Surrender to Me

by Sophie Jordan

  And yet she found herself unable to move as Molly set to work, removing first one heavy boot and then another, each dropping to the inn’s wood floor with a thud. She stared at the man’s bare feet against the stark white linens.

  Surprisingly attractive feet. Long with clean lines.

  Molly cleared her throat. “Are you going to help or just stare?”

  Mumbling, Astrid stepped forward. With Molly’s help, they forced him into a sitting position and removed his buttery-soft jacket from broad shoulders. She winced at his low groan. She hated that he was in pain, that he suffered…all because of her. She blinked, alarmed at the sentiment. Unusual of her. This caring for a stranger. Even if he had helped her, she did not know him. Why should she care so much?

  “There, love,” Molly crooned, humming as they stripped him of his wool vest and shirt, lowering him to the bed, leaving him bare from the waist up.

  Astrid’s throat tightened at the sight of so much bronzed skin.

  “Lovely man you’ve got here,” Molly praised with a wink, trailing a chapped, work-worn hand down the hard muscles of his chest to the flat, sculpted plane of his belly.

  “He’s not my man,” Astrid quickly corrected, heat firing her cheeks.

  “No?” Molly cocked her head to the side. “Would that I were twenty years younger.” She winked at Astrid again, her hands moving to the man’s trousers with decided enthusiasm.

  “I was something to look at in those days,” she continued. “Every man in my clan vied to have me in his bed. Even the Laird MacFadden himself…before he got himself wed.” Her eyes slid over Astrid critically, and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Course I knew a thing or two about showing off my assets.”

  Astrid opened her mouth, and then completely forgot what she was going to say when the maid began tugging those breeches down narrow hips. One fierce yank and his trousers came to a stop at the middle of his muscled thighs.

  Fire lit her cheeks.

  “Oh, my.” Molly chuckled, eyes wide in her lined face. “He’s a brute of a man, isn’t he? Lovely.”

  Astrid had not even occupied a room with an undressed man in years. She never thought the male form could be beautiful. Or particularly daunting. But then she had never seen a man like him before. Bertram only ever visited her room in the dark of night, arriving silent as a thief.

  Swallowing past her suddenly tight throat, she forced her gaze away as Molly pulled his trousers down his legs.

  The maid covered him with a blanket from the waist down, shaking her head sadly. “Shame to lose sight of that,” she mumbled just as a knock sounded at the door.

  Grateful for the distraction, Astrid opened the door to reveal a florid-faced gentleman who stood no higher than her shoulder. He nodded in greeting. “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Dr. Ferguson. The innkeeper sent for me.”

  Astrid waved him in, standing back as he moved to the bed, wasting no time inspecting the man lying there, prodding at the knot on his head until it bled freshly. Pausing, he frowned and glanced at Astrid. “How long has he been unconscious?

  “Perhaps two hours,” she answered, seeing the stranger in her mind as he shot the highwaymen from atop his mount, reminding her of a warrior from old. A barbarian. Nothing like the proper gentlemen that pervaded her world back in Town.

  Molly moved beside her and together they watched as the doctor grunted in what could have been disapproval. Standing back, he shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  Picking up a damp cloth, he set to work cleaning the gash with swipes that could hardly be considered gentle. “He’s lucky. A little lower and he might have lost his eye. Highwaymen, I take it?”

  Astrid nodded.

  “They’ve been a plague in these parts lately. Damned famine…” his voice faded and he shook his head. “Most crofters in these parts have been evicted to roam the countryside…the rest are living off oat rations that wouldn’t keep a goat alive through winter,” he muttered. “How can a man survive, I ask you?”

  Astrid shook her head, saying nothing. No comment was needed. The frequent aches of her own belly had taught her a thing or two about hunger.

  With quick movements, the doctor rummaged through his satchel, soon settling back with a needle and thread. “A few stitches should set him to rights.”

  Astrid watched for only a moment before turning away and moving to the window facing the yard. The flash of the needle before it plunged through flesh turned her stomach.

