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So Freya allowed the steward to escort her from the hall to her bedchamber, leaving Rory behind. Freya’s sole bag had already been brought to the chamber and a maid provided. As Freya prepared for bed, she tried not to think of Loretta. Word would spread that Freya had been taken, but also that one guard was killed and another injured. Perhaps she should not have told her maid about enlisting Sir Walter’s aid. But at least Loretta would suspect Freya was, indeed, safe. And with allies rather than enemies. Still, she’d vowed not to abandon her, and then she had done precisely that.

I will return, Loretta. And Edyington will be saved.

Freya had made the silent vow many times that day. But now, she’d hoped only for sleep, not having had much of it the night before.

The servant held two silver goblets in one hand and a leather pitcher of, presumably, wine in the other. “I believed he said ’twas the fourth door on the right. I will admit, I do very rarely come up into this tower. ’Tis for guests.” She looked at Freya from the top of her head down to her toes. “Such as yourself.”

Freya leaned her head out into the torch-lit corridor. Satisfied, she stood straight once again. “This is the third door,” she said. “If you are looking for Sir Rory, it would appear he is there.”

Just next to her.

Freya did not give the lady an opportunity to respond. With a hastily offered, “Good eve,” she closed the door and locked it once again. Grateful for a fire but having sent away the maid, Freya attended to it herself. No sooner had she replaced the fire iron than another knock sounded at the door.

Rory’s maid again? Surely the woman was not lost already, having just one door to navigate to. But when she called out a question, another voice answered.

“Open the door, Freya.”

The lout. Did he wish for her to pour their wine?

“I am to bed, Rory,” she answered. “Do you not have someone in your chamber waiting for you?”

“Freya,” he said, as if it were a warning.

Unlocking the door once again, she opened it, and Rory did not even pause before entering.

“Do come inside,” she said. “’Tis quite proper for you to be in my bedchamber unchaperoned. With”—she noticed what he carried for the first time—“a flagon of wine.”

Without answering, Rory strolled to the sole cabinet and placed his spoils atop it. He poured a goblet of wine for each of them, then walked back to her. Handing Freya one of them, Rory proceeded to place himself in one of the two chairs in front of the fire.

Each was lined with deep purple velvet, both on the seat, which was typical, and on the back of the chair, which was not. Though the keep of this manor was not overly large, the hall and chambers were all well-appointed. And the village heavily fortified.

Whithorn had done well for himself, especially here at the border, where such wealth was often taken as an invitation for their neighbors, either north or south of the border, to encroach upon each other’s territory.

Rory said nothing, and for a moment, Freya did not either. What did one say, precisely, with such a greeting? Or lack of one.

His tunic discarded, the loose linen shirt hanging wide open, Rory appeared as if he’d just come from a tryst.

“Abandoned your bedmate so soon?” As if approaching an animal—one that might be preparing to attack—Freya moved slowly toward the fireplace and the man seated in front of it. “What are you doing here, Rory?”

He took a slow sip of wine and then, without looking up, said, “You are annoyed with me.”

She was, but never, ever would admit it. “I wish to sleep. Are you not tired after last eve?”

He did look at her then.

Freya wished he hadn’t.

The way his eyes narrowed, undressed her, bored into her . . . they were the reason the maid belowstairs was so bold as to approach him. Why Rory had women practically following his mount in the bailey when they arrived.

“I am not.” Sighing, Freya took a reluctant sip of wine, though she refused to sit with him. “I am,” she said.

“Sit with me, Freya.”

The commands. “Do you not know how to form a request, Rory?”

“What shall I ask?” He leaned back into the chair. “Will you sit with me, Freya?”

“Aye,” she said, still unmoving. “Would seem a reasonable one to me.”