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“I do.”

“And would make me your family because . . . I care for my people? It seems an odd reason to risk a war with your king.”

Odd indeed when she said it in that way. “I will explain it better to the council, but if you are truly to slip from your grandmother’s grasp, I daresay we have as much time as we did that first night. Lady Miriel cares little for me and would see me away from Shenworth at first light. And I mean for you to be with me when I leave.”

She would do it. Though Freya clearly still struggled with the gravity of such a decision. Rory thought to make it an easier one. He stepped forward once again.

“I will please you,” he said, tucking strands of Freya’s hair behind her ear. “That kiss we shared will be one of many.” He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. “The coiling in your belly, and below it, when I took your finger in my mouth.” He traced her upper lip too. “You will feel it every time I slip my fingers inside of you. Every time I enter you, make love to you, that feeling will be a part of your day as much as breaking your fast and falling asleep. I give you that promise, Freya.”

“I will bring you turmoil and devastation, if not by choice,” she said as Rory grasped the back of her neck. “’Tis not a trade you should make.”

“And now you attempt to talk me out of my own decision?”

“I wish you to fully understand the promise you make this eve.”

“Oh Freya, some may call me bold, but never rash. I fully understand that when we marry, I will so thoroughly ravish that sweet body of yours you will look upon this eve and wonder why you did not respond ‘aye’ immediately.”

Finally, the beginning of a smile. “That confident in your abilities, are you?”

In response, Rory leaned into her. This time when she opened for him, Rory moved less frantically, more slowly. Deliberately. His goal was to convince her this would be enough. This desire between them would carry them through dark days and even darker nights. His tongue drew her in, consuming her thoughts with the question he’d asked and the answer he’d told her she should give him.

He pressed his body against hers, drawing out the kiss. When Rory was finished, he stepped back, confident of her answer.

Freya looked into his eyes, her lips still wet from his kiss, and said, “I will marry you.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You should not be here, Rory.”

They’d agreed when leaving Shenworth for Bristol not to find themselves in just this situation. After the innkeeper had shown Freya to her room and provided her with a hot bath, she had not expected to see Rory again until the morning.

Yet here he was, standing in the threshold of her bedchamber.

“I could not wait till morn to discuss what occurred down below.”

Freya folded her arms across her chest. “Do you mean the innkeeper sitting on your lap or the serving maid who all but stated for all to hear that she believed herself in love with you?”

“The maid,” he said, striding into her room. “Magge, the innkeeper, is older than England herself, and harmless.”

“If she were younger, I’ve no doubt the woman would have lain with you on our very table this eve.”

“She has tried, I’m told, with both my father and Uncle Geoffrey. They said Magge had always told them the black hair and blue eyes were her undoing.”

It was difficult to be annoyed with Rory for very long. Indeed, throughout her bath, she’d thought of nothing but the maid, who was as fair as any woman Freya had ever seen. Her hair so flaming red that it was difficult not to notice her. Eyelashes so long they seemed to touch her cheeks every time she blinked.

The maid had said, “My lord and his wife,” and Isaac had corrected her before realizing he should not have done so, as any woman who traveled as Freya did, without escort, would be immediately seen as less than respectable. In response, the woman turned to Rory and professed her love to him, claiming, “I did not think ’twas possible to love a man the moment we met.”

After realizing what she’d said, the maid clasped her hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with tears, and ran. Rory had gone after her, no less than Freya would expect, as she was clearly mortified and pained for having said such a thing to a man of Rory’s status.

After five days of travel, arriving at the Wild Boar had been something of a boon. It meant they were closer to Bristol and within Brotherhood territory. But it also meant Rory was more often recognized, a fact that she’d not thought would matter much, and yet it had. They’d been set upon by reivers, Rory able to mitigate the situation with his name. They’d stayed in two manor houses, whose lords did naught but speak of Rory’s family—his father’s exploits, his uncle Geoffrey’s ties to another reiving family, Rory’s cousin Breac.

Through it all, with the exception of a few stolen kisses, she and Rory had stayed apart, agreeing it would serve them best until they reached Bristol and were wed. For herself, though Freya had agreed to become Rory’s wife, there was a part of her that did not believe it would occur. They would arrive at Bristol and, more likely, his family would sway Rory from their marriage. Clearly the Council of the Brotherhood did not wish to become more involved in her family’s troubles than they had by sending Rory. And no doubt his parents, faced with the prospect of a daughter-in-law who bore no title aside from Lady, and no home or inheritance, would balk at such a match. Indeed, Freya’s only dowry? The opportunity to so inflame the king of England as to, quite possibly, incite open war with him.

When she first suggested they wait to enjoy any further intimacies, Rory had attempted to dissuade her. But Freya had prevailed. She had no wish to marry him because he felt honor bound after lying with her.

Rory closed the door behind him. Those blue eyes, the ones he mentioned Magge admiring, bore into the very core of her.

She spoke honestly. “If you remain in here, I am unsure if we’ll find it easy to honor the vow we made to each other.”