“I’ll never marry again,” she quickly retorted, her nostrils quivering. “Once was misery enough.

I’ll not give away my freedom again.”

“But you’ll readily give mine away.”

Color spotted her cheeks and her dark lashes fluttered over her eyes. She gave a tight nod, an almost imperceptible movement of acknowledgment. “I’ve never been able to dismiss duty so lightly. It mystifies me that you can. This is your family, Griffin. Your home. Petra—” She squeezed her eyes in a severe blink, as if the mere mention of the girl’s name pained her.

Opening her eyes, she stared at him intently, dark eyes glowing like polished onyx. “How can you not offer her the protection of your name?”

“The pity I feel for her does not mean that I should sacrifice my future—and hers. We deserve our own choices.”

She looked at him bleakly. “You think her father will give her a choice? I’ve known men like him all my life. If not you, he will choose someone else.”

“So it might as well be me?” he snapped, his anger bubbling to the surface at her determination that he should wed Petra. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Deciding someone else’s fate based on your own sense of right and wrong. Isn’t that your great sin? The very thing you did to your sister-in-law?”

She pulled back, the color draining from her face. Clearly his words struck a nerve. “I am not—”

“Yes,” he affirmed, taking a step closer. “You are.”

Reproach flashed in the dark depths of her eyes before the cold, familiar mask fell into place, blotting out all emotion.

A tightness pervaded her chest, prickly and hot. Itchy. She lifted a hand to her throat, rubbing the skin there, as if she could rub out the awful truth of his words. She was doing it again.

Griffin’s hot gaze pinned her, probing, stripping away flesh and bone to all she hid, all she was.

She swallowed, fighting the terrible thickness rising in her throat. A thickness that threatened to choke her as he stepped closer.

She shook her head as if she could shake off his words, his relentless stare. And yet she could not escape that gaze, those eyes that knew, the words that could not be refuted. Denial burned on her tongue. You’re wrong. You don’t know me. But the words would not come.

Somehow, in a short time, he was able to see to the core of her, to expose all her frailties, to take her past and fling it in her face with the accuracy of an arrow finding its target. But then that should not surprise her. They were the same, after all. Two souls punishing themselves for the sins of their past.

“Always dutiful,” he accused. “Always so damned proper. Do you never just surrender to your desires? Do what you want and say to hell with the world?”

The image of them naked, bodies locked, rocking against one another, wild and frenzied, more animal than human, flashed across her mind. A familiar hunger flared to life inside her, burning through her blood and weakening her knees. She curled her fingers around her throat to stop from reaching out. From pulling him toward her. To remind him that she had in fact followed her desires. More than once.

Blue fire lit the centers of his eyes, and she knew that he knew her thoughts, read them as clearly as a book splayed before him.

She closed her eyes, willing for strength, for the resolve to end this thing between them, to let him go. Because it was over. She could go. Leave. He wouldn’t stop her now. There was no reason he should.

Petra deserved him.

 And Griffin? What did he deserve?

She opened her eyes, the answer washing over her, bitter and true.

 Not me.

He made a move toward her. She stepped back as if fire lapped at her feet.

He cocked his head, a dangerous glint entering his eyes. “Astrid,” he whispered. His voice slid through her liked a warm wash of sherry.

She shook her head, her fingers tightening at her neck. Hurting. Good. Pain was good right now.

It woke her up. Made her remember…

She could not have him touch her. One brush of his hand and she would crumble, succumb to her own selfish needs. Same or not, they could not have one another.

He closed the distance separating them, his expression hardening with resolve. Long fingers closed around her arms, singeing her through the fabric of her gown.

“You can push me away all you like,” he paused. “You can even encourage me to marry someone else, but you can’t run away from this.” His fingers softened, sliding up her arm.

“It’s not right,” she insisted, her voice low and desperate. “It’s not—”

He silenced her with his mouth.

She moaned. In defeat. In pleasure. She wound her arms around his neck, lost at the feel of his fingers, deft and swift on the buttons at the back of her dress. She moaned…even as she loathed herself for being weak, for seizing what she had no right to take.

In moments, her gown pooled at her ankles. He plucked her off her feet and wrapped her legs around his waist. She broke her lips from his to drag kisses down his throat and neck.

An invisible band squeezed around her chest. She felt elated, exhilarated to just touch him, to love him uninhibitedly—if only in the physical sense. If only one more time.

His hands flexed on her bottom, strong fingers digging into her yielding flesh as he carried her toward the bed.

“Griffin,” she gasped against his neck.

Desperate with need, she clawed at his jacket, shoving it down past his shoulders, eager to feel his supple flesh in her hands.

He lowered her down onto the bed, coming over her in a heavy wall of muscle, settling between her thighs with a familiarity that both thrilled and alarmed her.

Putting aside the latter emotion, she ran her hands over the solid breadth of his chest with feverish hunger, letting herself surrender to the madness of wanting him, temporary as it was…as it could only ever be.

