Surrender To Me (23 page)

Petra might have taught her that denying one’s duty and obligation for the sake of love was not such a transgression. She might in fact have changed Astrid’s thoughts concerning her mother, made her look at that long-ago night, when her mother had slipped from their townhouse, differently.

Closing her eyes, she sank down onto the bed and saw her mother as she had been that night, standing beneath the streetlamp, her expression both anguished and eager in the muted glow. For the first time in her life, Astrid recognized the doubts that must have plagued her mother to leave all that was familiar…to leave Astrid.

And yet she had done it, had walked into the unknown. Despite the risks, she had followed her heart and taken a chance…however badly it ended. However wrong it may have been.

Tears blurred her eyes. At last, Astrid understood. Living meant taking chances. Risks. Mistakes even. Better that than running, or hiding as she had been doing.

Opening her eyes, she stared ahead of her, seeing nothing in the still and silent room before her, seeing all.

If only she had spent her time loving Griffin—truly loving him—perhaps he could have loved her back. Instead she had worked so hard at pushing him away, encouraging him to wed another, convincing him nothing existed between them. Nothing worth keeping, at any rate.

No wonder he had decided to wed Petra. If he had felt anything at all for her, she had killed it.

A chill feathered her spine. If she had fought for them, then perhaps the thought of waiting for him at Balfurin, of taking a chance on him—on them—might not have seemed so very impossible.

She shivered, hugging herself as the chamber’s coldness seeped into her bones. She glanced at the fire, noting that it still smoldered in the hearth. And yet it felt as though the temperature had dropped.

Rising to her feet, she made her way to the mullioned window, the room’s chilliness increasing as she approached the fogged glass. Rubbing her fingertips over the icy surface, she peered out, gasping at the sight of swirling snow in the air. It fell thickly, blanketing the ground. Beyond the lake, blinding white stretched across the countryside. Squinting against its brightness, she strained to locate the road, already buried beneath the snow.

Leaving suddenly posed a new challenge.

G
riffin buried his chin in his coat and pulled the wide brim of his hat low over his eyes in an attempt to ward of the sting of snow and wind. Waya lifted his legs high to pass through rapidly rising drifts. The Reverend Walter’s mount trekked behind him, falling in his tracks.

“How goes it, Reverend?” Griffin called over the howling wind.

The man nodded from deep within a scarf of tartan, squinting out at the winter-shrouded landscape, lashes tangled with white frothy flakes. “Told you we should have waited out the storm,” he called.

Griffin pressed his lips into a grim line. The reverend had done his best to discourage their departure, but after lacing his palm with coin, the good man quit his warm cottage.

Griffin was eager to return to Balfurin, regretful of his hasty departure, and impatient to see Astrid’s dark eyes again. Ironic that. Especially considering he had only ever sought to escape a similar pair of eyes. Now he longed for the sight of them.

He should have spoken to Astrid before he’d left, but he’d been too damned aggravated to spare a moment for her.

Instead he had left her alone, under the dubious care of his newfound family.

A tightness gripped his chest, an uneasiness he could not shake. He had to get back. Had to see her. Touch her. He would not breathe easy until he did.

Hefting her valise, Astrid made her way downstairs, intent on locating Laird MacFadden and seeing about arranging an escort, storm or no storm.

A mocking smile twisted her lips. At the very least, Osborn would he happy to accommodate. Certainly his carriage could navigate the snow-laden roads, and she knew how badly he wanted her gone before Griffin’s return.

Raised voices drifted on the air. Slowing her pace, she advanced cautiously through the dining hall’s tall double doors, observing Griffin’s family at their breakfast. The smell of sausage pudding rose pungent on the air. No one paid heed to her.

Osborn leaned forward in his chair and shook his head in agitation over his half-eaten plate of food. “We have to go after them! They cannot have gotten far…”

Her hand flew to her throat, knowing at once he had discovered Petra missing. It had not surprised her when no one noted the girl’s disappearance yesterday. No one noticed when she was in the room, after all. No. All discussion was on Griffin and his sudden departure.

MacFadden opened his mouth to respond to Osborn’s histrionics, but his eyes fell on Astrid hovering at the edge of the room. “Lass,” he greeted, cool blue eyes dropping to the valise she clutched in her hand. “Going somewhere?”

