“How kind of you,” Astrid broke in with false charm. “I can think of no one whose company I would rather have than a remorseless killer such as yourself.”

The smug grin disappeared from his face in a flash. “I would think you would thank me for ridding you of that worthless cur. It has certainly left you free to squeeze your thighs around the first buck to cross your path.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and resisted the impulse to turn on her heels and leave him and all his crude insults where he stood. No matter how revolting his words, she stayed put, her fingers twitching at her side, itching to make contact with his face. She took comfort in the fact that with every moment that passed, she helped Petra thwart him and all his ruthless ambitions for her.

“You, sir, are a pig.”

His gaze crawled over her, glinting with mirthful spite. “And you, Duchess, are little more than a whore…no matter your fancy airs.”

She flinched.

“And you mustn’t be very good,” he continued with an arrogant c**k of his dark head. “First one husband. Now Griffin. You can’t keep a man to save your life, can you?” He flashed her a cruel smile. “Whatever you have beneath your skirts mustn’t be very appealing or Shaw would not have roused himself so early to leave your bed and fetch the reverend to wed him to my daughter.”

Stepping nearer, he ran the backs of his fingers against her cheek and down the column of her neck. She turned her face sideways, closing her eyes against the feel of him.

“That must have pricked your pride,” he continued, his voice a slow, insidious murmur that skimmed over her skin as nimbly as his hand. “Perhaps the right man could teach you how to properly please a man.” He stood so close now that she could smell the onions from last night’s dinner on his breath. Her stomach churned. Opening her eyes, she glared at him.

“What say you?” he murmured. “Would you like that? To learn what a real man is like?”

This time she could not stop herself. She flung his hand off her neck and stepped around him.

With one hand rubbing her skin as if she could rub out the stain of him on her flesh, she backed away.

“Never put a hand on me again,” she hissed.

“No?” Straightening, he brushed away the invisible wrinkles in his coat. “Pity. Then it appears you’re quite finished here. Why not salvage your pride and leave? Today, in fact. Don’t be here when Griffin returns.” The last suggestion was uttered somewhat ominously. “His whore needn’t be standing on while he weds my daughter.” Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue. “That wouldn’t do at all. Not at all.”

Without gracing him with a reply, she turned and hurried back to her chamber.

 Salvage your pride and leave.

The fact that his suggestion mirrored her intentions did not make it any easier to hear.

Pacing the length of her chamber, she rubbed her neck, the feel of his hand an irksome imprint there.

She was not fool enough to think Osborn cared about her or the status of her pride. She knew his intent. He wanted her out of the way. Would not risk Griffin changing his mind with the shadow of her presence. Apparently only she knew the unlikelihood of that happening, knew that honor would prohibit Griffin from going back on the promise he had made to Petra.

But Petra would not be here, a small voice reminded. Surely you could stay…

 And what? Be pathetic, desperate, lacking in all dignity? Sniffing about Griffin in the hopes of a future together?

She still had the matter of her own life to resume. She needed to notify Bertram’s family of his death, meet with the solicitors, inform the next in line that he had inherited the vast, insolvent estates of the Duke of Derring. No. Better that she leave now. Before Griffin returned.

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.

Chapter 25

Griffin 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.”