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He caught a glimpse of Lachlan’s face, bruised and battered in the melee, as well as the Laird Gallagher himself, large and daunting atop his horse.
“MacFadden,” Gallagher shouted. His gaze halted on Griffin and Astrid, face reddening at the sight of them. “Thieving bastard!” He pointed a gnarled finger in their direction. “They’re mine.”
“Like hell,” MacFadden thundered. “You’ve stolen all you’re going to steal from me. You’ll not take the last of my blood now.”
_”I’ve _ stolen?” Gallagher jerked his monstrous mount closer to the other laird, his bushy brows pulling together like furry caterpillars. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black!”
“Your precious Iona deprived me of my son with her witch’s spell. I’ll not be having you steal Conall’s child from me, too.” MacFadden’s eyes bulged at this declaration, his knuckles whitening about the dagger he clutched in his wiry fist.
Griffin suppressed a groan and closed his eyes in a pained blink, understanding at once. These two braying mules were _both _ his grandfathers. He dragged a hand over his face, suddenly weary.
Now he knew what his parents had been fleeing—two crotchety old men that bickered worse than women.
“Conall’s child?” Gallagher whispered, looking around as if he expected to see a toddler tumble from the trees. “You mean my Iona and Conall…”
“Aye! They had a child.” MacFadden waved in Griffin’s direction, swinging down from his mount. “And I’ll not have you making off with him like you do with my sheep.”
For once Gallagher ignored MacFadden, staring only at Griffin. “Iona?” he choked.
“She died,” Griffin answered, understanding what was being asked, “long ago. On a ship to America.”
The burly Scot’s skin turned ghostly white around his beard. He dragged a massive hand over his face, clearly overcome.
Despite himself, Griffin felt the stirrings of sympathy. At least one of his grandfathers took a moment to grieve the death of his child.
“What happened to her?”
“A fever took the ship. Many died. My parents included. Another couple took me in and raised me.”
“My son gave you to strangers rather than send you back to me?” MacFadden demanded. “I don’t believe—”
“Aye, I believe it. You made life so impossible for them, they had to run away together. They’re dead because of you.” Gallagher swung down to stand nose to nose with his foe.
Griffin winced at that stinging accusation, sharp as an arrow hitting its mark.
MacFadden’s face reddened, a vein throbbing dangerously in the center of his forehead. “Likely he and Iona didn’t want to risk you getting your hands on their child.”
“Stop it,” Griffin ground out, wanting nothing more than to knock the two old fools’ heads together. “The Shaws took me because my parents asked them. They claimed you would rip me in half with your squabbling.” At the time, he had not understood what his mother meant when she relayed that particular bit of information, but now he did.
His grandfathers looked very old in that moment. Old and tired. A quiet fell over the gathering of men, the occasional horse’s snort or jangle of harness the only sound.
“I won’t stay here to be fought over,” he continued. “My parents ran away for a reason, I see that now. If you have any desire to know me, to have a place in my life, you’ll end this thing between you two. Now.”
His grandfathers looked from him to each other, their expressions tight and pinched, as if they tasted something sour. They assessed one another for several moments, clearly attempting to gauge the other’s willingness. God forbid one of them bend before the other.
At last, they nodded, mumbled something incoherent beneath their breath, and moved back to their mounts. Heads bowed, shoulders hunkered, they resembled whipped dogs as they remounted their horses.
“Good,” Griffin declared. “If we’re in accord, then we shall _all _ go to Balfurin.”
“Balfurin! I can’t go there,” Gallagher growled.
“If you truly mean to bury the ax, then you should have no issue.” Griffin angled his head, feeling like a mother mediating between two bickering children.
Gallagher’s lips clamped shut.
Griffin arched a brow at MacFadden. “And I expect you to be obliging.”
“Aye,” he grunted, giving a single, quick nod. As if everyone understood they had reached some level of harmony, they began to move out, Gallagher and MacFadden’s men riding side by side.
Griffin wondered the last time such an event had taken place. If ever.
“And who is this skinny lass with you?” MacFadden asked after several minutes had passed. He looked around Griffin to Astrid. “Someone I should know? A daughter-in-law?”
“No,” Astrid quickly supplied.
“You’re not married, then?” Gallagher asked with a shake of his head. “But you said—”
“No, we’re not.” She held Griffin’s gaze, clearly daring him to object.
Deciding her virtue faced no threat from either one of his grandfathers, he agreed, “No, we are not.”
“I see,” MacFadden murmured, his gaze turning decidedly lascivious as it roamed over Astrid.
And Griffin could imagine what it was he saw. Too late, he realized that by telling the truth he had permitted his grandfather to form a decidedly vulgar opinion of her.
Color swept over Astrid’s cheeks, anger lighting the centers of her dark eyes. He suppressed a wave of protectiveness, reminding himself that she had opted for the truth and brought this on herself. Yet again.
“We’ve plenty of hardy lasses you can wed at Balfurin.”
“And Cragmuir,” Gallagher quickly chimed.
“Perhaps a young widow,” MacFadden suggested with a withering look for the other laird, indicating what he thought of Griffin wedding a girl from Cragmuir. “One that has proven herself a good breeder.”