Striding into the room, she stopped and lowered the valise to her feet. Nodding, she moistened her lips and prepared to voice the request she had rehearsed in her room.

Osborn’s sharp voice stopped her cold. “I’d like to know how
you
are involved in all this.”

“Me?”

“Aye, you. No doubt you wanted Petra out of the way so you could continue your dalliance with Shaw. What have you done with her?”

“Nothing.” She motioned to her valise with a snort. “And would I be leaving if I wanted Griffin for myself?”

“Who knows the workings of the conniving female mind? Perhaps you wanted to stop their marriage out of spite, eh?” He nodded as though satisfied with that conclusion. “Is that it?”

Ignoring him, she addressed MacFadden. “Would you arrange an escort for me to travel as far as Edinburgh, sir? I see no reason to delay my return home any longer.”

The request did not fall easily from her lips, still she uttered the words that would take her forever from Griffin.

Rubbing his chin, MacFadden assessed her. “Should we not wait for Griffin—”

“Whatever for? Your grandson and I have no…” she paused, groping for the proper word, “ties to speak of.”

“Ties,” Gallagher muttered, leaning in his seat toward MacFadden. “Call it what you will, but sending her away is going to stir a hornet’s nest with Griffin. We’d best keep her here until he returns.”

Heat licked her cheeks and her fists knotted at her sides. “I can assure you my comings and goings don’t bear Griffin’s notice.”

“You’re not leaving until you tell me where my daughter has absconded.” Osborn surged from his chair and rounded the table, a steely light in his eyes.

“I know nothing,” she replied, weary at heart.

“You lie,” he insisted. “I’ll have the truth.”

“What do you recommend, Osborn?” Gallagher queried, his heavy beard lifting around the corners of his smirk. “We torture the lass?”

Osborn stopped before her, eyes glittering with malice as they stared down at her. “I can think of ways to make her talk,” he answered, clearly missing Gallagher’s derisive tone.

Suffering his glower, she did not put such a thing past his capabilities. Lifting her valise, her fingers slick around the handle, her gaze drifted to MacFadden. “I appreciate your hospitality, sir, but I would be grateful if you were to extend it further in the form of an escort.”

Osborn snatched hold of her arm, forcing her to look at him again. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you answer for your part in this.” He jabbed one finger high on her chest below her collarbone. She fought back a wince.

“Even if I knew where Petra was, I would not tell you.”

“See,” Osborn blustered, his face blossoming an unbecoming shade of red. “She knows! She knows, I tell you.”

“Come, lass,” MacFadden demanded, one dark brow arched. “Do you know where Petra has gone?”

She stood stoically before them, thinking of Petra and Andrew making their way south toward Glasgow even now. Toward their life together. Happiness.

Instead of answering, she pressed her lips together. At her mutinous silence, Osborn retorted, “Of course she does.”

“I don’t know where Petra is,” she declared, her temper snapping. “All I know is that I want to leave this place before Griffin returns.” Emotion thickened her throat, bringing with it a damnable sob that burned the back of her throat.
She had to.
“I want to go home and forget everything.” She swiped a trembling hand through the air. “Forget all of this. This whole bloody journey!”
And Griffin
. She wished to forget Griffin. Forget loving him.

Heavy silence fell.

Osborn shifted his attention, looking over her shoulder.

A tremor skimmed her spine. The tiny hairs at her neck tingled.

Deep awareness settled in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, she turned.

“Griffin,” she breathed, heat rushing to her face as she realized he had her heard her every word.

He stood in the wide threshold, travel-worn, the hem of his cloak sodden from snow and mud, his hat hanging limply in his hand. Her heart ached at the sight of him, her gaze hungrily devouring him—this man she had thought never to see again.

She spared a quick glance for the reed-thin man at his side. The reverend no doubt. Here to wed him to Petra, the bride she had helped escape. Nervousness coursed through her. How would he react to the news that Petra had fled?

“Griffin!” MacFadden rounded the table. “Why did you not tell us you were leaving? With this wretched storm, I was plagued with worry.”

Griffin’s boots clicked over the stone floor, ringing with quiet command, eyes fixed on her as he removed his gloves. He motioned the reverend into one of the dining table’s high-backed chairs even as he remained standing, a dark brow arching as he eyed her.

She flexed her fingers around the handle of her valise, her palms growing slippery with perspiration.

