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God’s knees, she nearly wished to herself.

“Had you stayed at Edyington, you’d have been mistreated by your brother until the king’s choice of husband for you arrived. And then married off to a man who very likely would have mistreated you as well.”

“Or perhaps”—she held his gaze—“Sir Walter would continue to gather support, my grandmother would have come to our aid, and my brother would have been deposed. The king’s men, sent back to London.”

“And King Edward would simply welcome them home, shrug his shoulders and forget his plan to use Edyington as a base for future attacks in Scotland? Would your brother survive these counterattacks and simply give over his claim to the title? Are you prepared to see him die in these counterattacks you believe will happen?”

How for even a moment could she have thought this man civilized? Freya stood. “You mock me for a vision of Edyington you do not think is possible.”

She thought Rory would stand as well, but he remained stubbornly seated. Freya moved to the cupboard, placed the goblet down, and then made her way toward the door. In response, he remained in the seat, finishing his wine as if the bedchamber were his. As if she’d not even spoken.

But she was still stewing over one thing. “Married off to a man,” Freya bit out, “who refuses to hear me? Who cares more for his own will than my own? Who mocks me? Is that the sort of man you are so afeared I might have been forced to endure?”

Rory didn’t flinch. He may have shaken his head ever so slightly, but she could not be certain. He did stand, however. Replacing his goblet as well, he strode toward her. At first, Freya thought he would leave without further comment. Instead, he stood so close to her, she could smell a fresh scent that hinted he’d been offered a bath where she had not. Not surprising from a man such as Lord Whithorn.

“Married to a man”—he looked into her eyes—“who does not appreciate your strength, even if misguided. Who does not make you writhe beneath him, more concerned for your pleasure than his own. Who would take you far from the border and the people you love. All that, if you were lucky. I know not what you’ve seen, or what your father has told you, Freya, but ’tis a cruel world outside the walls of Edyington.”

Her fingers itched to slap him. Not for his words, but for the dismissive tone that reminded her of so many noblemen. Except her father. “The devil take you, Rory, for trying to scare me.”

He seemed genuinely taken aback. “Scare you? Freya, if I wished to do that, I would tell you what the king does to those he deems traitors.” And then, that damned smile. “Good eve, my lady. It has been a pleasure conversing with you. I am very glad I sent the maid away in favor of your company.”

“Good eve,” she replied as he opened the door. “I do thank you for forgoing your sexual encounter to give me the honor of your company.”

Surely he caught her tone, but Rory chose to ignore it. “You are most welcome, Lady Freya.”

He bowed, and then was gone.

She resisted the urge to kick the door, but at least with him out of her chamber, Freya could breathe again. It was as if he had taken all of the air from the room with his presence, filling it instead with . . . himself. Freya was uncertain if she disliked more Sir Rory Waryn or her own unsolicited, unwanted, and unimaginable attraction to such a man.

Chapter Thirteen

“I did not send for you, Lady Freya.”

Attempting to dismiss her, Whithorn waved his hand as if she were a pesky bug that needed to be swatted away. But when his man stepped aside from the solar door to allow Freya back into the corridor, Rory stopped him.

“I did.” At the risk of angering him, Rory continued, “We discuss her home.”

Whithorn still hadn’t recovered from her presence yet. “Her brother’s inheritance,” he countered. Whithorn addressed Freya, who, though Rory had told her to take only one small saddlebag, was somehow dressed in a different gown. It was a simple, deep gold pelisson, the only decoration its stitched cuffs. Unbidden, Rory could almost feel Freya under him. Feel her breasts pressing against his chest. That very real memory of Freya had proven to be damned inconvenient.

“One my father appealed to the king to leave to me and not my brother.”

Had he heard her correctly? This woman was full of surprises. She’d said nothing about that to him.

Rory turned to Lord Whithorn. “It seems we’ve already begun discussing Edyington. Should Lady Freya not, at least, sit more comfortably with us to do so?”

Whithorn was beaten. He gestured for her to come toward him. “Have you broken your fast yet?” he asked, his duties as a host not eluding him, at least, even if his manners had.

“Aye, thank you, my lord.”

Rory was not the only one present who noticed Freya’s appearance. Though he disliked the way the old baron looked at her, there was naught to be done about it.

Seeming to notice the direction of his thoughts, Freya smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. And leaned forward, the swell of her breasts on full display as was the current fashion. Whithorn took notice.

“I’ve not heard as much,” he said about Freya’s revelation, “but will admit it does not surprise me.”

“That the king refused my father’s appeal?”

“That your father would wish for your brother not to take his place. Sir Eustace has not been subtle in his hatred of the Scots. Which I find curious given your circumstances.”