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The door thudded shut and she released a pent-up breath, glad to have the girl’s prying eyes gone.
“You must be hungry.” He lowered the tray before her.
Stomach clenching, she gave a quick nod. Tucking the counterpane tightly beneath her arms, she snatched a chicken leg from one of the plates and tore into it with a snap of her teeth. She moaned briefly in appreciation.
“I guess making love isn’t the only time you make that sound,” he murmured as he sat beside her.
Her eyes flew open and she covered her mouth with the back of her hand, forcing herself to chew more slowly, silently. She scooted back from the tray as if distancing herself from the fare would keep her from gobbling down the dish full of buttery rolls. Almost as if eating with more restraint would prove that she was not a creature of passion, not a woman given to impulsive behavior. At least not again. Not with him.
“Don’t,” he rebuked, lowering onto his side and propping himself on an elbow. “I like a woman with an appetite.” He selected one of the rolls and waggled it before her mouth. “C’mon,” he encouraged. “You know you want it.”
She looked from him to the buttery roll.
“Astrid,” he said, his voice firm, matter-of-fact. “You have to eat.”
Leaning forward, she forced herself to take a dainty bite from the roll.
Shaking his head, he looked back at her as she ate. Flipping a hank of hair over her shoulder, he glided a finger over the smooth slope of her shoulder, marveling, “How can you be so thin and eat like this?”
“I rarely eat like this,” she replied. “At least not often. My friends call me a camel.”
“A camel storing water,” he mused, rolling a date between his fingers, staring at her as though he would like to devour her and not the food.
“Only I store food.” She smiled ruefully, recalling the afternoon Lucy had made the comparison.
Astrid had been halfway through a platter of ham salad sandwiches at the time. “Accurate description, I suppose.”
“You know, that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.”
Astrid’s mouth hardened automatically.
“And then it’s gone.” He sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She dropped her gaze to the tray and selected a wedge of cheese.
“Why can’t you smile?” he murmured, tilting her chin up with a finger. “Is it so very difficult?”
She returned his stare, answering with a solemn honesty that surprised her. “I’ve had little to smile about in my life.”
“So you won’t let yourself smile because of what has happened in the past?”
She shook her head, dislodging his finger from beneath her chin. “It’s not that simple.”
He popped a date into his mouth, watching her intently as he chewed. “Why is it so complicated?”
Because smiling leads to other things. Feelings. Emotions that lead to crazy, reckless sex with a man she had known less than a week. Her stomach heaved, her hastily eaten meal threatening to return on her.
“Astrid? What is it?” Griffin leaned in, his body an encroaching wall of heat that she immediately responded to. Like a fire in winter, his heat drew her, called to her, beckoned.
Blast. Her body wasn’t her own anymore. She had to get away from him. Quickly. Before she did anything more foolish, more reckless than she already had. Before she drew too close and went up in flames.
Long fingers traced her jaw. “Astrid,” he whispered, his drawl beguiling, a lure to her long frozen heart.
She shook her head fiercely and pulled away with a shiver.
His eyes frosted over, clouds drifting over a pale blue sky. “What?” he bit out. “I can’t touch you anymore? What precisely has changed from moments ago?”
She blinked once, long and hard. Inhaling deeply, she opened her eyes to the tempting sight of him and plunged ahead. “I can’t do this again.”
“This?” he demanded.
She motioned between them. “Yes. This. What we did…are doing.”
His jaw hardened. A muscle jumped wildly in his cheek. “You can’t say it?” he ground out.
She fought off the rising burn in her cheeks, struggling to reclaim her usual composure. “You know my meaning.”
“Sex. I suppose that’s the universal word for it. Although there are more colorful alternatives.”
Heat swept over her face, licking her cheeks. “Griffin, please.”
“What?” he snapped, eyes sparking blue fire. “I’m a common man, Astrid. What did you expect?”
She swept a hand over her burning face. “It can’t happen again. It’s wrong.”
“Wrong?” He shoved off the bed as if her nearness tainted him. “Easy to say now. After the fact.”
“You’re angry.”
“And you’re observant,” he snapped, adding in a growl, “Why the sudden change? You scratched your itch, satisfied your curiosity so now you’ll return to being the haughty bitch?
Very well. Just remember I will always know the truth.”
His eyes scoured her and she tightened her fingers on the fur counterpane, pulling it higher. She didn’t know why. The way his hot gaze slid over, she knew he remembered every inch of her, every line and curve.
“What truth?”
“That you’re a fraud, pretending to be the dignified lady, the haughty duchess who’s really as hot as any whore for it.”
Astrid stared, his words ringing in her head, every bit the truth.
She had been hot for it, on fire—for him. Only him.
She bit her lip to keep from confessing this, to stop from giving him any excuse to think that what they had shared went beyond a sordid tryst.
“Make no mistake,” he assured her, first tugging on his boots and then pulling his shirt over his head. “I won’t lay a finger on you again. I’d touch a rattlesnake before approaching you. Less likely to get bit.”
