“Let’s just say she couldn’t have known what she was saying. And after she died, I convinced myself to put her words behind me.”

“But you couldn’t.”

“My father wouldn’t answer any of my questions.” His lips twisted and he plucked a twig from the ground, toying with it between his fingers. “Not surprising. We weren’t close. Not since the war.” Something flickered in his eyes at that confession. “He died recently.”

So he was all alone. Like her.

He waved his hand. “So here I am.”

“And why is that?” She angled her head, studying him. “What are you looking for? What did your mother tell you?”

He looked at her then, and the intensity in his blue gaze made her breath trip. “She claimed I wasn’t her son. Hers or her husband’s—the man I had called father all of my life.”

Her heart squeezed at this declaration, knowing the anguish it must have brought him at the time, a son watching his mother die. She knew full well the effect a parent’s words or actions could have, the way they could haunt you for years—a lifetime even.

“And you think you’ll find answers at this Balfurin?”

“Hugh MacFadden, the clan’s laird…he’ll know. He’ll have my answers,” he replied grimly.

“What did your mother exactly say to you…at the end?”

“A fever struck the ship crossing over. My mother took me from a couple who died a day apart of each other. My real parents were Scottish like them, traveling to America for a fresh start…like them.” He smiled harshly.

She envisioned his adoptive parents, a young couple, indigent crofters like so many in Scotland even now, gambling everything on an uncertain future…and a child that wasn’t of their blood.

“But then everyone who comes to America is after a fresh start.” He glanced at her. “Running from something. Running toward something.”

He fell silent, his gaze returning to the mesmerizing dance of flames. And she knew he was talking about himself now. Knew that he was running away from something…running to something. Even if he didn’t know what.

Just as she was. She’d come to Scotland looking for a second chance. A chance at…

Staring at his face, realization struck her full force. Her lungs squeezed, chasing the breath from her body. A chance at this. Him. Freedom. Love.

She swallowed down her last bit of jerky, not tasting it as it settled heavily in her knotting stomach. Why should she want to return to her old life? When she had sampled freedom with him? As crazy as it sounded, this journey had been the most liberating experience of her life.

Because of him.

She was more like her adventuresome mother than she ever realized.

“So you’re here to find your family,” she said, regaining her breath, eager to resume talking, to behave as though she had not just discovered a new, unwanted facet to herself.

His gaze cut to hers, hard and fierce in the muted light. “I _had _ a family.” He flung the twig toward the fire with a vicious swing. “I don’t know why the hell I’m here.”

She dropped her chin back on her bent knees. “I thought I knew what I was doing here. Why I came to Scotland. Now…” her voice faded and she shrugged lightly, the careless gesture so at odds with the turmoil she felt.

He snorted. “I thought your motivation perfectly clear.”

“Yes. To stop Bertram,” she uttered, frowning as she faced a truth she had tried to ignore. “I’ve never held any influence over my husband. Why did I think I could convince him to do the right thing?” A deep sigh rattled from her chest. “In the few moments I had with him before…before he was killed, nothing I said swayed him to cease his charade. He actually offered to pay me if I would simply disappear and pretend I had never seen him.”

“Bastard,” Griffin growled.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought I could accomplish in coming here.”

“At least you did something. You tried. I imagine it’s more than some ladies would do. It took courage.”

She winced. “Courageous, I’m not.”

“Nor kind. Or so you’ve said.” His look turned speculative. “I’ve never met a woman so resistant to hearing herself praised.”

She fixed her gaze on the flames. “I don’t deserve praise.” She drew a ragged breath and confessed, “There’s much you don’t know about me. I’m not a very nice person.” She announced this without self-pity.

“Well, I’ll confess you’ve been a pain in my ass on more than one occasion since we met.”

Her gaze flew to his, astounded that he would speak so plainly. But that was Griffin, she realized. Plain-speaking. No mincing words.

“And,” he continued, “you can freeze a man with a look.” He leaned forward, capturing her gaze.

“But I wouldn’t say you were an evil person.”

She smiled half-heartedly.

“But you think so,” he pronounced. “Why?”

She closed her eyes in a slow blink and shook her head. And then she said the words she had not spoken to another soul. Not even to Jane and Lucy…too afraid to see the disappointment in their eyes.

“When Bertram first left, things were…bad,” she explained, at a loss for a better word. “He took anything of value with him. I didn’t know what to do. His grandmother lived with us and she was ailing.” She grimaced. “We could not even afford a physician. Can you imagine? A Dowager Duchess swallowing down Cook’s remedies…I don’t even know if they helped or not.” She paused, wetting her lips. “And then there was Bertram’s sister.”

She gulped down a breath. “She agreed to marry a wealthy merchant. I thought our problems were solved.”

