Her eyes flung wide open on the wind of a gasp. She drew another gulp of air deeply into her lungs, starved, desperate for breath as she blinked against the cold night. Moonlight filtered through the treetops. Wind whistled through the rustling leaves.
“Astrid?”
Griffin’s shadow rose beside her. Instantly, she knew him. His touch, his heat, his smell. She knew. She remembered. And she craved more. Again.
His hard arms surrounded her. Wide-palmed hands flexed over her flesh, long-fingered and strong, expertly running along her body, drawing soothing circles on her back and making her breath come quicker.
The nightmare was familiar. Rocks. One after another they came, pressing down on her, pushing the air from her chest. Faces loomed above her, each one adding a rock to the ever-growing mound atop her. Her father. Portia. Bertram.
“Only a bad dream.” Griffin’s deep drawl slid through her, chasing the chill, purging the terror of moments ago, liquefying her bones, imbuing her with a languid warmth, almost as though she had imbibed one too many glasses of sherry.
“I’ve dreamed my share,” he confided, his voice rumbling from his chest and vibrating against her body.
“Yes.” Her fingers tightened their grip on his shirt, pulling him closer. “I imagine you have.”
His breath ruffled her hair.
Her gaze lifted to his. Blue ice glittered down at her, hooded beneath a fringe of ink-dark lashes. Her breath snagged in her throat. He brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek, the rasp of a callused thumb dragging across her skin.
“You said the first time you saw me…you saw her.”
He tensed against her.
The notion of him seeing death—seeing all he believed himself to have failed at in his life—when he looked at her filled her with a gnawing ache. She did not want to inspire ghosts or ill memories.
She wanted to inspire him.
Her fingers flexed against him. “Do you still?”
He spoke, his words rough and deep, feathering against her cheek. “I see you.”
His words sent a small thrill up her spine, igniting a tiny flame of feminine power within her. She nuzzled the cold tip of her nose into the warm skin of his neck with a small sigh, inhaling his manly scent.
“Cold,” he hissed on a strangled chuckle.
Warm me, she thought, pressing herself against the length of him with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
He shifted, hands falling firmly on her arms, distancing her from him.
The fire had burned low, the burnt wood mere embers. Shadows sheltered them, the only light that of the moon and the gleam in his blue eyes.
“Don’t,” he breathed, the single word final, inflexible, for all she barely heard it.
She held his gaze, understanding what he was telling her with that single word…but too aroused from the feel of him, the smell, the look to care that she was going against the very rules she had set forth.
She snuggled against him, dipping her face into the crook of his neck, parting her mouth so that her breath fanned the swiftly thudding pulse at his throat.
“Astrid,” he warned, his voice a dry whisper, his throat vibrating beneath her lips. “I’m only a man.”
She slid her hands between them, flattening her palms over his shoulders. “That’s all I want you to be.”
With a stinging curse he rolled her onto her back, the full weight of him coming over her, a wall of humming heat pressing her into the tarp as his lips crushed hers.
His hands dropped between them, hiking up her skirts and sliding her drawers down in a rough, anxious move.
Her breath hitched, his eagerness heightening her own desire.
“Are you cold?”
With him? Never. She shook her head fiercely in response.
He paused, taking care to cocoon them beneath the blanket. She felt sheltered, safe, cherished. He braced one arm beside her head. His other hand delved between them to free himself from his trousers. Without a word, she parted her thighs, allowing him to settle between her legs. She tilted her hips, eager and ready for him.
The long heat of him slid inside her in one slick motion. Her breath escaped in a hiss. Her neck arched, coming off the ground.
He held himself still, the fullness of him lodged deeply inside her, pulsing in rhythm with her heart.
She dropped her head back down, rolling her neck side to side, mindless and moaning as he began to move, his rocking thrusts slow and deep, stoking her, building the fire, tormenting her, drawing out her pleasure until she thought she would die if it did not come swifter, harder.
She dug her nails into his taut buttocks, bringing him harder against her, trying to increase his tempo, but he continued his torment, easing out of her in slow drags of heated flesh.
