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She shifted from foot to foot as they waited, the heavy fall of each second convincing her that the man had been intercepted and only moments remained until they were caught.
“Easy,” Griffin whispered near her ear, his warm breath rustling loose tendrils of hair. She shivered. And not entirely from her current state of anxiety.
She nodded jerkily and leaned against the chilled stone wall outside the gatehouse.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice rumbled over the night.
Astrid jolted off the wall, squinting at the dark shape materializing from the shadows.
One of Gallagher’s men approached, eyes wary as he surveyed them. “What are you two doing down here—”
Griffin cut off the rest of his words with a swift, merciless blow to the face. The man fell in a graceless heap. Astrid jumped clear at the last moment, saving herself from being dragged down with him.
Griffin reached out and grabbed him by the shirt, assessing his half-closed eyes for a moment to make certain that he had in fact been rendered unconscious. She sighed, grateful when the man’s eyes fell completely shut, saving him from a second blow.
The other Scot returned then, gaping between the unconscious man and Griffin. “What the hell did you do to him?”
Shaking loose his fist, Griffin growled, “Seeing that he doesn’t alert the entire castle of our escape. What else was I to do?”
Scowling at his felled compatriot, he bit out, “Very well. I’ll put a bottle in his hand and drag him into the hall after I finish with you two. Come on with you, then, before someone else comes along.”
Some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders as he led them forward. Apparently the guard on duty was still occupied with Hilda. Hopefully, they would have no more incidents.
They passed through the gatehouse and beneath the half-raised grate. Astrid stood to the side and watched as Griffin and their guide lowered the drawbridge, grateful for the well-oiled chains and levers. Not a creak or clang broke the silence.
The bridge set down and Griffin swung his bag over his shoulder. Taking her valise from her hand, he tucked it beneath his arm. His eyes met hers briefly, conveying urgency. “Ready? You must be swift. We cannot be spotted.”
She nodded, a tremor of excitement skating down her spine as he closed his hand around hers.
Crazy. She should feel nothing but fear. Not excitement. Not…freedom. Not pleasure in touch.
Cold wind whistled through the air, chapping her cheeks. She watched him as he lifted his gaze to the sky.
“One moment,” he whispered, strong fingers flexing around hers.
She followed his gaze, watching the fast-moving clouds skim the night sky, drifting like smoke over the nearly full moon. Suddenly the clouds thickened, obscuring the bright orb and washing the land in darkness.
“Now,” he commanded, his voice fierce.
Adrenaline shot through her. Together, they dashed forward, racing across the wood planks of the bridge and into the wind’s sharp teeth, her hand still clamped in Griffin’s as they fled across the open grassland surrounding the castle.
Her breath puffed ahead of her in frothy gusts. She struggled to keep up, pumping her legs as hard as she could. The cold wind rushed her, smelling of snow, clawing at her hair and whipping her cloak back from her shoulders as they plunged ahead. The ties of her cloak chafed her throat.
Her heart hammered in her breast, whether from exertion or fear or delight she could not say.
The dark line of trees loomed ahead, and they dove within. Griffin released her hand and dropped their bags at his feet. Gasping, she leaned against a trunk for support.
“Wait here,” he instructed, disappearing deeper into the trees.
Silence hung thick around her, punctuated only with the howl of wind and heavy pants of her breath. Clouds moved overhead again, parting. The glow of the moon washed the earth again, limning the craggy snow-capped mountains in the horizon. Hugging herself, she waited for Griffin, studying the chill-encircled castle, a thing of beauty in the night.
A smile curved her lips. In that moment, if she never returned to Town, she could not summon a scrap of regret.
A horse neighed softly and she looked over her shoulder as Griffin emerged leading their horses.
In the soft spray of moonlight, his features looked carved of stone, every angle and line cut from a sculptor’s blade, his bruises mere shadows.
“Didn’t think we were going to walk out of here, did you?” Anger still hummed in his voice, evident in the curl of his lip as he added, “I said I’d get us out of here.”
She didn’t reply, merely moved to her mount, accepting his assistance as he boosted her up.
Looking over her shoulder as they rode away, she snuck one last glance at the dark outline of the castle, more mythical than real in the shimmering moonlight—the place where she had surrendered to desire, where she had released her long-suppressed emotions…her heart. Where, as a prisoner, she had tasted freedom for the first time in her life.
She stared behind them until the castle was swallowed up by the thick growth of trees.
And then she turned. Facing forward, her back to what was now the past.
Chapter 17
“Why are we stopping?” she asked, looking down at Griffin as he dismounted, the first words she had spoken to him since their escape from Cragmuir.
She slid from her mount unassisted, clinging to the saddle until the feeling returned to her feet.
The fear of pursuit still nagged at her. “Don’t stop on my account. I would not be the reason we’re caught.”
“You need to rest.” This he uttered without once looking her way, his blue eyes intent on the task of unsaddling his mount, dark brows drawn tightly as though in concentration.
“I’m fine,” she protested. “We’ve traveled only a few hours.”
“We rest,” he declared, firm lips barely moving around the inflexible words. “A little sleep will do us both some good.”