  “He should be his old self in no time,” the doctor murmured as he worked, his voice carrying to her where she stood. “Assuming infection doesn’t set in.”

  Astrid prayed it did not. She did not want this man’s death on her head. Her conscience was already burdened enough. It could not endure more.

  “There now,” the doctor announced, rising to his feet.

  Astrid returned her attention to the man asleep on the narrow bed, wrapping her arms around her middle.

  Some of the color had fled his skin. The physician finished securing a stark white bandage to his head. A small stain of blood already spotted it.

  “Change his bandages periodically, and keep the wound clean.” He set two small vials on the wood-scarred bedside table. Moving his hand from one jar to the other, he explained, “A salve for the wound and laudanum for the pain. Administer the laudanum with care. See he gets no more than a few drops a day.”

  Dr. Ferguson looked directly at her as he spoke. “If infection sets in, send for me.”

  “And how will I know if it does?” she asked.

  “If the wound turns foul or a fever arises”—his mouth set in a grim line—“you’ll know.”

  She glanced down at the man who had somehow fallen under her care, frowning at that irony. She did not possess a nurturing instinct. Not like other ladies—friends included—that cooed over kittens and babies in prams.

  “He’s strong.” The physician’s voice broke through her musings as he shrugged back into his black wool coat, pulling up the thick collar in preparation for the cold. “I suspect your husband will pull through.”

  She opened her mouth to correct him, but his next comment froze her, flooding her mouth with a sour taste.

  “Now, my fee…”

  Reluctantly, she walked to her reticule lying on the table, thinking how quickly her funds were dwindling. She had not taken unforeseeable possibilities into consideration.

  She fought back a cringe as she handed a coin to the man. He waggled his fingers, indicating more. Sighing, she added another.

  At least she was close to her destination. According to the innkeeper, Dubhlagan loomed only a day’s ride ahead. At the first opportunity, she would reach the village and learn where Bertram took lodgings. Hopefully he did not reside with his heiress’s family. She had no wish to arrive on the doorstep of some young woman’s home and put her to shame with the announcement that she was Sir Edmond Powell’s wife—that her beloved fiancé was in fact the Duke of Derring, imposter and fugitive from law.

  Astrid cringed, imagining the ugly scene. She merely wished to stop Bertram’s farcical wedding, to speak her peace. Then she could return to her life. One that did not particularly fill her with happiness, but she had settled into an easy sort of routine nonetheless. Tea with Jane and Lucy. Juggling account ledgers with a negative balance. Attending select ton galas so that she might eat.

  She deserved no better. On those rare occasions when she had been granted choices, she had failed. Herself and others. Astrid grimaced at the familiar pinch near her heart. It was the failing of others that stung. That remained her cross to bear.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.” Astrid held the door for the physician.

  “I’ll see these are cleaned and bring you a bite to eat,” Molly said, following him out, arms full of the man’s garments.

  “Thank you,” Astrid murmured, shutting the door behind them, her stomach clenching at the mention of food.

  She had not eaten s
ince earlier that morning, and then only tea and toast—the cheapest fare to be had at the inn where they stayed the night. But then she was accustomed to skipping a meal here and there.

  A brisk knock sounded at the door. Astrid hurried to open it, knowing it was too soon for Molly to return, but hopeful that another servant had been sent ahead with a tray.

  “Coral,” she acknowledged upon opening the door.

  Her maid entered the room, glancing at the man on the bed as if he were some dangerous animal that might waken any moment. “A coach is heading south within a few hours.”

  Astrid blinked at the young girl. “What has that to do with us? I cannot leave yet.”

  Her gaze strayed to the man who lay naked beneath the blankets. She winced. Her first thought should not have been for him. A stranger. Her thoughts should be on Bertram—her husband. On stopping him and setting matters to rights. That alone should be her primary reason for remaining.

  Coral’s thin nose lifted a notch. “Then I insist you pay my fare and send me home.”