“Griffin,” she wept, lifting her head.
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?” she gasped, senseless, mad with need.
“That you want it. You want me. That you always will.” His tongue swept the curve of her ear in a hot brush.
She moaned again. It was the height of manipulation for him to inveigle such a promise from her when she was lost with need. When she had to have him or die from wanting.
And yet she couldn’t say such a thing. Because the day would arrive when she couldn’t have him…when she had to give him up. And pretending that she didn’t want him, pretending they weren’t the same, two sides of the same coin, might be the only way to survive such a loss.
Then it dawned on her that he wasn’t the only one capable of manipulation.
She tilted her hips, taking him deeper, hugging him tighter inside her. Instead of answering, she raked her nails through his too long dark hair, gently scouring his scalp. Pulling his head down, she claimed his mouth in a deep, tongue-tangling kiss.
He groaned into her mouth, angling his head, deepening the kiss in turn. A wave of moisture rushed between her legs and she exploded in a burst of blinding heat, crying out against his mouth.
Singed by fire, the cold Scottish wood around them became a very distant, very insignificant thing, dimming altogether as wave after wave of sensation shuddered through her, sizzling through her nerves as Griffin continued his sinuous thrusts, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear until he stilled, pouring his heat into her.
The deep panting of their breaths mingled, frothy white clouds on the air, their chests rising and falling against each other in rhythmic unison. Almost as though they were one being. She chased off the fanciful thought.
And yet the awe, the euphoria lingered. Now she understood the blushes and whispers behind lace fans. Before, she had never imagined what was so scintillating about the subject of sex.
At best, her experiences had always been…unmemorable. At worst, painful and undignified, leaving her mortified long after Bertram left her bed.
But now she knew. Now she understood what made sane people behave without good sense. Perhaps she even understood what drove her mother to run away with Mr. Welles.
Astrid feathered her fingers against his chest, wondering at the warmth suffusing her…and waiting for it to wane, to depart as it must and make room for the cold.
He rolled his weight off her and tucked her close to his side. Long moments passed and she thought he slept until his rich voice murmured in her ear. “No more bad dreams now,” he ordered, pausing to release a contented sigh.
The command made her smile. As if he could simply rid her of nightmares with his simple avowal. Strangely enough, she was beginning to suspect this man could do anything.
“No?” she breathed.
“No,” he affirmed. “You have me.”
The smile slipped from her face. She had him. But she could not keep him.
Astrid swung her cloak about her shoulders and inhaled biting cold air. A soft smile curved her lips as she gathered their bedding from the ground.
The irony was not lost on her. Lady Astrid, Duchess of Derring, daughter of the late Marquess of Fremont, preferred the hard earth over a down-filled mattress and sheets of Giza cotton. And even more shocking, she preferred sleeping on the hard earth with an unrefined brute of a man. Her lips twisted with wicked pleasure. Not that they slept a great deal.
Her gaze moved along the tall ash trees surrounding their camp. A slate blue sky peeked though the treetops, making it difficult to determine the time of day. She could only guess it to be midmorning.
“Ready?” he asked, coming up beside her.
She nodded, suddenly shy. Heat burned her cheeks. Illogical, she knew.
Accepting his hand, she allowed him to lead her to her mount, the feel of his hand warm and strong.
“We should reach Edinburgh tonight, maybe tomorrow.”
She nodded, his words cooling some of the heat in her cheeks. Reaching Edinburgh meant an end to this. To them. He would deposit her and continue on to Balfurin.
He helped her mount before moving away. Her eyes followed him as he strode off, devouring the movements of his strong body as he swung himself atop his stallion. He nudged his horse with his boot heels. She followed suit, falling in beside him.
They moved only a few paces before Griffin pulled on his reins, halting their progress. A sound like distant thunder filled the air. The earth began to shake beneath them.
Griffin circled his stallion, scanning the surrounding woods.
“What is it?” Astrid asked, glanced wildly around them, dread forming a knot in the pit of her belly. Alarm hammered in her chest.
