Surrender to Me Page 4

  Once in the room, Molly leaned over the man, pressing both hands to his face. He opened his eyes and looked up at her with a wild unseeing gaze.

  “I know, love,” she cooed in her thick burr. Glancing to Astrid, she said, “He’s feverish.”

  “Should we send for the physician again?”

  “If you want to waste good coin for him to tell you what I already know.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  “We need to bring down his fever,” Molly replied, undoing the buttons at her cuffs and pushing her sleeves up to reveal brawny forearms. “And clean the wound,” she said as she peeled back the bandage to inspect his injury. Whatever she saw had her shaking her head. “I’ll fetch some water. You’ll need to help me bathe him.”

  Astrid stared after Molly long after she left the room. Undressing him had been bad enough. Now she must bathe him?

  She approached the bed. Biting her bottom lip, she stared down at him—at the bronzed muscles waiting for her ministrations. Her palms tingled and her fingers twitched at her sides.

  Familiar self-loathing rose up to choke her. She was a married woman. One of the few things left to her was the fact that she had remained faithful to her vows. She had not caved to any of the propositions put to her these many years, even when it had been clear that to do so—to say yes—could help restore her funds and save her from the sneers of the ton’s dames when she passed by them in a gown four seasons old. The tremor of anticipation now coursing through her was just another strike to her self-respect. She was above base desire for a man not her husband.

  “Here we are,” Molly announced, arriving back in the room, several linens tucked beneath one arm and a basin of fresh water in her hands. Setting the basin on the side table, she dipped one of the cloths within. Wringing it dry, she laid it on one side of his wide chest.

  “Straight from the well,” she murmured in a soothing voice. “There you are, lad. Nice and cold for you. Doesn’t that feel better?”

  Nodding, she instructed Astrid, “Pull the blanket off him.”

  The command gave her a jolt, but she obeyed, baring the man before them and schooling her expression into the neutral mask that had become second nature.

  Molly soaked another cloth for his chest.

  Astrid followed suit, gasping as her hands met the cold water. She pressed the wet linen to his face, wiping the beads of sweat away.

  He moaned and turned his face into the linen.

  Her belly tightened at the sound, low and primal. The image of his big body, hot and naked—like now—tangling with hers amid the sheets flashed through her mind.

  “Och,” the maid tsked, spreading a dry linen towel over his hips and groin area. “Even cold, he’s impressive to behold.” She winked at Astrid. “No diminishing this man, that’s for certain.”

  With a disdainful sniff, Astrid continued her ministrations, moving on to his neck, reminding herself that she was no green girl fresh out of the schoolroom but a married woman. She should not be affected by the mere sight of a man’s body.

  The maid chuckled. “You’re an icy one. Likely not had a proper bedding.”

  “I’m a married woman.”

  “What’s that to do with it? If you ever had a man plow you good and well, you wouldn’t look at this one with such cool eyes,” Molly chuckled roughly, adding, “Let’s roll him over now.”

  They rolled him onto his side, paying special heed to his injured head.

  Her chest grew heavy and tight. Molly’s coarse words played over in her head. Likely not had a proper bedding. Astrid supposed she hadn’t. Or else she had forgotten. But then she suspected that was the sort of thing one never forgot.

  Molly slapped another damp linen over his impossibly broad back, the skin smooth and flawless save one crescent-shaped birthmark. Suddenly, Molly paused with a stillness that Astrid found uncustomary in the woman, even in their short acquaintance.

  “What is it?” Astrid queried, looking back and forth between Molly and his naked back.

  Molly traced the small birthmark that rested high on his shoulder, an odd expression on her face.

  “N-nothing,” the maid murmured, her gaze dipping to study the man’s profile with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of Astrid’s neck prickle.

  She, too, studied his face as if she should see something there. Something beyond the handsome man that made her feel things she had no business feeling.

  “Nothing at all,” the maid repeated and fell into a silence that lasted for the remainder of the night. They placed cloth after cooling cloth over his big body, cleaning his wound several times and reapplying the salve Dr. Ferguson had left.

  When dawn broke, its misty light peeking through the mullioned window, she felt certain she knew his body, every ridge and hollow, every scar, every muscle and sinew, better than her own. Even his smell—wind and man—seemed imprinted in her nose.

  Astrid glanced to the silent maid as she gathered the heap of damp linens, piling them on a tray before moving to the door.

  “I’ll send breakfast up shortly. See that you eat. Doesn’t look like there’s much to you beside bones, and he’ll be in need of your care.” Her gaze fell on the man and that strange, intense look came into her eyes again. “We can’t have anything happen to him.”

  Then she left the room. Astrid stared after her, wondering at that parting remark. It sounded almost like Molly had a personal interest in his survival.

  Bone-tired, Astrid shook her head and dragged the chair from the window to the bed. After tending to him through the long hours of the night, it seemed natural to stay close, to feast her eyes on him, to perhaps even hold his hand while he slept…

  She snorted lightly and pushed that mad impulse from her head. Foolish sentiment. And so unlike her.

  He seemed less restless. Almost as if he truly slept. Leaning over the bedside table, she blew out the lamp, allowing the dim gray of dawn to light the room.

  Settling back in the stiff wooden chair, she laced her fingers over her stomach. Eyes achy and heavy from lack of sleep, she cocked her head, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest through slit eyes, wondering what had motivated him to stop and help her today. To put himself at risk for strangers.

  Her father would not have done so, would have considered it beneath him to assist a pair of unknown women. He had not even helped Astrid’s mother when she sent word, pleading for his help to come home after she had run away with her lover.

  Bertram would certainly not have stopped to lend aid to them either. Not at risk to himself.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  Tried to forget.

  Only the years had taught her she could never forget. The past could never be outrun.

  Chapter 5

  She woke with her cheek cushioned against a silky hardness that was at once strange and comforting. Opening her eyes, she stared into a pair of startling blue ones.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” he drawled, his deep voice rumbling beneath her cheek. Warm fingers brushed tendrils of hair from her face. “Usually I know the names of the women who use my chest for a pillow.”

  Astrid surged up from his chest. Glancing around, she found herself still sitting in the chair. Apparently she had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen forward, using his chest as the pillow.

  Straightening her stiff spine, she tucked stray tendrils of hair behind her ears. “G-good morning. How are you feeling?”

  A smile tugged at his mouth. “Like a stampede ran over me.”

  Before she could think better of it, she reached out and felt his brow with her fingers, her familiarity with his body temporarily blinding her to the fact that the virile man she had admired and touched so intimately was now awake and no longer unaware of her attentions.

  And he was aware. His pale blue gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made her snatch back her hand.

  He stopped her, catching her wrist and pressing her hand back again
st his face.

  “You stayed with me?” he asked, clearly having no difficulty remembering the events of yesterday now. He glanced about the room. “You brought me here?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t have left you bleeding to death on the roadside, could I?”

  “Oh, you could have,” he countered, silver lights glinting in the pale blue of his eyes. “Others would.

  “Well, I couldn’t have.”

  “Well, then you’re very kind.”

  Kind? She winced. No one had ever described her as kind before. With good reason.

  “No,” she replied, her voice more of a reprimand than she intended. “I am not.”

  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 nipples 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?”