His eyes drilled into her with an intensity she could not decipher, burning a hole straight through her. Surely he was not angry over her words, not when he intended to marry Petra. Why should he care if she left?

“No one seemed to give a damn about what I had to say.” Although he addressed his grandfathers, his eyes spoke to her, sharp with accusation, conveying that he thought she shared in that charge.

And he was correct. She had not considered him. Or Petra. Just as she had not considered or trusted Portia all those years ago.

And yet she had changed, had become a different woman in loving him. She helped Petra escape, after all.

Longing seized her, a deep yearning to confide to him that she had awakened at last. As though emerging from a dream. She understood it was not her place to make decisions for Griffin. Or anyone. The only person in the world whose happiness she could control was her own. And for the first time in memory, she actually believed she deserved happiness. Would not settle for less.

“What are you talking about?” Gallagher demanded with a puff of his barrel chest.

“I did not leave to fetch the reverend for me and Petra.” His gaze remained trained on her with unswerving focus.

Both his grandfathers exchanged befuddled looks.

“I fetched the reverend so that Petra might marry the man
she
wants to marry.”

“You,” MacFadden quickly supplied with an impatient wave of his hand. “The lass agreed to marry you.”

“Agreed,”
Griffin echoed, nodding. “A bit different from
want
, is it not? She may have agreed to wed me, but she wanted to marry Andrew.”

“Andrew?” Gallagher scratched his thick beard. “Who the devil is Andrew?”

“You had no right,” Osborn bellowed. “Such a decision falls to me and
I
say my daughter will not marry a servant.”

“Who is this Andrew?” MacFadden’s confused gaze shot back and forth between Griffin and Osborn.

“A good man who loves and
wants
to marry Petra,” Astrid volunteered. “He doesn’t care what happened to her,” she added, hoping that conveyed just how honorable his intentions ran. Petra’s family should be relieved that such a man wanted to marry her, but Astrid knew enough about the ambitions of men to know that it would matter little…if at all. No doubt Griffin’s revelation would send the entire MacFadden clan thundering after Petra. Her shoulders slumped. She and Andrew would never reach Glasgow.

“I knew you had something to do with this,” Osborn exploded, slamming his fist into his palm as if he wished it were her.

Griffin looked at her strangely, head cocked. “You knew about Petra and Andrew?”

Raising her chin, she decided the time had arrived for Griffin to see she wasn’t the same woman he had met on a Scottish roadside. Someone afraid to live. Afraid to surrender her heart lest she become as lost and pitiable as her mother.

“I did. And I provided a distraction yesterday so that they could escape.”

“You deceitful witch!” Osborn cried.

Griffin watched her, approval glowing in his eyes. An approval she felt deep within herself, a lovely suffusing warmth.

“You knew, too. You fetched the reverend for them?” Her gaze dropped to the reverend, now sitting at the table with a pint of ale before him, watching the scene unfold as if it were a Drury Lane performance.

“Yes. I fetched the reverend for them.” Griffin stared at her one long moment before adding, “And for me.”

“You?” she asked, confused. “But you said—”

His gaze dropped to her valise. “You’re leaving.” The statement hung between them, accusatory, and yet a question lingered in his eyes.

He had not fetched the reverend so that he could wed Petra
. The bewildered thought tripped through her mind. What did he mean he had fetched the reverend for
him
? Unsure, she took a halting step toward him.

Osborn stepped between them, blocking Griffin from her eyes, filling her vision with his hate-filled countenance.

“I’ll know where my daughter has fled this instant.”

Griffin spoke, his voice dangerous and low. “Then perhaps you should ask me.”

Osborn swung to face him. “You? How would you know? She absconded after you left.”

“Yes, but the good reverend and I happened upon Petra and Andrew on our way back here.”

“You’ve seen Petra?”

“Yes.”

By now, Osborn’s eyes bulged in his flushed face. “And you did not force them to return with you?”

“No,” Griffin answered so evenly that even Astrid began to feel exasperated. “In fact,” he added, “I wished them Godspeed on their way.”

“Where are they?” Osborn growled.

“On their way to Glasgow. Where they will board a ship bound for America.”

“America!”

“Yes.” Griffin nodded in satisfaction. “I had the good reverend marry them this very morning. And as a wedding gift, I supplied them with the means for passage.”