  Astrid waved to the motionless man on the bed. His muscled chest lifted distractingly above the blanket’s edge. “And what of him? Shall we leave him unattended? To say nothing of the business that brought me to Scotland in the first place. We are only a day’s ride from Dubhlagan.”

  Coral shrugged. “Let the innkeeper see to him. He is not our concern.”

  “And yet he certainly made us his concern,” she countered. “I would think a little appreciation would be in order.”

  “I’ve had my fill of this inhospitable country.” Coral wrapped her arms about her as if she still wore her ravaged gown and sought to shield herself.

  They had both changed clothes upon arriving at the inn. Even though Astrid’s dress hadn’t suffered the damage of Coral’s, she too had felt the need to don grime-free clothes—to put distance from the day’s sordid events. “Just another day. Perhaps two,” she appealed.

  “I’m going home. With or without you.”

  Astrid nodded grimly, once again moving across the room to her reticule. Returning, she placed several coins into Coral’s hand. “Without, then.”

  Coral shook her dark head. “Very well. I will return to Town alone.”

  “Do what you must.” As would she.

  “I trust you will still grant me character letters.”

  Astrid smiled tightly. “Naturally.”

  “I fear you’re making a grave mistake in staying, my lady,” Coral announced. “I hope you don’t come to regret it.” With that, she departed the room in a flurry of skirts.

  The only mistake Astrid feared she had made was in selecting Coral to accompany her. Not that she had much choice. It was either Coral or Cook. The other three servants she had managed to retain over the years were all elderly men. Astrid had bowed to propriety in selecting Coral. And yet she was no fool. She knew the former scullery maid only used her, accepting a paltry wage, exploiting her situation as lady’s maid to a duchess—even an insolvent one—in hopes of one day securing a better position.

  She would have been better off with Cook, old as she was, or one of the men.

  Her gaze flitted to the man on the bed.

  Now she would be sharing a room with him. And without Coral to act as chaperone. A man whose name she did not even know, yet whose lips, wide and almost too lovely to belong to any of his gender, made her mouth tingle. No matter how unwanted or inappropriate, she yearned to touch them, to feel for herself. A wholly intolerable impulse.

  Each day she woke to the unwelcome fact that she was the Duke of Derring’s wife. A married woman. Even if he had forgotten, she had not. Could not.

  Moving to the corner, she removed her shoes and lowered herself to the hard-backed, utilitarian chair that overlooked the inn’s yard. From her vantage point, she wriggled her stiff toes and watched Coral stride across the yard, never once looking back. And why should she? She had met her goal to further her credentials.

  On the other side of the busy yard, John talked to a cluster of men near the stables, motioning to his head, no doubt diverting them with his tale of near death at the hands of highwaymen.

  Astrid rubbed her forehead tiredly, easing the worry lines with her fingers. At least the innkeeper was letting John bed down in the stables at no cost. Perhaps not the most comfortable arrangement for the coachman, but one less worry for her. And his bed of hay was doubtlessly better than the chair in which she would sleep.

  She glanced across the room to her rescuer, eyeing the steady rise and fall of his muscled chest, the dark stain of his hair on the white pillow…helpless against the quickening of her pulse. The virile sight of him certainly bore no resemblance to the properly dignified gentlemen in Town. Astrid’s lips twisted. But then she knew most of those gentlemen to be anything but proper or dignified.

  She shifted on her seat, searching for a comfortable position. Finding that elusive, she gave up. A long night loomed ahead.

  The man on the bed moaned and shifted restlessly. The blanket slipped lower, revealing a glimpse of lean hip and a dark line of hair trailing down his navel.

  Definitely a long night.

  Chapter 4

  Astrid woke with a jerk, lurching upright in her chair. Her body protested from the sudden change in position. Pain lanced her neck, shooting down her spine. Rubbing at the painful crick, she blinked against the gloom, wondering if the floor might not have been more comfortable.

