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Their first tournament, Freya staring in wonder at the brightly colored banners, the stands filled with people. Her father, it seemed, had as much enjoyment watching her as the lists.

And now, he was gone. Her stomach had roiled with the thought that Eustace had been the one to bring his killer to their doors. Her brother may not have wished him dead, but he was at fault as assuredly as if Eustace had tied his hanging rope himself. Did she wish him dead, as Rory had suggested should be his fate?

At times such as these, when she so dearly missed her father? Aye, she did.

But in others, Freya could not help but think taking his life would not bring back her father’s. Freya knew only, in that moment, her father would not agree with what she was doing. He would say she took unnecessary risks, traveling with a man of an unknown reputation to Shenworth simply because she did not wish to face Rory.

In truth, she knew her actions were rash. But Freya also knew if she stayed with Rory, he would attempt to dissuade her from her course. He’d resolved to marry her out of a sense of duty and nothing more. And perhaps she should accept his offer. Was not a marriage with a man she loved, even if that love was unrequited, not better than one with a man of her grandmother’s choosing? Or would she find it easier to fulfill her duties as a wife with a husband who cared not for love, as was more typical of a marriage between nobles?

What would Father have me do?

With Edyington lost to her—Freya was not so naive as to think otherwise now—she must secure a new home for Loretta. And she could not do so if she were dead. But neither could she love a man and have that love be unrequited. However, was she so much a weakling that she could not resist Rory if he escorted her to her grandmother? She’d done so for a time, and could again. She was the daughter of Sir Alymer, 2nd Lord Hathawaye of Edyington. The granddaughter of the Lioness of the West. Freya knew what must be done and should not be taking unnecessary risks to accomplish it.

With her father’s soldiers having moved on already from Bristol, and having men she did not know accompany her admittedly not a sound decision, with a heavy heart, she’d returned to the manor. Freya would ask, on his honor, for Rory to escort her back to Shenworth. She would insist her grandmother reward him handsomely for it and offer her compliance in exchange. Her grandmother would marry her to a man, not a monster as Eustace might have, and Freya would return to Edyington with her new husband’s support to fetch Loretta and her family. It was a more solid plan than simply running out of fear with little thought to her safety.

“He has gone to the village,” the maid said to her now, breaking Freya’s reverie. “To find you.”

“What is your name?” Freya asked.

“Lavena,” she replied. Head held high, though not haughty, she spoke clear and true. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

“I am Lady Freya.”

“Aye, my lady, all know you.”

Freya was unsure what to think of that. “You are certain he has gone to the village?”

“I am. I’ve come from the stables, where he asked for his horse to be saddled for that reason.”

She could not help but wonder, “How do you know he has gone to look for me?”

Lavena’s smile reached her eyes. It was difficult to feel jealousy, something Freya had felt since first spying the woman in the hall, when the woman was so kind. “Sir Rory has done little else but look at you, begging your forgiveness for being forward, since you arrived. As it appears you look for him, I surmise he is doing the same.”

Clever woman. Rory was likely doing just that. “Thank you,” she said. “Do you know how I might get a message to him? To tell him I’ve returned to the manor.”

“I do,” Lavena said. “And will happily have a message sent to him. Is there aught else I might do for you, my lady?”

Sensing no ill intent from her, Freya said, “Nay. Thank you, Mistress Lavena.”

“’Tis my pleasure to serve you.” She bowed, preparing to leave, but did not do so. “If you will forgive me saying so, my lady, I feel you should know . . .” For the first time since they spoke, Freya sensed the woman was nervous.

“Go on,” Freya said. “You may speak your mind to me.”

“I have lived at Bristol Manor for many years. Have known Sir Rory—” She shook her head vigorously, perhaps sensing Freya’s discomfort. “Not in that way. As a servant of Bristol only. He has known many women,” the maid said, now blushing, “as I’m certain you are aware. But not once, in all of my days, have I seen him look at a woman as he does you. I thought—” she swallowed, “—I thought you should know as much.”

With another quick bow, the maid fled. What an odd, and strangely welcoming, thing to hear. Freya feared she had misjudged the maid and was grateful for her words. Even if they did not matter. Rory did look at her with a desire he freely admitted to.

He has known many women . . . but not once, in all of my days, have I seen him look at a woman as he does you.

Would not Rory have looked at many women with desire?

Perhaps?

Nay.

She was tired, not having slept the night before. Freya could no sooner make a sound decision, as she’d displayed this morn, than attempt to further decipher the maid’s words. She’d sent word to him already. Now Freya would rest. When they spoke again, she’d ask Rory if they could leave as soon as possible for Shenworth.

Heart heavy, Freya pulled her bag close to her chest and made her way to the South Tower.