Why he bothered, why he cared, he could not say. He owed her nothing. Still, mingled relief and regret filled him when that door never opened.

Relief that she had taken his advice to depart at first light, and a peculiar sense of regret that he would never see her again, never look on those dark, haunted eyes.

“I saw her,” he heard himself say before he could consider what he was doing.

The two Scots looked his way. “Did you, now?” They approached his table, looking him over closely.

He took a swig from his tankard, thinking fast. “A fetching bit of skirt.”

“You know where she’s headed?”

He took his time answering, biting into a hunk of tough bread. The food in these parts left much to be desired. With the famine, he expected no better. Still, his stomach craved something more palatable.

“Real huffy sort. Took offense to my…” He pretended to search for the proper word. “Interest.”

“And? Do you know where she is?”

Figuring every moment he bought her could only help, he lied. “Said something about going to church.”

“Church?” The two Scotsman exchanged disbelieving looks.

He shrugged and tore off another hunk of bread with his teeth, doing his best to appear unaffected. He had seen the church at the far end of town, a ramshackle building with a cross nailed to the gabled roof. Perhaps they would believe a suspected murderess craved the Lord’s forgiveness for her crime.

After a moment, one of the Scots grinned. “Thank you, sir.” With a nod, they turned on their heels, their tartans whipping on air.

Griffin held his seat, watching the two men hasten from the taproom. Once the door banged shut behind them, he stood. Wasting no time, he gathered his saddlebag and settled his account with the innkeeper. Stepping outside, he crossed the road toward the stables, pulling up the collar of his coat to ward of the slash of wind.

He halted in the stable yard, recognizing the fine coach with the elaborate coat of arms on the door. With a sinking feeling, he rounded the coach and halted.

 _She _ stood there, in the process of being assisted within.

“What the hell are you _still _ doing here?”

She spun around at the sound of his voice. “Mr. Shaw.”

Her driver blinked. Looking Griffin over, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Is there a problem?”

“You could say that,” he ground out, eyes trained on her. “I thought you would have been gone by now.”

She motioned to the coach. “It’s a team of six. It took John some time to ready them.”

Griffin looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see the two Scotsmen from earlier bearing down on them.

Her soft voice penetrated. “Is there a problem, Mr. Shaw?”

He turned back around. Stepping closer, he closed a hand around her elbow. “The problem, sweetheart, is that they’re already looking for you.” He motioned to the coach. “Even if you leave now, I have no doubt they can overtake you in this lumbering beast of a contraption.”

The color faded from her cheeks. “Oh.” After a moment, she gave a small shake of her head and lifted her chin. “I shall merely explain to them—”

“What? Who you are?” He snorted. “After they hear your tale, they will have no doubts you murdered your husband.”

“I did _not _ murder him.” Her dark eyes flashed fire, locking with his in challenge.

“They will believe you did.” Hell, he almost believed she had.

She shook her arm free of his hand. “What do you suggest, then? It sounds as though I have little choice. I either confront these men or try my luck on the road.”

Neither of which would serve her well. He studied her a moment, knowing there was little time.

A decision needed to be reached and soon. He didn’t have time to stand around staring at her, looking into those dark eyes and marveling at how much she reminded him of her. Absurd. The woman had died years ago. Griffin did not even know her name. He only knew that she had felt soft, helpless, light as wind in his arms, drowning in her own blood from the thrust of a bayonet.

A death he did not stop…but should have.

But this. This, he could stop.

“Come,” he said, the word dropping like a stone in the air, hard and fast. He snatched one of her bags—the smaller valise from where it sat on the ground beside her—waiting to be loaded.

Her eyes rounded. “What are you doing with that?”

He grabbed hold of her hand. She gasped at the touch. When she would have pulled free, he tightened his hold, twining his fingers through hers.

Facing her driver, he grimly directed, “Continue on. Hurry, man. With luck, they will follow you and give us time to get away. Tell them nothing of your mistress.”

The coachman nodded dumbly.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as he pulled her behind him, deep into the shadowed confines of the stable, searching for the stable master.

“Saving your neck.”

And perhaps righting past wrongs…gaining for himself a shred of redemption at last.

The village dozed, still as stone in the morning silence. Gray light broke over the thatched rooftops. A dog barked as they passed the blacksmith’s, and Astrid started in the fractured silence, jerking in the seat of her saddle.

She glanced at Griffin Shaw beside her. His gaze scanned over the village with the alertness of a hawk. She held her breath, following his gaze to a single man emerging from a house.

“Is that—”

He cut her off with a sudden lift of his hand and a hard shake of his head.

She bit her lip.

He urged his horse faster. Her mount increased its pace, following his. The feel of the horse, large and undulating between her legs, felt alien, but a sidesaddle was not to be found. They were lucky enough to have obtained a mount for her with such haste.

Griffin glanced back over his shoulder at her, a too-long lock of dark hair falling over his cheek.