That said, he stalked across the room, wrenching the heavy door open.
“Where are you going?” she cried, leaning forward, fingers digging into the covers.
“I’ll take the company of a rough bunch of Scots over you. At least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”
She jerked at that remark, then again as he slammed the door, the sound reverberating throughout the chamber, throughout her heart.
She sat still for a long moment, her fingers flexing in the soft fur. Her eyes lowered, taking in the food before her. So much still uneaten. And she didn’t crave a bite. Nothing would satisfy the gnawing ache inside her. Not this time.
With a choked cry, she sent the tray crashing to the floor, food flying in so many pieces…like the shattering of everything she had once held to be true. About herself. About the unlikelihood of ever losing herself over a man.
Griffin stormed into the hall, glad to see that much of the crowd had dissipated. The last thing he needed was to face questioning stares. He grimaced, recalling that this crowd wouldn’t limit themselves to questioning stares. No doubt they would demand an explanation. Details he had no wish to share.
He approached the massive fireplace, skirting the tall scarlet-cushioned chairs and extending his hands out to the life-giving warmth, watching the hypnotic dance of flames within the giant rock hearth.
“Did your woman throw you out, lad?”
Griffin whirled around, hand instinctively flying to his side where he usually wore his holster.
Laird Gallagher sat in one of the chairs, his brawny arms resting on the wooden arms, reposed and regal as a king surveying his domain.
“I left of my own will,” he muttered.
The man chuckled. “Aye, we all say that. And we swear nothing will bring us back to them, but then we always return. Likes bees to the honey pot. Ah, it was the same with my bonny Maggie.
She had the fiercest temper.” He shook his grizzled head with a snort. “She could make me see red with that smart mouth of hers. I’d swear we were finished. Done.” He swiped a large gnarled hand through the air. “I’d move my things into another chamber, start looking among the women, swearing one of them would suffice to take her place.”
The man smiled then, a light entering his eyes that struck Griffin as both fond and sad.
“And?” Griffin prompted, certain he wasn’t finished.
Gallagher leaned forward in his chair, his voice lowering as if sharing some secret. “All it took was a look, a sway of her hips, and I’d say or do whatever it took to get back into her bed.” He fell back, chuckling and threading his fingers through his beard.
Griffin swung around to face the fire again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not me,” he vowed.
“Not you,” he mocked. “And why not? You’re too strong, too smart, hmm?” He winked.
“You’re just like the rest of us. A slave to your cock…and that little lass upstairs owns it.”
It burned on the tip of his tongue to deny this to the coarse old man, to inform him that any woman he’d known less than a week could not possibly matter to him. But the words stuck in his throat.
“Now,” Gallagher announced, “why don’t you sit here and tell me what brings you to Scotland.
By the time you’re finished the wee lass may be asleep and you can crawl back into bed without her even knowing.”
Griffin grinned despite himself and dropped into a chair beside him, admitting to himself that he liked the crusty old man. He reminded him of his foreman back home.
“Where are you from?”
“Texas.”
“Ah, dust and Indians.”
“Well, it’s not exactly dusty where I live.”
“Hmm,” the laird murmured. “Shaw is a Scottish name.”
“My parents immigrated to Texas—well, New York first. Texas soon after.”
“And what were you doing on MacFadden’s land?” He sniffed, rubbing his nose with a thick sausage finger. “Don’t tell me you know that ol’ battle-ax.” His eyes narrowed. “No relation, I hope.”
“No,” he answered. “My mother died several years ago. My father, a few months past. I thought it time to see the country of their birth.” To find out if his mother had been telling the truth.
“Hmm,” Gallagher murmured in response.
Griffin leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not going to have a problem leaving here, am I?”
The old man studied him for a long moment before replying, his tone deceptively off-hand,
“Well, now, I think I might enjoy your company for a bit. I would be vastly interested in hearing about these Indians of yours.”
Griffin tensed. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“And,” Gallagher continued, “I would especially like to hear more about these wealthy friends your woman mentioned. The ones that would miss her a great deal if she were to get lost in the Highlands for an extended amount of time.”
“Wealthy friends?” he asked grimly, wondering what precisely Astrid had said before his arrival…and convinced that whatever she had said had been the _wrong _ thing to mention to a clan of Highlanders desperate to feed their people through a famine.
“Aye,” Gallagher murmured, “we may want to contact them.”
Nodding, Griffin rose to return upstairs, understanding at once he and Astrid wouldn’t be permitted to depart any time soon. At least as far as the laird was concerned. He, however, had other plans. And they did not include sitting around this place for an indefinite amount of time regaling the old Scotsman with tales of snakes and Indians.
The laird’s voice stopped him. “A word of advice while you’re here.” Griffin slowed and looked over his shoulder. “Best keep an eye on that woman of yours. She’s got a cold manner about her that gives many a man a notion. You needn’t worry further about Lachlan, but there are others in the clan. A man likes to imagine he can be the one to light a fire in a woman with such a chilly way about her.”