“Astrid,” he whispered, sliding a hand against her face, his callused palm rasping her cheek, his eyes glowing blue fire. With a slight shake of his head, his mouth worked, preparing to say something. Something serious from the intent, soulful way he stared at her. Something her heart told her she couldn’t allow him to say.

Moistening his lips, he said her name again, “Astrid—”

She brought her fingers to his mouth, pressing them against the silken texture of his lips, stifling his words. Words that could change everything between them. She did not know for certain, knew only the stark way he stared at her now, full of emotion—a passion that threatened to consume her in a slow burn.

Whatever he would say, she would not risk hearing it, would not risk feeding hope to her heart.

She held that gaze, enduring the hot crawl of his eyes over her. Dropping her hand from his mouth, she quickly kissed him, giving him no time to speak, tasting, drinking the essence of him—strength, virility. _A man she loved. _ Who had called to her heart from the first moment she saw him, strong and proud in the swirling mists, ready to defend her—a perfect stranger.

Choking back a sob, she deepened their kiss, pouring all the emotion she suppressed, all the love she dared not confess.

He growled against her lips.

Desire rushed her as his hands dove for the hem of her petticoats, anxiously yanking the well-worn cambric to her hips. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, touching her briefly, playing in her wetness.

She nearly wept when his hand left her. Whimpering, she arched off the bed, reaching for him, groping to bring him back to her…only to fall back at the sudden, probing heat of him entering her, filling her, stretching her with the incredible length of him.

“Yes,” she sighed as he held himself lodged deeply inside her, agonizingly still, his member pulsing with life as his hands tangled in her skirts gathered at her hips.

She devoured the sight of him over her, taut as a bow string, muscles bunching beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Astrid,” he cried, fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her to him.

With his head tossed back, throat muscles working, she drank him in, just as her body did, sealing the image of him in her mind, knowing she would never see anything that moved her as he did again.

Griffin watched Astrid sleep in the early hours of dawn, tempted to shake her awake…to make love to her all over again.

His fingers hovered over the dark lines of her brows, tempted to trace them. His hand stilled, deciding to let her sleep. For now. His argument for keeping her with him had fled with the arrival of Thomas Osborn. He could no longer claim fear for her safety. Osborn had owned up to killing her husband, however inadvertently. Astrid was in no danger on that account. She could travel without fear of being apprehended.

Leaning back on the pillow, he sighed, still watching her beside him. If he didn’t want her to leave, then he was going to have to tell her the truth. That he wanted her to stay. For himself.

Stomach rumbling, he stood and collected his clothes from the floor. Quietly, he slipped from the room, thinking to return with breakfast. The idea of breakfast in bed with Astrid held decided appeal. He didn’t particularly relish seeing his newfound family just yet. At least not while they still harbored delusions of him marrying Petra.

He took quick strides down the shadowed corridor, pausing when he heard a soft sound coming from one of the alcoves set in the stone walls of the corridor.

Glancing to the right, he noticed the shadowy figure of a woman huddled on a bench. Early-morning light washed through the stained mullioned panel of glass in the wall, limning her features in a myriad of colors.

“Petra?”

Her head snapped up. Swiping at her eyes, she rose hastily to her feet, sniffling suspiciously. Her eyes cast about, looking over his shoulders, searching before settling back on him. He did not miss the relieved expression that flickered over her face.

“Mr. Shaw,” she greeted.

“Expecting someone else?” he inquired.

“No,” she replied in a breathy rush. “Why would you think so?”

Without answering, he waved to the cushioned bench. “Are you well?”

Swiping at her nose again, she sank back down and answered in a small voice, “Quite.”

He studied her. “It’s all right if you’re not, you know.”

“Is it?” she asked, a surprising edge entering her voice, “How good of you to think so. However, my father would disagree. He expects me to wash away the shame I’ve brought to the family. To be a stalwart soldier and do as commanded. And to do so I must marry you.”

He winced, thinking that not all soldiers should follow the call of duty so zealously. He certainly wished he had not followed its call to a certain grassy plain.

With a shake of his head, he asked, “But what do _you _ want?”

Dipping her head to the side, she admitted, “I want to marry.”

He nodded.

“But not you.” She shook her head in apology. “Sorry.”

He smiled wryly. “Don’t be.”

She bit her lip and released it. “I want to marry Andrew.”

“Who is Andrew?”

“My father’s coachman.”

“Ah. And would Andrew be who you first thought me to be when I joined you in this corridor?”

She averted her gaze, and he caught a hint of blush staining her cheeks in the glow of dawn. A moment passed before she lifted her chin. “He loves me. He loved me before Bertram…”Her voice faded. She fisted the fabric of her gown, and he well imagined the dark roads her mind traveled. “He loves me still,” she finished.

“Then why not marry him?”

She snorted. “Father would not permit it.”

Griffin shook his head. He felt like he was talking to Astrid all over again. “Ever thought of going against Daddy?”

She pulled back, clearly startled. “And live where? How? Times are difficult. Assuming Andrew finds another position, he can scarcely support himself, much less a family.”