“Riders,” he answered a moment before dozens of Highlanders broke from the trees, raining upon them like an invading army.
Griffin positioned himself before her, but she had no difficulty assessing the assemblage of men, instantly recognizing that they were not Gallagher’s men.
An older man rode to the front, eyeing Griffin up and down with an oddly intent stare. He was a handsome man, still well formed, his exact age indeterminate. The frigid wind lifted the hair off his shoulders, the long dark locks streaked liberally with gray. “Who are you?”
“Griffin Shaw. We’re on our way to Edinburgh.”
The old man didn’t blink. His blue gaze glittered across the distance, fixing on Griffin in a way that made Astrid’s hands flex over her reins uneasily. “And what would your business in Scotland be, lad?”
“That’s of no concern to you.”
A heavy pause fell.
The older man growled, “My name is Hugh MacFadden, and I’ll be knowing your name and business.”
“MacFadden,” Griffin murmured. “Of Balfurin.”
Astrid’s gaze flew to Griffin. Anticipation coursed through her. Here he was, then—the clan’s laird himself, the very man Griffin sought.
“Perhaps we might speak alone,” Griffin suggested, revealing none of the excitement she felt.
Something dark and desperate glittered in the older man’s eyes as he stared at Griffin, an urgency that seemed unwarranted in the situation. “I’ll have your purpose here. Now.”
Astrid nudged her horse forward, and glanced at Griffin’s profile, starting in surprise to find the same look there. The same intense blue eyes rife with questions—a hungry need for answers. She looked back and forth between the two men, acknowledging that words were being spoken, passing between them without a sound.
“Who are your people?” the laird demanded.
“My father is dead. Died of a fever crossing the Atlantic. I was told his surname. MacFadden.”
MacFadden flinched as if dealt a physical blow.
A subdued hush fell over his men and Astrid suddenly knew that everyone else in the shaded glen knew more than she did about what was transpiring.
“Your father. What was his Christian name?”
Silence fell again. Griffin’s gaze skittered over the dozen men flanking Hugh MacFadden. That telltale muscle in his jaw knotted, the only outward sign of the tension swimming through him…swirling around all of them like an invisible mist.
“Conall MacFadden,” he answered at last.
MacFadden’s chest lifted on a deep breath, color bleeding from his face. He looked to his left and right with a slow turn of his head, his pent-up breath releasing in a wintry puff of air. Without a word, he lifted his hand and motioned toward Griffin.
With that single gesture, his men dismounted and mobbed Griffin, hauling him off his horse with quick hands and grim, resolute faces.
Griffin struggled against the horde of men.
“What are you doing?” Astrid shouted.
No one paid her heed as Griffin was flung to the ground and stripped of his jacket, vest, and shirt.
Astrid lurched forward with a strangled cry, hand outstretched as if she could reach him.
Griffin struggled, snarling like a beast, dark hair tossing fiercely about his head as he knocked several Highlanders to the ground with his fists.
Even in her horror, awe filled her as he fought off his attackers, the thick cords of muscles and sinews rippling beneath bronzed skin.
She winced as they overpowered him, forcing him down, his bare chest slamming flat with the icy earth.
One of the clansmen shoved Griffin’s face into coarse soil. Another placed his boot to his neck, pinning him still while others held down his arms.
Astrid slid down from her mount and charged forward, only to be yanked back by a burly Scot. An arm locked around her shoulders, and she watched, helpless, as Hugh MacFadden nudged his horse forward to peer down at Griffin’s broad back on display before him.
“There.” One of the Highlanders pointed to the small crescent-shaped birthmark high on his muscled shoulder. “Just as Molly said it would be.”
“Molly,” Astrid snapped, her brow knitting. “The woman from the inn?”
A few of the men glanced at her before returning their attention to their leader, anticipation writ upon their faces.
MacFadden’s gleaming gaze fixed on Griffin’s back, his eyes strangely moist as his breath fell harshly, fracturing the air with harsh wintry gusts.
“Let him up!” Astrid cried, jerking against the unrelenting grip on her arms. “It’s freezing!
