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Hywel came to his feet, meeting Cadwgan’s look without flinching. “On the contrary, I speak and act for Owain Gwynedd.”

Cadwgan snorted. “Have you so quickly forgotten that your father, the king, has already given this match his blessing?”

The first flicker of emotion lit Rhiannon’s chest, and she recognized the burn as indignation. The two men were openly discussing her future, but neither of them had spared her a glance. “That may be,” she said, “but it is my understanding that no contract has been signed.”

At the sound of her voice, both men swung to face her. Hywel’s familiar hazel eyes met hers even as Cadwgan’s dark eyebrows rose questioningly. Rhiannon took a steadying breath. As difficult as it was to contemplate leaving the rugged beauty of the home she’d always known for the lavish royal court on Ynys Môn, the alternative—to go with Cadwgan now, to marry him straightway—was unthinkable.

Raising her chin a fraction, she met Cadwgan’s enigmatic gaze. “Your offer to take me as your wife at this unfortunate time is the height of gallantry, my lord, but I cannot, in good conscience, accept.” Though the bedchamber where her father’s shrouded body lay was currently beyond her view, emotion clogged her throat. “I must travel to Ynys Môn to witness my father’s burial, and as I am now without either parent, I shall most assuredly require a time of adjustment and mourning.”

Cadwgan’s frown was quickly lost behind his polite bow. “If that is truly your wish.”

“It . . . it is.”

“Then, I shall honor it.” He raised his dark head and when he faced her once more, she experienced a pang of misgiving. Would she live to regret her decision if the handsome nobleman chose to look elsewhere for a bride?

Ignoring Hywel, she clasped her hands together and assumed the confidence she’d so admired in her mother. “If you are still of a mind to consider me worthy of your attention after some months have passed, I hope you will seek me out.”

An emotion she could not quite identify lit his eyes. It was instantly masked by a mannerly inclination of his head.

“But of course,” he said. “I shall make it a point to ask after you when I next visit the royal llys.”

Leif stood alone on the bluff. Below him, the Irish Sea’s waves beat relentlessly against the weathered cliffs, spraying the seagulls that dared fly too close. Pebbles rattled as the water spilled over them, the sound captured by the brisk breeze. The sea appeared gray today. It matched the sky—and his mood—perfectly.

With no conscious thought, he loosened the strings of the small purse hanging from his belt and withdrew a silver brooch. He pressed it against his fingers, rubbing his thumb against its surface. There was no need to look upon the engraving. He knew each line, could likely reproduce the delicately etched daffodils in his sleep—what little sleep he’d managed to claim since returning from Gwynedd, at least.

He raised his face to the blustery wind, closed his eyes, and groaned. He could not continue like this. For a week now, his nights had been haunted by Rhiannon’s beautiful but distraught face. His days were filled with trying to push her out of his mind. No matter how often he told himself that he had not been the one to throw the lethal axe at her father, he’d been unable to assuage the guilt he felt for what the men under his and Bjorn’s command had done.

He’d hoped that asking his mother about her grandmother would offer him some measure of understanding, some insight into how the Cymry’s culture differed from his own. Did the Cymry’s god offer any greater comfort to those who lost loved ones than Thor or Odin offered to the Norse? Were their women of higher birth given the kind of freedoms Norsewomen enjoyed—to own land and run a business—or had the young woman in his dreams lost far more than her father that fateful night?

Unfortunately, his mother had not given him the answers he’d sought. Instead, he’d left her chambers with a greater realization that no matter the land or the people, love of family was universal. As was a belief in a higher power. Rather than ease his mind, the memories Leif’s mother had shared with him had caused his questions to multiply.

He wrapped his fingers around the silver brooch and watched a seagull soar along the shoreline. The large white bird bobbed up and down, riding the wind as it blew inland toward a small stone structure built at the head of the short peninsula. The seagull cried, wheeling above the gravestones that surrounded the building and identified it as a church.

Leif’s gaze shifted from the bird to the distant wooden door. It was closed. But he had seen it standing open before. On more than one Sunday, he had watched the Irish locals follow the narrow path that cut across the grassy slope to enter the small church. The path was clear now, and curiosity drove his feet forward, toward the empty cemetery.

Most of the stones lay flat on the ground, with names and dates chiseled into the solid gray surfaces. A small posy of wilted bluebells lay upon one of the smaller stones, and as he walked between the graves, a hushed sense of reverence entered Leif’s heart. This burial site was as far removed from the ship burial afforded to the most honored Vikings as it was to the funeral pyres that sent the spirits of Norsemen and -women to Valhalla.

He walked around the corner of the church, his feet coming to a halt before the large circled stone cross standing tall among the horizontal slabs. Immediately, a vision of Rhiannon clutching a similar cross at her neck filled his mind. Why was it here? Was it possible that the Cymry and Irish shared far more than the Gaelic tongue?

Stepping forward, he touched the lichen-covered stone. “What power does this symbol hold?” he muttered.

“Would ya be speakin’ Gaelic, lad?”

Leif swung around, his hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger at his belt.

“Now, now. There be no need for that.” The Irishman pointed to the knife and shook his head. “No need at all.”

Leif slid the blade back into its leather strap and studied the stranger more carefully. He wore a simple brown tunic, cinched at the waist by a narrow rope belt. A long piece of cream-colored cloth lay draped across his shoulders. His hair was gray and thinning, and his blue eyes appeared to be assessing Leif just as carefully.

“What brings you to Saint Mary’s Church this windswept day?”

“Curiosity,” Leif replied.

“Ah!” The man’s eyes lit up. “So you do be speakin’ Gaelic.”

“A little.” Leif shrugged. “Enough to get by.”

“’Tis a good thing, for I cannot speak a word of yer Norse tongue.”