  Scrubbing her eyes with the base of her palm, she surveyed the darkened room. The tray Molly had brought sat where she had left it on the bedside table, not so much as a crumb littering the dishware. Astrid had devoured the tasty soup and bread, falling asleep shortly after.

  The lamp had burned out sometime during the night and the coals in the grate smoldered low. Moonlight spilled through the mullioned window, making the hardwood floor gleam as if it had actually been cleaned in the course of the year.

  It soon became clear what woke her. Her patient thrashed on the small bed, moaning unintelligible words. Rising, she drew closer, the hardwood floor cold and gritty against her stocking-covered feet.

  Peering down at him, she hesitated before finally pressing a hand to his brow, frowning. The late winter chill permeated the room, enough to keep one from feeling so warm. Yet his skin roasted her palm.

  She trailed her fingers down the plane of his cheek, over the dark bristle, telling herself that the texture of his flesh, so unlike hers, did not intrigue her in the least…that the man did not. Her nails gently scoured the stubble over his hard jaw, enjoying the sensation.

  “No!” His sudden hoarse cry caused her to jerk her hand back.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Not her! Leave her be!” With his eyes still closed, his head tossed wildly against the pillow. “Sorry,” he muttered, his voice quieter, smaller, almost like that of a child. “So sorry.”

  Astrid felt his despair as keenly as a blade to her skin, could not stop herself from reaching down to stroke his burning brow.

  His hand flashed out with the speed of wind, ripping a cry from her throat. Hard fingers locked around her wrist, the pressure excruciating. With a tug, he brought her tumbling over his chest.

  With a cry, she pushed against the feather mattress on either side of him, arching her back, staring down into eyes that glowed through the room’s gloom, lucid and awake, a pale blue, frosty as ice-covered water. Clearly, he had escaped whatever nightmare had held him in its grip.

  Inhaling through her nose, she grasped for the composure that always carried her through. Of course she had never found herself in a situation like this before. Since Bertram, she had been careful to keep men at arm’s length. Her life was difficult enough without adding a man into the fray.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded in that velvet voice, the deep, guttural incantation unidentifiable to her ears.

  His gaze skipped beyond her, assessing their surroundings. “Where am I?”

  “You don’t remember?” Ast
rid asked, her voice a breathless croak. “Earlier today? The highwaymen on the road?”

  “Highwaymen?” he echoed, scowling, dark brows drawing tightly over his eyes.

  She studied him carefully. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his eyes seemed to look through her. Grimly, she acknowledged that he was in the grip of fever.

  Adopting the voice she heard Jane use when talking to Olivia, she said gently, “You’re ill. Release me, so I can tend to you.”

  His brow furrowed as if trying to decipher her words.

  “Release me,” she repeated, “and I can help you.”

  His fingers came up to her arms, flexing into her flesh, and for a moment she thought he would hold her all night.

  “Please,” she added, her voice a ragged whisper. His hands loosened, dropping to the bed.

  Clambering off him, she relit the lamp on the small dresser and slid her boots from underneath the chair. Sitting, she slipped them back on her chilled feet.

  With one last glance at the man lying on the bed, head moving listlessly on the pillow, she slipped from the room in search of Molly.

  The inn was quiet as she made her way down the worn wood steps. In the taproom, a few men lingered over tankards, huddled in their cloaks and tartans, tossing her speculative looks as her gaze searched the room.

  Failing to spot Molly, she moved on until she discovered a set of stairs leading down into the kitchen. She descended the steps to a toasty room that smelled of grease, yeast, and sweat.

  Two maids slept on pallets near the fire, shadows dancing over their still forms, the outline of their bodies like shadowed hills in a distant horizon.

  “Molly,” she whispered, recognizing the dark braid over one of the women’s wool blankets. Creeping closer, she shook the servant awake. Molly sat up with a startled snort.

  “I need your help.”

  The groggy-eyed maid nodded and slipped on the shoes waiting for her beside the hearth.

  Following Astrid back up the steps, she grumbled over the loss of her warm pallet as they made their way to the second floor.