Gallagher nodded. “Aye, we’ll be needing sons from you.”
Astrid made a disgusted sound between her teeth. “Yes,” she mocked, “best find a proven breeder.”
Griffin shot her a warning look. “Don’t encourage them.”
Mumbling under her breath, her gaze dropped, appearing to find the earth below of vast interest.
“Aye.” MacFadden tossed her an approving look. “Listen to the wench. She has the right of it.
Face it. There are women you wed, and women you bed.” He chuckled at his quip, his look turning faintly leering. It was clear into which category he thought Astrid fell.
Griffin slid her a dark glare. They should have continued their pretense. Instead his little duchess would have to bide her time at Balfurin with everyone thinking her little better than a whore.
“Griffin.” His name fell from her lips in a harsh plea. Those dark eyes pulled him in, compelling as ever.
“Perhaps you could impose on”—her gaze darted to his grandfathers—”one of these gentlemen to see me escorted to Edinburgh?”
Anger sizzled through him. She would ask him to let her go now? To release her? As simple as that?
“No.” His answer fell heavily between them.
She pulled back slightly in her saddle. “No?” she echoed, her voice as tremulous as a feather on the wind.
“No,” he repeated, shooting a hard glance to the openly curious men riding alongside them, disliking that they should witness the exchange. He lowered his voice. “I made a promise I intend to keep.”
She held his gaze, her dark brows drawn tightly over her dark eyes in a puzzled expression.
He looked away, training his gaze ahead of them. “Do not ask me again.” He nudged his heels and sent Waya ahead, wondering at the real reason he would not release her, for he had no reason to keep her with him anymore.
Chapter 20
Balfurin sat in the midst of a great lake, a single narrow stretch of road extending from the mainland to its front gates. The water surrounding the stronghold gleamed like glass. Craggy mountains stood sentinel around the lake. Sunlight fought to free itself from a sky of swollen gray clouds, almost the same shade as the castle’s gray stone. It was an awesome sight, and one he might have enjoyed if his thoughts were not so tangled up in the woman beside him.
Arriving in the yard, he lifted Astrid off her horse, none too pleased at the bold glances MacFadden’s men sent her way. He closed a hand around her arm possessively and shot the men dark looks as he followed his grandfathers inside the castle.
They passed through a great hall until they entered a drawing room of well-polished wood.
Thankfully, the men and their insolent stares were left behind.
His grandfathers made themselves comfortable, one on a sofa, the other in a wing-backed chair.
“Becky, drinks,” MacFadden commanded, sending a young, eager-faced maid flurrying into motion. Glass clinked as she poured drinks from a sideboard and arranged them on a tray.
Griffin sank down onto a settee, pulling the silent Astrid down beside him, her body radiating tension next to him.
The maid carried the tray around the room, offering each of them a glass of what appeared to be whiskey. When she reached Astrid, she asked politely, “Can I fetch you some tea, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank—”
“Becky, do something with the lass, would you?” MacFadden interrupted, looking at Astrid with something akin to annoyance, almost as though she had _snuck _ into the room with them uninvited.
Color spotted Astrid’s cheeks.
Becky looked from Astrid to MacFadden, clearly confused. “_Do _ something?” she asked faintly.
MacFadden flicked a hand in Astrid’s direction, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Aye. _Put _ her some place. Anywhere. I wish to speak with my grandson.”
“That’s enough,” Griffin snapped, rising in one quick motion, pulling Astrid up with him.
“Griffin,” Astrid broke in, “don’t—”
He cut her off, addressing the maid, “Would you show me to my room, please?”
“Griffin,” MacFadden’s voice rumbled out, brusque with disapproval, “we have much to discuss—”
“We can talk later,” he bit out, knowing he was close to losing control entirely. “Right now I’ll be shown to my room.”
Tossing an uncertain look at the laird, Becky began to lead them from the drawing room.
Griffin stopped abruptly and turned, the anger in him bubbling up from the surface. “Just a word of advice. You and I will get on much better if you take care in addressing my…companion with respect.”
MacFadden blinked, looking from him to Astrid and back to him again. “I see,” he murmured, nodding.
With a curt nod, Griffin turned and followed the maid out of the room, one hand still closed firmly around Astrid’s arm. Only with each step, his anger grew. And it was not solely directed at Hugh MacFadden.
Once again, she had put herself out there, exposed herself. Perhaps not to danger this time, but to scorn and derision.
Becky opened the door to a well-appointed bedchamber. “Your room,” she murmured, looking uncertainly between them. “I’m sorry the fire has not yet been lit.” She moved in the direction of the hearth, but Griffin’s voice halted her.
“Thank you, Becky, but I can see to it.”
“Very well.” She nodded and exited the room.
He thrust Astrid into the chamber before him and closed the door firmly after the maid.
She rubbed her arm where he had gripped her and moved to the center of the large chamber, watching him like an animal cornered, wary and ready to flee.
His temper burned even brighter at the sight. He dragged a hand through his hair, cursing himself for handling her so roughly, for making her look at him with such trepidation, even if she did manage to infuriate him beyond reason.
