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She should have been prepared for his head to lower, but when it did, the shock of his lips on hers reminded Freya she was wholly unprepared for it. They moved over her own, slowly at first. Then his tongue pressed against them, urging her to open for him. And so she did.

Rory’s tongue did not stop its urging there. Pinned against him, this time quite willingly, Freya understood his silent plea and offered a plea of her own. When their tongues touched, Freya was glad to be bolstered up by Rory’s body as she surely would have melted to the ground otherwise.

Freya had always taken instruction well, and Rory was, fortunately, an artful teacher, no doubt from his vast experience. Each passing moment he drew her deeper, the sound he made now deep in his throat telling Freya he was as affected by this kiss as much as she.

When it no longer felt natural for Freya’s hands to continue to hang at her sides, she reached between them and hesitantly laid them on his chest. With just a linen shirt between them, she could easily feel the power that lay just beneath her fingertips. A power that he did not hold back.

Rory broke away from her then, but when Freya attempted to pull her hands away, he stopped her, swiftly moving his to cover her own.

“Keep them there,” he said, his voice thick. “Freya . . .” He looked down, into her eyes. “I will not apologize for kissing you.”

“I’d not have you do so,” she admitted.

“I know what you think of me,” he said, “and most of those thoughts are true. But I will tell you this before we discuss any other matters.” Rory’s gaze dropped to her lips before meeting her eyes once again. “I’ve not shared a kiss such as that with a woman before.”

It was the very last thing Freya thought he would say. Her instinct was to argue with him. Tell Rory that such a statement, for a man who’d kissed so many, was not possible. To remind him of his first love, his only love. That surely they’d shared a kiss such as that one many times.

Thankfully, she said none of those things. Instead, she more graciously accepted his words, realizing, if they were indeed true, that everything had just changed between them. It was Rory’s inability to truly feel anything but a passing attraction to a woman that had guarded her heart against him.

“I’ve no words to offer,” she admitted.

“Because the feel of my lips against yours . . .” He leaned down again, their hands still clasped between them, toward her neck. There, Rory placed the softest of kisses. “Has robbed you of words.” He moved upwards, kissing her again, this time just below her ear.

Freya would deny it, but she could not without naming herself a liar. By the time his lips touched hers, she welcomed them, welcomed him, in a way she never could have imagined that first night when they met. When she realized Rory was the kind of man who would never be content with one woman. Something she should be considering even now, but refused to.

Instead, she reveled in the feel of him moving against her. Of Rory’s tongue capturing hers once again, tasting and tangling. On and on the kiss continued, their hands still clasped. Then suddenly she thought of never seeing him again after tomorrow. She’d come for this, for a proper goodbye, though she knew the memory of this kiss would not make it easier on her after he left.

“Mmmm,” he murmured, nipping at her bottom lip before pulling back once again. “I could kiss you for days and still wish to continue.”

“And yet, you stop.” But Rory did not move. They continued to stand nearly pressed against each other, Rory’s hands covering hers. With Freya’s palms pressed to his chest, she could feel the beat of his heart. It was beginning to slow from a more frantic pace, one she was sure matched her own.

“I was prepared to find you for more than just a promise of a kiss, though I’ll admit it’s something I’ve been hoping to do for some time.”

“You mean after Pucker’s Mark, when you hardly spoke to me for nearly a sennight?”

“Well before then,” he said, his eyes still hooded with desire. “Which is precisely the reason Pucker’s Mark”—he shrugged—“scared me to hell and back.”

Freya hadn’t expected him to offer such honesty. “I’d never hurt you as she did, Rory. We’ve not known each other long enough for you to trust my words. But I do not wish to reclaim Edyington for myself, for its title. I do it for the people. Like my maid and so many others who cannot easily run. ’Tis a privilege, to be able to walk away from a life you’ve built, and I will not leave my people to be nothing more than pawns for the king. As for myself . . .”

She was unsure if there were words that could convince him. He simply did not know her well enough.

“I’d not do to you what Alys did,” she concluded.

It was as if Rory attempted to determine the truth of her words by looking into her eyes. As if he could see into her soul by doing so. He was not convinced, but neither did she expect him to be. He loved Alys and had thought she loved him too. If Alys could so easily devastate him, could not a woman he hardly knew at all? Besides, it mattered not.

Rory was leaving.

“I came here,” she said, “at great risk, if my grandmother were to learn of it, because I could not bear the thought of not saying a proper goodbye.”

“You could not bear the thought of parting without knowing my kiss,” he teased.

“That too, of course,” she teased back.

His hands, still covering hers, now tightened. As if he were preparing her for more. His own goodbye, no doubt.

“I would help you, Freya. Take back Edyington.”

She blinked.