He seemed to stare at her even harder then, his fingers tightening around her hand.

Amending her tone, she explained, “Fair recompense, I should think.” She curled her fingers against his cheek to keep her palm from caressing his flesh, warm and supple beneath her hand, the gritty growth of a beard tickling the backs of her fingers. “The least I could do for you after you came to my aid.”

He grinned, a disarming smile that revealed a flash of white teeth in his bronzed face. A smile that would curl any female’s toes. Only Astrid was not _any _ female.

Bertram had possessed his fair share of charm and endearing grins. Her heart had fluttered on more than one occasion in the course of their courtship. And yet that all ended after they were married and he had obtained what he sought—her dowry to spend. And spend he did, running through it in record time.

 _Never again. _ A charming smile would not worm its way past her defenses. She was dead to such things. Nothing like her mother, so easily charmed and lured by a man.

“Ah, then. I’m not in your debt?” His eyes twinkled with a lively light and she marveled that anyone should be in such good spirits while suffering from a nasty knock to the head. She could not fathom him at all.

Bertram would have gone to bed for a month, every servant in the house put to use attending him. The man had been fractious when he came down with a mild cold.

“Of course not,” she replied briskly, attempting to slide her hand free again. “I merely brought you here and played at the role of nurse…and not very well, mind you.” She gave her hand another tug, uneasy beneath the gleam of his light blue stare. “If anything, I’m still very much indebted to you and your heroic efforts.”

He cocked a dark brow. “Oh? Interesting. And how might you repay me?” His eyes skimmed over her suggestively, his mouth curving in that beguiling grin again. Oh, he was a wicked charmer. His thumb moved in small circles over the sensitive inside of her wrist. Tingles shot up her arm.

Cheeks burning, she yanked her hand free with a disgusted sniff. “A _gentleman _ would not require a lady to repay him.” She rubbed her wrist, the imprint of his hand burning like a brand.

Rising, she poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and offered it to him.

He accepted the glass. She watched, transfixed at the play of his throat as he drank thirstily.

“Easy,” she cautioned.

He handed back the glass with a satisfied sigh and folded an arm behind his head, revealing the paler skin beneath his nicely sculpted bicep. Even the tuft of hair beneath his arm drew her eye, the sight so male, so…primal.

“Not even a small token, then?” he asked. “I believe knights of old accepted tokens from ladies in payment for services given.”

“An antiquated custom no longer in practice, to be sure.”

“But not without some sense.” His blue eyes warmed. “And appeal.”

Her mouth twisted with disdain. “Such tokens, I believe, were freely given and not coerced.”

Were men everywhere alike? Grasping, devious opportunists doing all they could to get what they felt they deserved? “What would you have me give, sir?”

“Call me Griffin.”

She arched a brow. “What would you have me give, Mr. Griffin?”

“The name is Griffin Shaw, but I think we have crossed the line where we may use our Christian names.”

Folding her hands neatly in her lap, she repeated her question. “_Mr. Shaw, _ what would you have me give?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You are a chilly one. Are all British ladies like you?” Without waiting for her response, he reached out and reclaimed her hand, tugging her nearer. “I wonder what I could possibly want from such an attractive lady?”

She permitted him to pull her close, watched his well-carved lips move, hugging every word as he spoke. The rake.

Lips a hairsbreadth from her own, she heard herself ask in her starchiest tone the one question most likely to gain a reaction, “Tell me, Mr. Shaw. Are you in the habit of kissing married women?” She held her breath, waiting to see what kind of man he was—how deep his honor ran.

He paused, the whole of him tensing beneath her.

“Married?” His eyes dropped to her ring finger. “You wear no ring.”

“I left it behind lest some person of dubious morals decide to relieve me of it,” she lied. The ring had vanished in the night with Bertram years ago. Along with the rest of her jewelry.

“Shit.” He released her as if he suddenly held a viper in his grasp. His pale blue eyes roved over her regretfully. “Pity.”

She had so few dealings with truly honorable men that she did not quite know what to say at his immediate release of her. She knew Bertram considered married women fair play. As did most gentlemen of the ton. It would not have stopped them. Not as it stopped Griffin Shaw.

“And where is this husband?” His gaze flicked about the room as if he would find Bertram tucked away in some corner.

“I’m to meet him in Dubhlagan,” she replied, hoping he did not pry further, that he did not ask for answers she was unprepared to give.

“Ah, my destination as well.” He nodded slowly. “Perhaps you would allow me to escort you and your companion? I feel obliged to see you reach your destination safely.” He sat up higher on the bed.

“My companion?” She felt her brow wrinkle. “Oh, you mean Coral. She resigned her post. It appears she lacks the constitution for Scottish…weather.” Her mouth twisted at the wholly inaccurate euphemism.

“Weather? The girl seemed hardy enough. She had a strong set of lungs on her as I recall.” He lifted a dark brow in skepticism.

Astrid felt her lips twitch.

“So she left you here alone, then?” he asked. “Rather cowardly of her.”

Astrid shrugged. “I still have my driver. So you needn’t feel obliged to see me to my destination.”