Griffin nodded.

She bit the inside of her cheek, coming to the hard part, the part where she sold her soul for the promise of security and comfort. The part where Griffin would look at her differently.

“Portia backed out.”

“With her own grandmother ill?” He frowned. “Rather selfish of her.”

“That’s what I told myself…how I justified what I did next.”

“Which was?”

She spoke quickly, as if spitting the words out made her actions less dastardly. “I drugged her and helped smuggle her into the merchant’s carriage so he could take her to Scotland and force her to marry him.” She shook her head. “I thought she merely suffered a loss of nerve. That she would come around.”

“Rather desperate,” he commented, his voice mild, lacking the judgment she expected to hear.

She looked at him sharply, expecting to see censure there and finding none. “I did a terrible thing.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But someone needed to be sensible and save the family. It wasn’t as if you could marry the man yourself.” He broke another twig. “It must have baffled you that your sister-in-law did not share your sense of responsibility.”

Blinking, she gave a single jerky nod, wondering how he understood her motivations so well.

“Indeed. I would have married him myself if I could have.”

“So what happened?”

“Portia escaped him.” _Thank heavens. _”Apparently she had engaged the affections of the very wealthy Earl of Moreton. Only I was unaware of their _tendre _ for one another.”

He cocked a dark brow. “Might she not have told you and eased your mind? It might have prevented you from resorting to drugging her.”

Astrid rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Portia and I were never close. She was always a dreamer while I was…”

“Practical. Sensible,” he supplied.

She nodded.

“Your sister-in-law and this earl? Did they wed?”

“Yes.” She smiled wistfully. “By all accounts, they’re quite happy. A love match, if you can believe it. So rare among the ton.”

“And here you are.” He flicked his gaze over her worn dress. “Still in dire straights?” It was more statement than question. At her silence, he made a disgusted sound.

“I don’t expect anything from them,” she hurriedly explained. “Not after what I did.”

“Her brother abandoned you. I don’t think it unfair to expect a little assistance considering she is in a position to lend it. Enough at least to put some meat on your ribs.”

“I could never ask—”

“She and her husband should offer.”

She shook her head stubbornly.

“So this is your great sin?” he demanded. For some reason he sounded angry, his voice like a lashing whip. “Why you insist you’re not a _nice _ person?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it? If Portia had not escaped, she would now be married to the wrong man when she loved another. Then you would not be so quick to shrug off my actions.”

His brow furrowed. “And how is it she escaped?”

She waved a hand. “I’m not sure of all the particulars…I sent the earl after her and—”

“Wait.” Griffin held up a broad palm, shaking his head. “You sent her earl after her? You’re saying you helped _save _ her?”

“Yes, but I’m the one who placed her at risk in the first place.”

“Look, I can see you’re determined to wear the hair shirt for the rest of your life, but think on this: you made a mistake, one not so unforgivable in my estimation, but then you repaired it.

That’s all anyone can hope to do.”

She stared at him, amazed he did not find her actions so unpardonable…and tempted to believe they weren’t.

“No.” She shook her head. “I could have never made the mistake in the first place.”

Whether one was sorry or regretful or tried to make amends, failed to signify. Mistakes, her father had taught her, were forever that. A weakness in character not to be overlooked. Which explained why, when her mother sent word that she was stranded and without funds in Paris, he had refused to send for her. He didn’t want her back. Not after her betrayal. A person receives only one chance in life, Astrid, and your mother had hers. She can rot in a French gutter for all I care—a fitting whore’s death.

 One chance.

Astrid may not have abandoned her husband and child for the thrill of a lover’s touch, but she, too, had dispensed her share of betrayal. She already had her chance. She’d gone too far with Portia. Her actions couldn’t be undone.

What had she been thinking to come to Scotland? To try and stop Bertram? Like her mother, dead of an unforgiving French winter, redemption was not hers to have.

“Yes, well, life doesn’t work out that way, does it? We’re not perfect creatures,” he bit out.

She stared hard at his furious expression, confused at why he should be so angry.

“We all make mistakes,” he continued. “For some of us, the mistakes are far worse than the one for which you punish yourself.”

“Oh. And what terrible mistakes have you made?” she demanded.

He looked at her intently, the pale blue of his eyes darkening. “I’ve killed. In the war.”

“Soldiers fight. They kill,” she returned. “I wouldn’t call that a mistake. It was your duty.”

“Do soldiers kill women?” The question fell hard, heavy. “Is that part of their duty?

Unease tripped down her spine. Her fingers flexed around her knees. “What do you mean?”

He continued to stare at her, his gaze steady, unflinching…searching. “You remind me of her,”

he whispered.

She frowned. “Who?”