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“A word, Freya,” he began, only to be stared at by Lady Miriel.

“I thank you for your escort,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “But neither am I blind, dear boy. I see how you and my granddaughter look at each other. If I am to quell the king’s anger at her disappearance, I must do so by choosing a husband he will approve of. That she was brought here without a lady’s maid will be a difficult enough scandal to navigate. Perhaps we should not create another. Good eve, sir.”

Then, taking Freya’s arm, the spiteful woman fairly hauled her from the dais. He watched them go, never having told Freya how beautiful she looked this eve. Having been unable to offer his condolences for her grandmother’s response. He watched the women leave the hall, Freya turning back to him as they did.

The look on her face made his decision for him.

Rory had not plucked Freya from the cauldron only to see her placed into the very fire itself. Unfortunately, the steward refused to leave his side. Rory was shown back to the tower where his bedchamber was located, one farther from the hall than a guest such as he would traditionally be housed.

Lady Miriel was a shrewd one, no less than her reputation hinted at. She’d seen what passed between him and Freya—a fool would not notice, and she was no fool. Likely the woman already had plans for her granddaughter, ones that did not include marrying the son of man as like to slit the king’s throat as bow down to him. They’d been drawn into Scotland’s succession crisis courtesy of his mother’s clan, and the only way out was either navigating all sides successfully until one leader emerged, or death.

They’d chosen the former, though doing so had become harder and harder each day. Rory paced his chamber, rethinking his plan. Aye, he could find her. Go to her. And then? Rory had to be sure he’d not be making a rash decision.

Freya’s constant question of him had penetrated long ago, even if Rory had pretended otherwise. What would he have done if the king had sent his men to Bristol to secure it as a base for future attacks on Scotland? If he’d had his father and other good men killed?

’Twas a simple enough answer. His father and Uncle Geoffrey had done the same more than thirty summers ago when Clan Kerr retook Bristol. Aye, it had been in their clan’s hands once, but not for many, many years. And so the Waryns mounted an attack, took it back, and drove the Scots from their home.

He smiled. Thankfully his mother had remained behind, otherwise Rory would not be standing here to contemplate his next actions. Though it was difficult for him, for all of his cousins, to imagine a time when the Waryns and Clan Kerr were enemies, it had been real enough for his parents. For Rory’s aunts and uncles.

Edyington is not yours, Rory. They are not family. And you’ve grown too close to her. Remember Alys.

But he did not want to remember Lady Alys. Rory hated the woman that had ruined him for all others. And aye, they were not family, but they were allies. The king’s bold action indicated how important Edyington Castle could be in the ensuing war that was all but inevitable between England and Scotland. If it were secured with strong allies to the Brotherhood southwest of Bristol, it would well serve those who wished to pass from the old Roman road toward Brockburg.

Be bold, Rory. Timidity is seen as weak, and weakness will get you killed.

His mother’s words.

Rory removed his tunic himself, having refused the steward’s offer of a maid. He took a lit candle from its holder and said a silent prayer that this attempt to aid Freya would not be in vain, doing nothing more than angering her grandmother and delaying Freya’s inevitable fate.

Another council would be called, and it would take time to plan. But it was the right decision. The only one, really. He moved to the door and was about to open it and go in search of the Lady Freya of Edyington when there was a knock.

Somehow, he knew it was her.

Rory pulled open the door. Indeed, the very woman he’d been coming to see. Still dressed for the meal. Still so beautiful that it should have been a warning to him, one he’d thus far not heeded. He did not pause to think. Placing the candleholder on a table next to the door, Rory reached out, grabbed Freya’s wrist, pulled her into his chamber, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter Twenty

Rory pushed her gently into the closed door, his palms pinning her on both sides of her head. His face was so close to hers, if Freya leaned forward even slightly, their lips would be touching. Something she really, really did not want to want.

“I was coming to you just now,” he said, his voice more of a growl than a stream of words.

“You don’t know where my bedchamber is located.”

“I’d have found you.”

“And killed a guard or two in doing so? It seemed an easier thing to come here. The maid knew precisely where you were installed and . . .”

“And?”

Freya’s breathing no longer came easily.

“Why did you come here, Freya?”

“Why were you coming to me?”

“Many reasons.”

“Give me one.”