“But I do,” he countered. “You’ve already sampled the dangers of this—”

“It’s unnecessary,” she insisted.

He studied her a long moment before replying. “Where I come from Indians believe that once you save a person’s life, you are forever bound.”

Their eyes held for a long moment. Longer than appropriate. Longer than comfortable.

“And what if one has no wish to be bound?” she asked, her voice a treacherous shiver on the air.

“One cannot simply decide to be freed.” His eyes roamed her face, searching. Looking deeply at her…in a way no one had ever looked at her before. Almost as though he saw her. Truly saw her.

“In our case, we saved each other. I suppose that makes us doubly bound to one another.”

 Bound. To him. A stranger? Another man.

She was already bound to one man she did not want. Must she suffer ties to another? Even one as enticing as him? Would she never be free?

With a small shake of her head, she dismissed the foolish thought. _Of course not. _ He was being fanciful. Likely toying with her. They were not bound because they helped each other out of a sticky situation. Stuff and nonsense.

Her gaze drifted from his watchful eyes to his bandaged forehead.” Well, I don’t think you are fit to travel anywhere. Not for a good while.”

He brushed his fingers over his bandaged forehead. “What? This? Merely a scrape.”

Unable to stop herself, her gaze dipped, roaming the expanse of his chest, skimming the many scars on his sculpted muscles, staring overly long at the flat copper-brown ni**les so unlike her own. Heat swarmed her face at the unbidden thought and she quickly looked away. “I see you’re accustomed to such misuse.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him lift one shoulder in a shrug. She allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and faced him again, waving at the scars and asking the rather impertinent question, “Where did you get those?

He smiled, his teeth a blinding flash of white in his tanned face. But the smile was somehow empty, guarded. A distracting flash intended only to…well, distract. “Can’t remember the origins for half of them.”

She pointed to the largest one, a dark, jagged scar that spanned his ribs. “You can’t remember that?”

His smile slipped. A shadow fell over his eyes, darkening the pale blue to a deep indigo, murky as stormy waters. “That prize came from a Mexican bayonet at San Jacinto.”

“San Jacinto?” she echoed.

“You’ve never heard of the battle of San Jacinto?” He frowned. “Let’s try something bigger.

How about the revolution for Texas independence?”

She shook her head, feeling rather stupid…and angered at the mockery of his voice. Who was he to judge her?

“It was a long time ago, I suppose.” His top lip curled. “I don’t suppose a nasty little revolution so far from your shores would attract the notice of a lady like you. Too many balls to occupy your time. I imagine you have never even picked up a newspaper.”

In truth, she had not. Not until she married and left her father’s house. Her father claimed newspapers accounted the world affairs of men and were unfit for a lady’s eyes. And, truthfully, balls had occupied a great deal of her time. At her father’s behest. How else would she have attracted a husband for Papa to select for her—without thought to her preferences?

Shoving such thoughts away before she let her emotions get the best of her—emotions she had always been so careful to suppress—she continued, her voice composed and neutral as ever,

“Texas, then? That is where you are from?”

“Yes,” he replied, “And what of you, Mrs….” his voice faded and he lifted a dark brow.

“Lady Astrid, Duchess of Derring,” she supplied.

 “Lady, is it?” His lips twitched as if amused. “A duchess. You mean I’ve met my first blueblood?” He raked her with that potent blue stare of his. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

She bristled, somehow certain she should not feel complimented.

“What brings you to the Highlands?” His brow furrowed. “Not exactly Paris, is it?”

She turned her attention to his wool blanket, suddenly feigning interest in smoothing its wrinkles and folds along the edge of the bed, careful to avoid touching him as she did so.

She felt his stare on her face and knew he waited for some kind of explanation. “A wedding,” she answered, blurting the first thing to come into her mind. Not precisely a lie.

“I see,” he replied, and she could tell that he did not. He was either too polite or simply did not care enough to press her with more questions. “Well, I feel obliged to escort you the rest of the way. This is dangerous country as you yourself know,” he murmured. “It will put my mind at ease to deliver you safely into the care of your husband.”

The thought of him escorting her into Bertram’s dubious care made her stomach knot with discomfort…and a familiar shame.

Griffin Shaw was a stranger. She should not care what he thought of her, but the idea of him knowing that Bertram had _abandoned _ her, that she had not seen him in almost six years, that she journeyed to Scotland to stop him from marrying another woman. It was too mortifying.

Such a confession made her chest tighten. Humiliating heat swept over her. Dragging a steadying breath into her lungs, she ruthlessly shoved the sensations back.

Resolve gleamed in his pale blue eyes, and she knew she would not be able to sway him from his chivalrous impulse. For whatever reason, he was committed to assisting her. Perhaps he truly believed that nonsense of them being _bound _ now. Perhaps. But there was more to it. Another reason lurked in his ever-shifting gaze. And it made her skin prickle.

Instead of protesting, she nodded, smiled tightly, and feigned acquiescence. “Very well. I would appreciate that, Mr. Shaw. We may depart as soon as you’re fit for travel.”