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Conall searched out the man currently being attended to by another of Bristol’s retainers. His shirt lifted, ’twas easy enough to see the gash across his side. It was indeed nothing serious. Though it would hurt like the devil on their ride back.

“It was as they deserved,” Bryce said, looking upon the dead. The pain in his voice was unusual for Conall’s normally jovial uncle.

“He will live.” Rory sheathed his sword. “There is no man alive heartier than Thomas.” Bryce grunted. Conall silently agreed. “Although I am curious why he was out there. When last we spoke, Thomas was heading to the keep.”

Indeed, it was neither the steward’s duty nor typical for him to be riding the wall’s perimeter. But that mattered little now. Only that he, and the others, were still alive.

“I daresay . . .” His uncle also cleaned and sheathed his sword. “I am proud of you both.”

“In battle, I would take you with me, cousin,” Rory said.

“And I you,” Conall said.

Walking among the dead, his uncle left them. There was much work to be done. The bodies rounded up. Their mounts secured. But these men, the Scots reivers who soiled the reputation of Conall’s countrymen, would never again torment Bristol Manor.

“This smells not of a simple raid,” Rory said, voicing Conall’s own thoughts.

He agreed. “It does not. I suppose we could have questioned him,” he said, nodding toward the leader. He was the largest of all of the reivers. The same age as Uncle Bryce, most likely. Conall said a silent prayer for his family, for his wife and children if he did, indeed, have either. But he did not linger. Conall would not mourn a man who had, perhaps, killed one of their own.

Much later, as they finally rode back to Bristol, he finally thought to ask his cousin the question he’d been wondering. Clearly Rory loved the woman, but he’d revealed little of consequence in their earlier discussion. Uncle Bryce had been called away suddenly, and Rory had gone with him. They’d not had an opportunity to speak since. “Why has Lady Freya returned with you?”

Hanging back, even though his father was well ahead of them, Rory waited until all of the men passed them. “I’ve brought her back to marry her. And ask the council’s permission to take back Edyington Castle.”

Conall stilled. Though he should not have been surprised, as his cousin’s feelings for Lady Freya were clear, his words did manage to surprise him. Conall thought of the council’s reaction to such a request and of Rory’s insistence he would never take a bride. Unlike his cousin, he was not so much a fool as to outright discount the power of the right woman’s love. Conall had just never met a woman willing to walk by his side in the dark alleyways his chosen path in life sometimes led.

There was naught to do but laugh, a respite after the horrors of their evening. If he thought this night to be filled with mischief and mayhem, it seemed the battle with the reivers, after their exceedingly odd attack so close to Bristol, would be the very beginning.

Conall had thought to return home on the morrow, but now it would take a siren’s song to get him to leave. ’Twould be an interesting day indeed.

Chapter Twenty-Six

As they neared Bristol Manor, Rory wondered if Freya was well. She would be worried, no doubt, about the attack. And though it had been many years since anyone had dared wield a sword so close to Bristol, the Brotherhood’s land and protection extending well beyond it, she was never truly in any danger. But Freya may not have known that, despite assurances, and he was eagerly anticipating seeing her.

The moment he saw Isaac, who had likely been in the village with his family when they rode out, Rory’s heart skipped a beat. Surely he came to them with news of Thomas. As he neared, their beleaguered party slowed. His father wasted no time with a greeting.

“Does he live?” he shouted as they slowed to a stop.

Rory held his breath waiting for the answer. Isaac’s gaze darted across the men, found Rory, and smiled. “He does. As do the others. Have you returned with all our men?”

“We have,” Rory’s father said. Isaac nodded, satisfied, and turned his mount to ride back with them.

Hearing confirmation Thomas was alive, confirmation that this incident was over for now, Rory rode ahead to his father. There would be many questions that needed answers, including why those reivers had attacked Thomas and the guards and what had emboldened them to do so on Waryn land, but first another matter needed to be settled.

“We are fortunate,” he said to his father as their pace slowed, knowing Thomas lived. “To have lost no men.”

“Not fortunate,” his father said. “Well trained. Disciplined.”

A true enough statement. The stronger they became, the less his father was willing to relinquish his infamously brutal training schedule, one they shared with many border families and clans. Some said those in the mountains of Scotland endured more than most courtesy of the harsh terrain and weather. But here, along the border, knights and warriors were made of men who knew their homes, their families, could be attacked at any moment.

Years after the border was established, and wardens and Truce Days along with it in an attempt to keep the peace, attacks such as the one on Bristol’s perimeter were commonplace, though typically not within the Brotherhood territory.

“There is a matter we need to discuss.” Bristol Manor, now visible, loomed ahead. The sun had risen not long ago, but from this distance they could see few stirring yet. Rory’s father slowed to a stop, and they watched as their raiding party rode past.

Alone, they sat side by side, watching the men for a moment until Rory finally broke the silence. “Have you given thought to my proposal?”

“I have.”

“And?”