“Indeed,” she retorted before Griffin had a chance. “I _planned _ for you to murder my husband so that I might be free to wed another. All to vex you.”

Osborn’s face burned a vivid red, lips working feverishly as if searching for words foul enough to hurl.

Dismissing the man, Astrid’s gaze sought Griffin’s. “Now step aside,” she commanded. “I’ve important matters to attend.”

MacFadden made a slight noise in his throat, a cross between a laugh and a cough. “Perhaps she has the making of a MacFadden after all.”

“More like a Gallagher,” Griffin’s other grandfather chimed with a lift of his chin. “But I already suspected there was mettle to the lass. No grandson of mine would pine after a woman without a fair dose of spirit.”

“As pleased as I am that you both approve, allow me to say that I don’t give a damn.” Striding forward, he took Astrid’s hand in his.

“Nay!” Osborn protested, childlike in his pique. Shoving between Griffin and Astrid, he charged Griffin. “_You’ve _ done this! Ruined everything! I shall not stand for it!”

Like a thread stretched overly tight, the last of Griffin’s patience snapped. He grabbed Osborn by the vest with both hands. “Do you really wish to make an enemy of me?”

Osborn’s mouth sagged open and he issued forth a slight squeak of sound.

“I’m not your daughter to be cowed and manipulated…or someone who’s going to die so easily at your hands.” He tightened his grip and lifted the man to the balls of his feet. “Care to test me?

Because I’ve learned many things from growing up in…” He cocked his head to the side. “What was it? A primitive Godforsaken frontier? I’ve learned useful things. Like how to make a man suffer for every rotten thing he has ever done.”

After a long moment, Osborn spit out in a thread-thin voice, “That’s unnecessary.”

He flung Osborn from him with a growl of disgust. “I think you’ve outlived your welcome here.”

Osborn looked at MacFadden, appealing with a small, pitiable, “Cousin.”

Griffin’s grandfather lifted his large shoulders in an apathetic shrug. “What can I say, Thomas?

You’ve been a trial. Best take yourself home. And don’t return unless invited.”

Flushing, Osborn tugged his rumpled jacket into some semblance of order before striding away.

Griffin reclaimed Astrid’s hand. With a quick glance at the reverend, he promised, “We’ll be back.”

Pulling her after him, he led her past wide-eyed servants and up the stairs to their chamber. Their chamber. Before she packed her belongings and thought she could leave his life as suddenly and unexpectedly as she entered it. And that, he vowed, would never happen.

Standing before Griffin, Astrid opened her mouth to speak, but he hauled her into his arms and smothered her lips with the hot brand of his kiss.

She managed a garbled squeak. “Griffin! What are you doing?”

“Punishing you,” he said against her lips, “for _thinking _ about leaving me.” His warm palms slid along her cheeks, rasping her tender skin and trapping her for his kiss.

With a moan of pleasure, she wound her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes, returning the kiss. A metallic clank trembled distantly in her head, similar to the sound of her back garden gate opening and shutting the night her mother had left…fleeing Astrid for a chance at her heart’s desire.

The sound reverberated through her now, the discordant clank marking the crumbling of her defenses, her willing departure from the known and familiar, the cold and lifeless, into a world of heat and fire, an uncertain life fraught with risk.

For the first time, Astrid willingly placed her trust and heart into the hands of another. Stepped from the shadows into the light. Despite the risk. Or perhaps because of the risk—the exhilaration of living.

“Astrid,” he broke away to mutter, planting several small kisses to her lips, her chin, her cheeks.

“My love.”

A rough sound rose from her throat, half sob, half laugh. Her fingers clutched his biceps. She sagged against him, convinced her weak knees couldn’t support her. “You brought the reverend for us?” she asked between kisses.

“You don’t think I would marry anyone else. It’s been you. Only you since I first saw you on that road. An angel sent to rescue me.”

Astrid pulled back to look deeply into his eyes. Her fingers came up to cover his on her cheeks.

“Rescue you?” She shook her head. “You rescued me,” she whispered starkly. “In every way.

You’ve given me life, Griffin. Breathed it into my very soul, my heart.”

“We’ll call it a draw, then. We rescued each other.” His thumbs shifted, tracing small circles on her cheeks. “Marry me, Astrid. Marry me today.”

She smiled.

What he was suggesting was absurd, terrifying. The unknown. Stark and real. And she had never been happier, more thrilled at the prospect.

“I love you, Astrid,” he said, his voice hoarse and deep, reverberating through her.

She closed her eyes, the words squeezing at her heart. “I can’t recall the last time I heard anyone say those words to me.” And until now, she had not known she wanted to hear them. Needed to hear them.

His hands tightened on her face, his blue eyes glittering with deep intensity. “You’re going to hear those words every day. As you deserve. So much you’ll learn to take them for granted. I promise you that.”

“I love you.” Turning her face into his hand, she kissed his palm, thinking she would never tire of those words, never take for granted words she had heard so little in her life. “I love you, Griffin.”

He pulled her hard against him, responding with a kiss. His hands slid from her face to the tiny buttons at the top of her dress. “Love me, Astrid.”