She gave a small nod, and inhaled thinly through her nose, telling herself that she was doing the right thing in placing her trust in him. He had saved her life. And for whatever reason, he sought to help her now.

She felt her brow crease at the strangeness of that.

No man had ever made it a priority to look out for her. Her father had left her to the care of servants. And Bertram had simply _left _ her.

She gave herself a small shake as if she could toss off the dark thoughts. The _why _ didn’t signify.

He would take her to Edinburgh. From there she could take the train the rest of the way home.

And that would be the end of it. The end of them.

She would return to Town and see about putting Bertram’s affairs to final order. Duty demanded it. No matter how his grandmother and sister felt about her, they deserved to know what happened to him. His heir, a distant cousin whose face she could not recall, deserved the right to claim a title he may or may not wish to possess. No matter that a part of her preferred to delay and remain in this wilderness, preferred hiding from the call of duty, to embrace freedom. To pretend, for once in her life, that Astrid, the Duchess of Derring, did not exist.

They rode in silence, their pace slow as they left the village far behind and delved deeply into heavy mists. The drawing rooms of the _ton _ fell even farther behind. Another world. One she felt in no hurry to see again.

They made their way through mountainous landscape, climbing and descending steep inclines, during which she was heartily glad to be riding astride and not sidesaddle.

She suppressed her misgivings over the fact that she was riding into a wilderness with a stranger.

 _Trust him. _ She allowed the whisper to weave through her head, as unrelenting as the wind whistling off the deep crags around them.

They stopped midmorning, leaving the winding road behind and following the sound of rushing water to a nearby brook. The waters raced cold and fast as they guided their horses to drink.

“How are you faring?” he asked, the first words he had spoken since he bustled her from the stables.

She nodded, accepting a corked flask of water from him and taking a sip. “How far are we from Edinburgh?”

He glanced at the horizon, blue eyes narrowing as he studied the sun over the treetops.

“According to my map and the stable master I consulted back in Dubhlagen, we’ll probably reach there tomorrow.”

“Is there another village along the way?”

He shook his head. “We’ll bed down outdoors.”

“Outside?” She had never slept a night outside.

His lips quirked. “What’s the matter, Duchess? Never slept beneath the stars before?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dragging over her face with a thoroughness that made her chest suddenly tight. He did that. Looked at her as no one had. As though he saw her, truly saw her and not the cold veneer she presented.

“Well.” His eyes held hers for a long moment before she looked away, focusing her attention on the dark waters moving swiftly at their feet. “There’s a first time for everything.” He chuckled, the sound running through her, slow and warming as tea going down.

“I suppose you sleep outdoors often?”

“Often enough. Texas is a big place.”

She looked at him again. “And what do you do in Texas?”

“Corn, beans, potatoes.” He lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. “Depends what I think will sell well the following year.”

“You’re a farmer?” She reassessed him. He didn’t fit with her idea of a farmer. She never imagined farmers to be expert marksmen.

“I s’pose you could call me that. I do whatever I can to survive…if I’m lucky I make a little money in the process. I ranch. Tend livestock. Cattle. Hogs.”

“Hogs?” she echoed, wrinkling her nose.

Laughter shook his voice. “They’re easy to care for and bring a nice purse at market. As large as they are, they’re unlikely to be carried off by scavengers and Indians.”

“Indians?

His well-carved lips twisted. “They’re not just myth.”

She lifted her gaze from the water and studied the hard cut of his profile, handsome and sharp as carved marble. A man that lived in savage lands. With savages. She had never seen his like.

Never imagined such a man existed. Her heart beat harder and she forced her gaze away, pulling cool, bracing air into her lungs. “Of course,” she murmured.

She watched beneath her lashes as he moved to check the cinch on his saddle, marveling at the life he led. Her father would never have deigned to speak to such a man—a man who _worked _ for a living. He would have considered Griffin Shaw beneath his regard. Weak. Unimportant.

And yet she could not help but see him as anything other than strong. Her gaze flicked over the broad expanse of back. An impressive specimen. A man with strength and honor. Rare characteristics, indeed.

“And you prefer that sort of existence?” she heard herself say.

“What s _ort _ of existence do you mean?” he asked, clearly not understanding as he moved around to the other side of the horse.

She wet her lips. “The sort where you work for a living. Where you must stand vigilant against Indians?”

He burst forth with a sudden rich chuckle. The skin at her nape tingled in the most bothersome way at the sound.

“For most of the world, there’s no choice in the matter. Preference has nothing to do with it.” He glanced at her over the top of his horse, a single dark eyebrow quirked. “It’s a grueling life, I admit. The frontier’s not for everyone. But it’s the only life I’ve known, and I can’t say I would want the _sort _ you’ve led.” His eyes gleamed down at her without a hint of apology. “I suppose that surprises you? Makes me seem a primitive?”

She opened her mouth to deny the suggestion, but then snapped her lips shut. Yes, she supposed that did make him somewhat primitive. A man who _preferred _ sweat and hardship over a life of leisure and comfort. Certainly not a gentleman.