“No one can find Broderick togetevidence,” Bryn argued.
“Not yet,” Rangar said darkly.
The horses had a hard time descending the mountain pass in the icy snow, but they eventually pulled the carriage into the valley. Bryn’s heart soared as she began to recognize the villages along the road. And yet when they stopped at the small hamlet of Mahoven to fix a loose wheel, and common folk gathered around to see what the commotion was, doubt crept in.
Didtheybelieve Rangar was Trei’s murderer? Would they welcome him as their new crown heir, or call for him to be thrown in the dungeon again? And would they still embrace her, given all the turmoil with the Mirien?
A handful of children ran out of a farmhouse, running up to Bryn. “Lady Bryn!” the children called excitedly. “You’re back!”
She smiled and squeezed their offered hands. “I’ve missed my home here. I’m so happy to have returned.”
Now that the children had made the first interaction, a pair of middle-aged women shyly approached her. “We’ve been worried for you, my lady.”
“I’m quite well,” Bryn assured them, glancing back at Rangar and Saraj fixing the wheel with some of the local farmers who had volunteered to help. “Is there any further news of King Aleth’s health? We came as soon as we heard.”
One of the women shook her head sadly. “They say he is bedridden and unlikely to recover.”
The other women added in a hushed voice, “There is much speculation about who his successor will be: Prince Rangar or Prince Valenden. Personally, I never once believed Prince Rangar capable of what they accused him of. He’ll make a fine king, and you, my lady, will be the queen we’ve always wanted.”
After the worrying news they’d received on the road about the wolf attacks and the discontent growing in the villages over the use of magic, Bryn was exceedingly relieved to hear such welcoming words.
“Are there marriage plans in the works?” the first woman whispered, glancing at Rangar.
Bryn’s cheeks reddened as she took off her glove to show them the engagement ring with the maiden rose petal imprint. “That is something I hope to work on once we’re back in the Hold, depending on King Aleth’s health, of course.”
“Oh, it’ll be good for the kingdom to have a joyous royal wedding!” the second woman said before slyly raising an eyebrow. “And perhaps young heirs not long after that?”
Bryn’s eyes widened at the suggestion of children, but then she smiled and gave a small shrug, though her heart started pounding.
Didthey want children?
Rangar finished with the wheel and thanked the gathered villagers. Most of them shook his hand enthusiastically, but there were some who hung back with suspicion on their faces.
Rangar is going to have an uphill battle winning over all his future subjects, she thought. He desperately needed to clear his name—it was the only way he’d ever be accepted as Aleth’s successor.
“Ready, my love?” he asked while holding open the carriage door.
“I’ll ride up front,” she said. “I want to see Barendur Hold as we approach.”
Pride shone in his eyes, though as he looked her up and down, it transformed to one of flickering desire. As he settled next to her in the driver’s seat, he rested a hand on her knee.
“We’ll be home soon,” he said. “This time, I’m bringing you back as my fiancé. No one is going to come between us again—and I’ll be calling you my wife before you can imagine.”
Chapter 8
RETURN TO BARENDUR HOLD . . . a fair punishment . . . "get your hands off her" . . . a deathbed . . . grief and lust
One of the Mahoven villagers must have ridden ahead to alert Barendur Hold of their impending arrival, because as soon as Rangar pulled the carriage into the village square outside of the castle, they were met by a dozen soldiers.
On alert, Bryn’s body instantly went rigid.
Rangar rested a calming hand on her knee. “Let me handle this. These soldiers know me—we trained together. They will not act rashly.”
“This isn’t exactly the warm homecoming I had hoped for,” Bryn muttered.
He squeezed her knee. “All will be well. Do not lose hope.”
As they descended the carriage, Mage Marna strode across the drawbridge in her white and gray robes. Her white hair was pulled back in a simple braid. Deep lines etched her face. “Nephew,” she said with a nod, coming to stand before the line of soldiers. “Lady Bryn.”
