertram, perhaps she could gain a small measure of redemption.

Perhaps she could look herself in the mirror again and see a person worthy of respect.

After all, how difficult could such a journey be? A quick jaunt to Scotland, a few words with Bertram—and, if need be, the father of the girl to whom he was betrothed—and she could return home a new woman, duty satisfied.

A
strid stared down the unwavering barrel of a pistol as she stepped from the carriage into the cold, buffeting wind and wondered precisely when her journey had detoured directly to hell.

“That’s it. Nice and easy with you.” The highwaymen motioned for her to stand beside Lord St. Claire’s coachman.

Her maid followed closely, clinging to her hips as though they were handholds.

Astrid struggled to keep her footing on the rutted and uneven road that had so abused her for the last several days of the journey, culminating in this final indignity. Robbery. And just when they were so close to their destination.

With the coach at their backs and the three highwaymen before them, Astrid, her maid, and the coachman were effectively caged. Not that there was anywhere to run in the rocky gulley that rose up on either side of them.

Her nose wrinkled as the blackguards drew closer. Their odor reminded her of the way her father’s hounds had smelled, wet and muddy after the hunt. The unkempt trio wore soiled tartan and leered at her from long scraggly strands of hair.

They were not the first Highlanders she had seen since crossing into Scotland, but they were by far the filthiest. And most imposing. Desperate men. And she knew from experience that a desperate man could do just about anything. Indeed. She knew that fact well.

Their eyes darted and assessed with rapacious speed, wild animals honing in on their prey. They snatched her reticule from her wrist. She watched in bleak frustration as one of the louts pulled open the strings and dumped the paltry few coins into his grimy palm.

“This all you have?” he barked in a thick burr.

“Yes,” she lied. A few shillings remained, sewn into the hem of her cloak.

She may have agreed to borrow Jane’s carriage and coachman, but she had refused offers of money. Pride insisted she could fund the journey herself. Over the years, she had learned how to economize, selling off everything she possibly could. Anything that wasn’t entailed. Any item of value that Bertram had not taken with him when he fled. She estimated she could journey to Scotland and back on her own resources. Just barely. But not if these ruffians confiscated what she hid in her cloak.

The highwaymen frowned over the meager sum, exchanging questioning looks. Clearly they expected to find more plunder from the occupants of such a fine carriage. They snapped at one another in Gaelic, motioning to her as they did so.

Coral’s fingers dug through Astrid’s cloak and gown, bruising her hips. She reached behind and clasped one of Coral’s tight fists, attempting to ease her clawlike grip.

“A dove like you,” the ringleader snorted, his lips undetectable through a thick reddish beard. “Riding in such a fine carriage…” his voice faded as he stepped closer and pressed his pistol against her cheek. Astrid tried to scoot back, but the clinging maid prevented her.

Cocking his head, he lifted his arm high and dug the cold metal barrel against her cheek, grinding the inside of her mouth against her teeth. The coppery taste of blood flooded her tongue and a whimper of breath escaped through her nose.

Coral made a strangled sound behind her, as if the gun were pressed on her face and not Astrid’s.

“Would be a shame to ruin such a bonny face. Now be a good lass and hand over your valuables before I spill your blood all over this road.”

“The carriage belongs to a friend,” Astrid gritted through clenched teeth. “I haven’t anything else.” She lifted her hands and splayed her fingers wide. “Do you see any jewels?”

“Nay,” he said slowly, his gaze moving from her hands back to her face. “No jewels.”

He scoured her from head to toe then, his eyes hard and considering beneath thick brows. “You have something else, though.”

“What would that be?” she asked breathlessly, the air seizing in her too-tight chest, afraid she already knew his answer.

One side of his ratty mustache twitched in a semblance of a smile. “What women have bartered since time began.”

His free hand lifted, a great paw moving toward her.

She watched that hand with dirt-encrusted nails moving, drifting closer. He grabbed the collar of her cloak and, with no care that it was tied at her throat, yanked brutally, attempting to tear it free.

