“Bricius is a priest!”
“They have vanished.” Tormod took her hands. “I am sorry. Bricius deserved to die for killing your father and for the way he treated you.” His grip tightened on her hands, and he pulled her closer to him. “Nothing would make me turn against you.”
Tears welled in her eyes, her emotions a conflicted mixture of grief and anger, but also of gratitude and love for her husband. Her father had made his choice, choosing Ula over her. That did not mean that he deserved this, however.
“Come, we will go to Doomster Hill and ask King Rhun to call aThing.”
“They don’t call it aThing.”
Tormod shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what they call it. They have built a place of judgment upriver in Gorfaen and we will take Ula and Marcant there.”
“You think Rhun will listen to you?”
“Yes.”
He sounded so sure that she almost believed he would be successful.
“After all,” he said. “I am married to Cadell’s daughter. It is my right to ask for his death to be avenged.”
“I don’t think that really means much to them. To any of them.”
“It does to me. And besides, your king needs to maintain a relationship with my people. After what happened to his father… However, that is not our fight.” Tormod ran his hands up and down her back, then set his mouth to hers. After only a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back. It wasn’t the kiss that made her happy. It was the knowledge behind it that he saw them as being together. A family. She broke off the kiss.
“You are mine, as I am yours. We are family.” He placed a hand carefully on her stomach. “All of us.”
She smiled at him. A hope that she’d hardly dared to feel blossomed in her chest. She laughed, then stopped and looked back at her father’s fort. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What doesn’t?”
“King Rhun’s justice. I know the truth. I know that I did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve this.”
“And your father?”
“My father made his own decisions and died because of them. He fell in love with the wrong person. It’s tragic, although he’s hardly the first man to do so.”
“Or the last.” Tormod grinned wryly. “It is a fate that can befall any man. Even when he is determined not to.”
He fell silent, staring at her. Then he kissed her again, smiled and ran his hand down the side of her face.
“Determined not to what?” she asked.
“Love you. I couldn’t help it. Told myself that you were trying to make a fool of me as Ingrid had. That I might miss your true intentions if I allowed myself to love you.”
She smiled at that, then her hand flew to her mouth. “Rhiannon! How could I forget? Have you found her?”
Tormod frowned. “I do not know what she looks like. All we can do is check the bodies.”
They returned to the fort and checked every woman’s body that they found. Aoife wept for the loss of those familiar to her, but when there was no sign of Rhiannon she held onto a small flicker of hope that she might still be alive.
“Perhaps they have taken her to Lord Marcant’s household. I presume that’s where your sisters are.”
“I hope so,” she said, and whispered a silent prayer for her friend.
“I will leave Björn and some warriors here to look after the fort. And after we have seen the king, we will return home, together.”
She smiled. Home. One in which she was both accepted and loved. “Thank you. For giving me a home.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “For giving me one, and for being a wife that I can love.”