She laughed lightly against his lips, lodging a half-hearted complaint as he plied his fingers through her hair, loosening the pins.

“The reverend is waiting,” she reminded, gasping when his hand closed over one breast.

“He can wait. All damn night if need be,” Griffin muttered.

Astrid gave a small yelp as he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. “I, however,” he added, “can’t wait another moment. You love me.” His blue eyes glinted down at her. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re my wife.”

Running a hand along his square jaw, she waited for the whispers in her head, the ones that had always been there, calling for duty and restraint, to remind her that people waited downstairs, no doubt talking about them, speculating…

And yet nothing. Nothing could be heard save the beating of her heart, the hum of her blood rushing in her ears. All for love. For Griffin. For living and loving freely for the first time in her life.

Griffin stopped at the bed, his arms cradling her tightly against him. She could feel the thud of his heart against her side, matching the rhythm of her own.

“Astrid?” he murmured and her gaze slid up to his, reading the silent question there…the patience and understanding in the pale blue depths.

He would do whatever she wished. _Restrain _ himself, save his passion, deny spontaneity, and stow away his desire for later. He would pull away, take her downstairs and properly wed her before he touched her again. For her. Because he loved her.

The old Astrid would have taken the offer. And felt the correct, respectable lady for it. Whether true or not, she would have cloaked herself in the façade and never surrendered to passion, to him, herself.

Glancing down, she slid her fingers beneath his vest, caressing the firm chest through his shirt.

“Are we _still _ wearing our clothes?”

Grinning, he dropped her on the bed. “Not for long. Not for long.”

Epilogue

“How long are we going to sit here?” Griffin asked, his voice warm as a summer breeze sweeping through her. Especially welcome considering that Yorkshire was almost as cold as the Highlands this early in spring.

Griffin glanced out the window. “The servants are likely wondering at the carriage sitting in the drive.”

“Hmmm,” Astrid murmured with a nervous tilt of her head, fingers tapping her lips anxiously as she glanced out the part in the curtain and considered the impressive home of the Earl of Moreton.

“Forever, then?” he asked at her continued silence.

Astrid shook her head vigorously, smoothing gloved hands over her muslin skirts. “Just a bit longer.”

She had taken great pains with her wardrobe this morning. Rising early, she had left Griffin asleep, n**ed and tangled enticingly in the bed linens at the nearby inn where they had taken lodgings.

Griffin smiled indulgently and moved across the carriage to sit beside her. He plucked her hand from her lap and ran his thumb over the back of her glove. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes. I do.” With a deep, bracing breath, she nodded and allowed him to escort her from the carriage. The front door opened before they knocked, the butler’s ready gaze telling them that their presence had long been known.

Moments later, they found themselves led into a well-appointed drawing room. Astrid glanced around, contented to see that Portia lived in such comfort.

“I will inform Lady Moreton of your presence.” Bowing, the butler left them. The moment the door clicked shut, she sagged against a chintz-covered sofa.

Griffin sank down beside her, his eyes meeting hers in concern. “You’re certain you want to do this?”

“It’s long overdue.”

“I don’t think you have anything to be sorry about.” He tapped her nose fondly. “As far as I’m concerned, you couldn’t be more perfect.”

She snorted and shook her head. “You must really love me.”

He leaned over her, lips brushing hers in several nibbling bites. “I must.”

Her fingers curled into his jacket as he deepened their kiss, their tongues mating in a feverish kiss.

The click of the drawing room doors registered dimly. Shoving at his broad shoulders, she wiggled out from beneath him and rose to greet her sister-in-law.

“Astrid,” Portia murmured, blue eyes blinking in astonishment.

Bertram’s sister had matured into every inch the elegant lady, her once waifish appearance long gone. With her jet tresses arranged elegantly atop her head and her gown of deep blue, she looked the perfect countess.

“Hello, Portia,” she murmured, resting a hand on Griffin’s arm. “This is my husband, Griffin Shaw MacFadden.”

Griffin stood tall at her side, inclining his head ever so slightly, a polite smile on his lips, but in his eyes lurked a wariness, a readiness to pounce and defend if Astrid were in any way affronted.

She slid her fingers down his arm to lightly encircle his wrist, letting the simple touch stay his impulse to shield her.

“Your husband?”

Flushing, Astrid realized she had not even shared the news of Bertram’s demise. With fumbling fingers, she pulled Bertram’s signet ring from her reticule and handed it to Portia.

Portia accepted the ring, studying it.

“I’m sorry, Portia.” She fought to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat. “Your brother is dead. Buried in a churchyard in Dubhlagan, Scotland.”

A deep sigh rattled loose from Portia’s chest. “I can’t say I’m surprised. If anything, I would have thought Bertram met his end long ago. He certainly did nothing to promote a long, prosperous life.”

“No,” Astrid murmured, thinking of how Bertram had died. How he had lived. “He did not.”

Portia lifted her gaze from the ring. “And you’ve remarried.”

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly. “If Bertram’s death brought nothing else, I’m glad it gave you your freedom.” She glanced once at Griffin before settling her gaze back on Astrid. “And love.”