“Now see here.” The coachman, a grandfatherly sort that had been with the Earl of St. Claire’s family for years, stepped forward in objection.

One of the highwaymen brought his pistol down against his head in a swift arc. Astrid watched in horror as John crumpled to the road. Still. Lifeless. No help to her or himself.

Everything happened quickly then.

One of the men yanked Coral from behind Astrid. The girl screamed, the sound shrill and terrified, echoing through the gully that sheltered them, sending the birds from the treetops in a flap of wings and startled squawks.

Heart hammering fiercely in her chest, Astrid watched their fluttering wings take them far into the gray sky with a strange sort of detachment, wishing she, too, could take to the skies and flee with such ease.

Instead, she felt the ties cutting into the tender flesh of her throat finally give and snap as she was flung down.

Griffin Shaw turned his face to the skies and shivered at the bite of cold in the air. The clouds moved swiftly overhead, patches of dirty wool drifting through the sky. With a curse, he pulled up the collar of his jacket. No wonder his parents had emigrated. The damnable weather was reason enough.

Soon he would be home, he reminded himself, even as he tried not to think too hard on what had brought him halfway across the world—the foolish urge that had seized him following his father’s recent death to investigate the deathbed ramblings of his mother three years past.

His horse blew heavily against the fierce wind, pulling him from thoughts and questions he could never quite answer…a gut need that drew him to Scotland he could not understand.

He scanned the craggy horizon. Unremitting rock, broken up by wild gorse, heather, and leafless trees that shook in the wind like naked gnarled old men, stared back starkly.

Reaching down, he patted his horse’s neck. “Beats the heat back home, Waya,” he offered. Griffin would take a little chill over the sweltering heat of south Texas any day.

Waya blew out harshly through his nose, his breath a frothy cloud on the air, and Griffin wasn’t certain whether to take that as agreement or not from the Appaloosa.

At that moment another sound pierced the graying skies. Shrill. Chilling. The hairs on his arms tingled.

Waya’s ears flattened and he neighed in agitation, dancing sideways at the sound. A woman’s screams strongly resembled the cry of a mountain lion.

Griffin slid his rifle free of his saddle and urged his mount ahead with a squeeze of his thighs and dig of his heels. His parents had instilled a streak of chivalry in him that even good sense could not suppress. If a woman was in jeopardy, he could not stop from investigating, and helping, if need be.

Rounding the bend, his eyes surveyed the scene at once: the idle carriage, the man crumpled in the road, the two females fighting off an unsavory-looking pair of men while a third watched, cheering on his cohorts and shouting lewd suggestions.

Highwaymen
.

He’d been warned of their prevalence. Especially with Scotland caught in the throes of a famine. Desperate times brought out the worst in men. He knew this firsthand. A grassy blood-soaked plain flashed across his mind as testament to that.

A shrieking, dark-haired woman flailed in the mud as one of the bastards cut open her dress and hacked at her corset with an ugly-looking blade. Intent on their foul business, none took note of his approach.

Griffin lifted the rifle to his shoulder, closed one eye, and fired. He watched in grim satisfaction as the man collapsed atop the dark-haired girl. Her shrieks only increased as she fumbled beneath the dead man’s weight.

Wincing over the racket, he turned his attention to the remaining two men.

A grisly red-bearded Scot whirled off the other female, one as fair as her companion was dark.

In a blur of movement, her attacker flung a blade through the air, sending it whistling on the wind in Griffin’s direction.

He dodged to the side, missing what would have been a clean hit to the heart.

“Shit,” he swore as he righted himself back in his saddle.

Lifting his rifle with one hand, he propped it against his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. Red-beard fell back into the road, his expression forever locked in shock.

The third Scot grappled for his pistol and raised it the precise moment Griffin swung his rifle in his direction.

Everything slowed then.

The squeeze of his finger on the trigger felt like an eternity. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement, a flash of color in the otherwise brown landscape.

It was the girl. The fair-haired one.

She flung herself at the man, shoving him off balance. He went down with a burning oath, struggling in the road for his fallen pistol. But it was enough. All the time Griffin needed.

