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She could not get over his appearance. Reina found her tongue, finally.

“Of course. It will be a good disguise, aye?”

That seemed to surprise him. “Aye, lass.” He turned back around and spurred the mount forward. “But that is not why I gave it to you.”

17

After two days of hard riding, Galien and Reina finally approached the gates of Bristol Manor. It was the closest family holding, a place where he could re-supply and begin to make inquiries. From there, they would make their way north, to Brockburg Castle. Reina had hoped to visit Dennochbrook first, but Galien assured her it was most prudent to seek answers from those he knew, and could trust, before heading to a place where they would find nothing but long-abandoned homes and an empty village.

Suddenly, a rider came so quickly at them that Galien’s hand reached for his sword.

When Galien was growing up, his father had told him and his siblings so many tales of his own childhood, including those involving Toren’s sister, Catrina, that every time he came here, Galien was still in awe of his aunt. Very different from his English mother, whose strength was her own, his aunt was a match for his Uncle Bryce in every way. So as Rory came into view, Galien released his grip. As the eldest son of Catrina Kerr of Clan Kerr and Bryce Waryn, famed knight and easily the most devilish man Galien knew, Rory was, maybe understandably so, anything but timid. His unrelenting pace, however, had Galien concerned.

Since the inn, they’d slept on the hard ground, and though their meals had improved after Galien had procured both a sword and knife at the Wild Boar, he’d been looking forward to a bed this eve. And some distance from his constant companion, whom Galien was having more and more difficulty avoiding.

Or, more precisely, having difficulty avoiding his reaction to her.

Every glance, every touch—some accidental and others, not as much—brought them more deeply together. Honor bound to her, Galien had been able to avoid dishonoring his rescuer thus far. Even still, distance would be good. Though it seemed it would have to wait.

“Ride out,” Rory shouted. “They are here, waiting for you. Ride, Galien!”

Suddenly he understood his cousin’s gestures. Rory was telling him to turn around. They were here. The implications of his words hit him as he grabbed ahold of Reina and did as Rory suggested: Galien followed his cousin away from Bristol. They rode northeast, and he had an inkling where their party was headed.

They could only mean Anbarth’s men. Which meant, somehow, they had discovered his identity. How? He’d been very careful at the Wild Boar. Its innkeeper was the only person he had spoken to, and Magge, though extremely old and oftimes forgetful, would never betray him.

“It’ll be okay, lass,” he called back to Reina. Galien was sure she was scared, but there was no hope for it now. They needed to get as much distance between them and Bristol Manor as possible.

Trusting as ever, she held onto his waist and said, “I know.”

Galien’s chest swelled at the words.

Rory never stopped. As the Carnwood Mountains came into view, the sun setting just now, the combination of rugged Scotland in front of them and the open farmlands that marked the central lowlands of England behind them was a sight, indeed, to behold.

Both beautiful in their own way. But only one, home.

Like the Wild Boar, Keston House was a known borderland inn. Unlike the first, Keston was even more remote. And tended to be avoided by the kind of men following him, a haven for smugglers. It was not the kind of establishment he’d wish Reina to visit. But still better than the open woods. Or his family’s home, overrun by Anbarth’s men.

The modest two-floor building did boast a separate kitchen and stable. But otherwise, it was as basic, and functional, as one would expect from an inn just below the border that saw more than its share of men from both north and south.

Rory slowed, finally, and Galien rode up beside him.

An exchanged look was all that was needed for him to confirm his worst fears.

Dismounting, he aided Reina.

“Lady Reina of Anbarth, I presume?” Rory said, walking toward them. Grabbing ahold of their reins, both men led their mounts toward the stables.

“How do you know me? And what,” Reina looked between them, “just occurred?”

A stable boy ran out to greet them.

“Food and water or are you stayin’ the night?”

“The night,” Rory said, catching Galien’s eye.

When the boy took both horses’ reins, their small party made their way to the side of the stone structure. It might host questionable patrons, but the owner of Keston House was as wealthy as old Magge. The fact that he had rebuilt the wooden inn with stone was evidence of it.

Embracing his cousin with a whispered, “thank you,” Galien let go and introduced him to Reina. “Sir Rory Waryn, son of Bryce Waryn and Catrina Kerr. Rory is both an English knight and member of our clan. It is the Scots in him that makes my cousin more tolerable.” Then, remembering, he offered a mock bow to Reina. “Apologies, English.”