MacFadden lifted his gaze and gave a hard nod to his men.
Griffin was released. He vaulted to his feet, arm lashing out in a blur. His fist cracked the jaw of the man whose boot had pinned him by the neck. The fellow fell to the ground with a thud, hand cupping his injured jaw.
Several clansmen lunged forward, no doubt ready to retaliate for the attack, however earned, but the laird’s voice froze them all.
“Leave him.”
With his bare chest heaving as if he had run a great distance, Griffin eyed the older man, venom a cold, dull luster in his blue eyes. Grunting, Griffin pointed an unyielding finger at the man with his arm locked around Astrid. “Unhand her.”
The man complied. Freed, she lifted her skirts and stumbled to Griffin’s side, pausing to snatch his clothes off the ground and hand them to him.
He took them and redressed, a dozen Highlanders watching his every move as if he were some oddity at carnival. “You’re my grandson,” the laird announced.
“I know,” Griffin returned, his tone matter-of-fact as he pulled his jacket over his unbuttoned vest.
“You know?” Wild bewilderment rushed through Astrid as she looked back and forth between the two men.
“Your mother. What was her name?” MacFadden pressed.
“Iona.”
The laird nodded, a dour set to his mouth. “I thought as much. You’ve my mark. All the MacFadden men bear it.” He motioned to Griffin’s person. “But you’ve her eyes. They bewitched your father.” His lip curled in a sneer. “And every other man in these parts.”
“Fascinating.” Griffin shrugged back into his jacket, his tone droll. Taking Astrid’s arm, he guided her back to her mount and lifted her into her saddle.
“It proves you’re my—”
“I don’t give a damn what it proves.” Swinging up onto his mount, Griffin glowered across the distance at his grandfather, their resemblance unmistakable. She could see it now.
Staring at MacFadden, she could well imagine how Griffin would look in forty years. Still handsome. Still imposing. Virile enough to twist her heart or any other woman’s. Only in forty years he would have a wife. Of course, Astrid wouldn’t be with him then. Some other woman would have that privilege. She would be long gone. A memory at best.
“Had you asked,” Griffin ground out, “I would have shown you the damn birthmark. At any rate, thank you. Your methods confirmed that I made a long journey for nothing. I have no family here. None I wish to claim.”
I made a long journey for nothing. His words resounded in her ears. In her heart. Wrongly. His feelings right now had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his grandfather. So he regretted coming to Scotland. She should not make it about her. About them.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his grandfather blustered.
“Home. Texas. Where I should have stayed.”
More words to gouge her soul. To swipe a bloody trail through a heart that she had permitted to feel. For the first time in her life.
Absurd, she knew. She had known they would part ways. In Edinburgh, he would be free to go wherever he wished. Be it America or Balfurin.
Griffin nudged his mount around. Astrid followed. They took only a few paces before a wall of Scotsmen gathered before them, blocking their path.
Laird MacFadden’s voice carried across the glen. “I waited years for my son to return home.”
“Your son is dead,” Griffin called over his shoulder.
“Aye, but you’re not. You’re here. A part of him. A part of me. You’re not walking away. At least not until I give you leave to do so.”
Griffin swung his mount around, angry eyes clashing with his grandfather’s.
Astrid blew out a heavy breath. At this rate, she might never make it home…but the thought did not alarm her. Not as it should have. Blast.
She bit her bottom lip. While the prospect of more time with Griffin tantalized her, common sense bade she put an end to it—to them—now. As she had tried to do at Cragmuir.
She snuck another look at Griffin.
Jaw knotting with tension, he stared straight ahead, eyes drilling into his grandfather. His blue eyes glinted with grim intensity—a determination to go his own way, to leave Scotland. To leave her.
A deep ache beneath her breastbone left her strangely breathless. She needed to free herself from him as quickly as he sought to be free of his grandfather.
Before he came to mean too much to her. Before…
Dismay filled her in that moment. Because she knew the truth then. It was too late. Her stomach heaved.
It didn’t matter how soon she freed herself from him, it was too late.
She had fallen in love with Griffin Shaw.