He squeezed the trigger.

The Scot jerked once. And yet his hand still grappled in the road, foraging for some type of weapon. His fingers closed around a large rock littering the road. Too late, Griffin realized his intent.

Pain exploded in his head. His hands tightened on his reins to keep from sliding off his mount. His vision blurred, and he brought one hand to his forehead, feeling the slipperiness of his own blood on his fingertips.

Blood pouring from the wound in his chest, the Scot fell back in the road, a damn fool grin of triumph on his face as he expired, his life’s blood feeding the earth.

The woman rose to her feet, staring down at the fallen highwayman, her posture stiff and dignified despite her mussed appearance. A long pale strand of hair hung in her face that several swipes of her hand did nothing to remedy.

The sleeve of her dress was torn from elbow to wrist, revealing a strip of creamy flesh, a stark contrast to the dark blue of her gown that covered her from hem to neck.

Blood marked her mouth, vivid and obscene on rose-pink lips. That mouth was the only hint of softness in her rather severe appearance. The blood there seemed wrong, upsetting and offensive somehow. Another face flashed across his mind. Another woman with dark, obsidian eyes, whose blood ran freely. A woman he failed to save. The years could not chase her memory from his head…or rid him of his guilt.

A deep, primitive satisfaction swelled inside Griffin that the men who harmed this woman were dead. That he had managed to save
her.

She broke from her trancelike state with a ragged breath. Her gaze lifted from the dead man and caught his.

Pressing a hand to his throbbing skull, he nodded once in acknowledgment. He never would have thought a wisp of a woman, one who looked as though she could use an extra meal or two, could possess the mettle to save his life.

She stared at him with dark brown eyes, an unusual contrast against her fair hair. Her mouth firmed into a hard line, until all softness vanished from those lips. She returned his nod with a brisk one of her own. And instantly he knew she rarely smiled, rarely surrendered to emotion. While the other female wailed on the ground three feet from her, she stood composed, remote as a queen, as if the ugliness that had just occurred failed to touch her.

She wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, and it was as if that motion alone freed her of the day’s events.

God, she was a cool one.

Those dark enigmatic eyes moved to his head. “Are you all right?” she asked, shoving at that strand of hair again.

“Fine,” he replied even as a languid sensation stole over him, like he was perhaps slipping away from himself, drowning, sinking.

She pointed a slim finger to his face just as a slow dribble of blood trickled past his eyebrow into his eye. “You’re bleeding.”

He nodded. The movement added to his lightheadedness, making him feel suddenly, damnably ill.

Waya danced sideways, no doubt scenting his blood.

Griffin swayed in the saddle. One of his hands dove to his pommel for support. A hiss of air escaped him as he fought against an increasing wave of dizziness.

The edges of his vision blurred and he heard himself curse again, but to his ears his voice sounded disembodied, as if it belonged to someone else.

“Sir?” He heard her feminine voice ask, refined, clipped and soft, like rum swirling in his stomach, in his blood. “Sir, are you all right?”

Leaning forward, he slid his hands along Waya’s neck, tangling his fingers in the coarse mane of hair, knowing he was dangerously close to losing consciousness.

His gaze narrowed on the face looking up at him, on the expression both concerned and imposing, as if his
not
being well was strictly forbidden.

Bones and muscle suddenly fluid as water, he pitched forward off his mount and fell with a hard thud to the ground.

“Hell,” he muttered, staring up at the gray clouds moving overhead. Felled by a rock. It was damn humiliating.

Again, her face emerged, looming over him and blocking out the sky. That pale lock of hair fluttered in the wind and, absurdly, he wondered if it felt as soft as it looked.

Her lips moved quickly, speaking. And yet he could hear nothing beyond the roaring in his head, the pulse of cold unyielding earth beneath his back.

She might have been an angel with her flawless skin and fair hair. And yet those demon dark eyes void of emotion, and her hard unforgiving mouth, proclaimed the opposite.

A fallen angel,
he mused.

One of God’s banished.

And he was at her mercy.