Sighing, she gave a brief nod and glanced up, squinting at the thick canopy of branches high above them, an impenetrable ceiling of foliage, so dense they obscured the sky from her gaze and made it impossible to tell how close they were to daybreak. She wondered if they had even been missed back at Cragmuir yet.
“They’ll expect us to ride south. In the area they first encountered us,” he offered after some moments. He lifted one shoulder. “So we’ll head west and then circle around. It will take a bit longer to get you to Edinburgh, but it’s the wisest course.”
She stared at him for a long moment, something she could do at her leisure since he continued to avoid looking at her.
Suddenly he looked up, snaring her with his chilly blue gaze. “I’ll get you there. As I promised.
The good news is that the authorities in Dubhlagan won’t likely look for you in Edinburgh so many days after your husband’s death. They’ve likely quit any search they put forth.”
She released a shuddery breath. “Good,” she managed to say, wondering at the sudden burn in her eyes. With unsteady hands, she hastily turned and began to uncinch her saddle.
The prospect of reaching Edinburgh, of taking the train home, filled her with a decided lack of cheer. Home. The word echoed dully in her heart. Soon this would all be over. And she’d be home. Out of each other’s lives for good.
He was soon at her side, brushing her hands aside as if they were insignificant gnats. She stood back, wrapping her arms around herself and feeling useless as she watched him tend to her mount.
Turning, she moved to a large ash tree. Leaning against its broad trunk, she slid to the ground, indifferent to the rough scrape of bark through her cloak—the stinging burn welcome for the feeling it brought, penetrating the numbness that tingled up her backside to her lower back from long hours in the saddle.
Her gaze followed Griffin moving about the clearing. Propping her chin on her knees, she swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She had not thought his coldness capable of wounding her. Not her—she, who lived in a state of self-imposed emotional exile. From the start, she had wished for distance from this man, had fought to maintain it, to shy from the fire that drew her, threatening to thaw her.
Now she found the cold unbearable.
He dropped their saddles near her and tossed her the bedroll. “Here.”
Without another word, he disappeared, leading the horses from the clearing, no doubt to a nearby pond or brook. He always made a point of camping near a water source.
She made quick work of unrolling the bedding, her hands smoothing out the edges of the tarp, trembling in the most vexing way.
They would no doubt sleep side by side again. It was only practical. Especially in this cold. The smell of snow hung on the air. It would likely grow colder as the night unfolded.
Her heart raced at the prospect of them so close, bodies side by side throughout the night, sharing their heat…sharing each other. And yet how could she sleep beside him and not remember, not relive their time together, not turn to him like a moth seeking flame, hungry for him, for more of what her body could not forget?
Finished with arranging the bedding, she propped a saddle against the tree and leaned her back against it, wondering how she might bridge the gap that she herself had forged…and why she even wished to. Because quite simply, she must not.
But shouldn’t they be civil toward each other? Considering they were stuck together, at least for the time being, it was the proper thing to do.
Proper. She let the word roll through her head, telling herself that was her sole motivation. Not because she craved something more. Not because she craved him.
Sighing, she scrubbed her hands over her face. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she missed him. As he had been before. Caring. Interested. His eyes hungry on her. And she had pushed him away, a flame too hot to bear touching.
He returned then. Tethering the horses to a nearby bush, he disappeared back into the trees without a word, returning minutes later with an armful of kindling.
She watched as he started a fire, the offer to help on the tip of her tongue, but she held back, clinging to her silence, afraid of speaking. Afraid of rejection from the cold man he had become, the man she had pushed him into becoming.
She studied him in silence, her gaze lingering on his muscular thighs, stretched taut against his trousers as he crouched before the fire. Rising, he went about making camp, continuing to make her feel invisible, a mere shadow. Tormented. He rifled through his satchel and took out the twine-secured package of jerky.
At last, he joined her on the bedroll she had spread out, handing her a hunk of the dried meat.
She cleared her throat. “You never said what you’re doing in Scotland.” Her hands played about the rough edges of her meat.
“Nothing of importance,” he answered, his voice low and gravelly.
She watched him in the firelight, disbelieving. Moistening her lips, she persisted. “Why are you here?”
She began to suspect he would ignore her question until he said, “My mother died a few years ago.” Bending his leg, he propped an arm on his knee, rolling his piece of dried venison between his fingers. “I’m headed to a place called Balfurin. The lands of Laird Hugh MacFadden.”
She angled her head to the side. “Gallagher’s enemy?”
He nodded.
She studied his chiseled profile. The fire cast dancing shadows on his face. Entrancing.
He didn’t look at her as he continued, simply stared into the fire, almost as if he spoke to the nest of crackling fire and not her at all. “My mother was half out of her mind at the end…but she said certain things.” He paused, tearing off another piece of jerky with his teeth. He chewed for some moments and swallowed before adding, “At first, I told myself nothing she said could be taken seriously. The pain she was in…” A muscle knotted along the bruised flesh of his jaw as his voice faded.
She resisted the urge to touch him, to feather her fingers over his bristly cheek in a soothing gesture.
