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Lowering himself onto his stomach, he examined the trees for further sign of movement. Nothing. Widening his search to the dunes, his gaze followed the length of the bay, ending at the distant rocks. And then he saw her. She was standing on a boulder at the water’s edge, her green gown fluttering around her legs and her hair flowing like a dark ribbon in the sea breeze. Leif’s heart began to pound. He did not need to see her face to know that it was Rhiannon.

He forced himself to search the area once more. Convinced that there was no one else nearby, he scrambled down the other side of the rocky headland. Upon reaching the sand, he stayed in the shadows of the promontory, working his way up the beach until he reached the sand dunes. The waving grass on the undulating terrain was a poor excuse for protection, but it was better than walking across the open sand.

When he reached the other side of the cove, his feet slowed. A force greater than reason had driven him across the bay, but now that he was within thirty paces of Rhiannon, he found himself desiring to retreat. She had made her abhorrence of him perfectly clear. What good would it do to attempt speaking with her again? More importantly, what could he possibly say that would help her grasp the depth of his sorrow over what happened so long ago?

He stopped, clenching his hands in indecision. To continue or to leave before she became aware of his presence? A seagull cried. Rhiannon raised her head to watch it soar over the waves and then circle back across the bay. She turned, her eyes following the bird’s progression until it disappeared over the headland. And then she saw Leif.

Panic swept over Rhiannon. The Viking was on the beach, and she was alone. Consumed by memories and comforted by the majesty of the sea, she had lost track of time. Again. She could only pray that her negligence had not cost her her life.

“I would speak with you, Rhiannon ferch Iorwerth.”

Trembling within, she raised her head. “Leave me be, Viking!”

He took a step toward her. “I mean you no harm.”

“How can you say such a thing? You killed my father! He was an honest nobleman devoted to the care of his daughter, his servants, and his land.” She thought she’d cried herself dry, yet the words produced fresh tears. “What manner of monster does such a thing?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Pain as real as the emotion she had so recently witnessed in Gwenllian pierced his blue eyes.

“Forgive me.” His voice was low. “I have no right to ask it of you, I know, but ask it I must. If I could go back in time and have Rune’s deeds undone, I would do it in an instant. If I were offered the chance to prevent him from throwing the axe that felled your father, it would be done.”

“Stop!” she cried. “You may come to Ynys Môn posing as a simple merchant, but I know what you truly are. In your heart, you are a plundering, murdering Viking.”

He stiffened. “You know nothing of my heart, my lady,” he said.

“And you know nothing of mine. But I shall tell you this much: the night you and your horde attacked my father’s home and left him for dead, my heart broke.”

He fell silent, shifting his gaze from her to the open sea. The sun was beginning to set, and the horizon was streaked with yellow and orange. Rhiannon watched him anxiously. Was he so preoccupied with his thoughts that she could escape? Tentatively, she stepped off the boulder and onto the wet sand.

“Father Robert taught me that God can heal all things,” he said. “Do you believe that includes broken hearts?”

Rhiannon stared. She must have heard him incorrectly. “I know nothing of your pagan gods.”

He turned to her then. “I am not speaking of Norse gods. I am speaking of God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. Is that not who you worship?”

Rhiannon’s fingers found the circled cross around her neck. “It is.”

“My great-grandmother was a Cymry. According to my mother, she never renounced her Christian faith even though she left this land when she was young.”

“You have an ancestor who was a Cymry?” It was impossible to hide her incredulity. “Is that why you speak Gaelic?”

His smile was so fleeting she wondered if she had imagined it, but for that brief moment, the vicious Viking disappeared.

“I have wondered if that is why the language came more easily to me than to others, but I must credit my fluency to Father Robert.”

It seemed she had not misheard him earlier, but she was no closer to understanding. “Who is Father Robert?”

“He is the priest in Dyflin who taught me about your God.” His eyes met hers. “And about confession, repentance, and forgiveness.”

A gust of wind caught the folds in Rhiannon’s gown and whipped them against her legs. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the change in position did little to contain her body’s heat or calm her turbulent emotions. “Who are you to speak of such hallowed principles as though you know them?”

He straightened his shoulders a fraction. “My name is Leif, son of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin. I was raised to be a Viking, but after what happened to your father, I went seeking answers and found them with an Irish priest. He gave me reason to hope for a fresh beginning, and I have chosen to take a new path.”

“The son of the jarl is now a merchant?” Rhiannon scoffed. The notion was ludicrous.

He shook his head. “I am a silversmith.”

She eyed him warily, memory of his interaction with Cadwgan at the market returning. “Did you make the necklace Cadwgan wished to purchase?”