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Her gaze darted around the courtyard. The chaos continued at the stable doors, and all attention was on the queen and Gwenllian. No one was looking her way.

“If you would refrain from calling attention to my presence here, I would be most appreciative,” he added.

Could Vikings read minds? Taking an unsteady breath, Rhiannon released her reins. His hands reached for her, grasping her securely around the waist. She swung her leg free, and he lifted her. For one long moment, she was suspended in the air, and then he set her feet gently upon the ground. His eyes met hers, and like the sky after a lightning strike, awareness crackled between them.

“I . . . I thank you,” she managed.

“It was my pleasure.” He lowered his hands and stepped back a pace. “Good day, Rhiannon.”

“Good day, Leif.”

She caught his smile just before a stableboy walked between them, leading a black charger. And then he was gone. She blinked, scouring the courtyard.

“May I take yer horse, miss?” The same stableboy who’d taken charge of Cadwgan’s mount had returned.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yer horse, miss.” He pointed to her mare, its straps now trailing the ground.

“Of course.” She attempted to gather her wits. “You have my thanks.”

With a cheery smile, he took the reins and led the horse away.

The courtyard was emptying. Even the queen and Gwenllian were now gone. Rhiannon’s gaze moved slowly from the stable to the fletcher’s shop to the smithy. A lone horse stood patiently waiting for the blacksmith to inspect its hooves. She watched the burly man reach for a tool before she turned away and started toward the inner courtyard.

Leif was here. As much as she wished that his appearance had been an apparition, his touch had been real. It had also been thrilling and unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she stifled a sob. How had she come to this? She was to marry a man for whom she had no feelings, and her traitorous body had responded to a man who had all but sanctioned her father’s death.

Reaching the entrance to the north tower, Rhiannon pulled open the heavy door. Lifting the hem of her gown, she ran up the spiral staircase and along the passage above. Someone called her name, but she ignored it. Fumbling with the latch, she let herself into the bedchamber and closed the door behind herself. The room was cold. It mattered not. Crossing the room in four steps, she dropped onto the bed and let her tears fall.

He was a fool. Pressed against the wall of the blacksmith’s shop, Leif berated himself once again. If Rhiannon had called out, if someone else in the party had recognized him, he could have been taken away in shackles. And for what? A flash of gallantry? He groaned and ran his hand across his face. He was twice the fool because he knew full well that if he were given the opportunity to live that short time with her again, he would make the same choice.

The shock of seeing Rhiannon ride into the courtyard had caused all sense of caution to flee. Unfortunately, seeing Cadwgan beside her had caused another, equally troubling response. He released a tense breath. How could he feel such intense jealousy when he barely knew the young lady? It was as ridiculous as it was undeniable. And it had taken him to her side the moment the rancorous Cymry had abandon her. He attempted to tamp down his anger. No young lady deserved such treatment—least of all, Rhiannon.

He had held her for only a moment, but for that instant, everything around him had faded into insignificance. And that was incredibly dangerous. Clenching his fists, he pushed past the intimate memory, forcing himself to focus on what he must do next. A careful look around the courtyard confirmed that it had emptied and that Gethin was at work on his horse. He stepped closer, and Gethin looked up, a file in hand.

“I wondered when you would reappear,” he said. “The left rear shoe was loose. But all it took was one nail to set it right.”

“Good news indeed,” Leif said, relieved that the blacksmith had found something to correct. “And you were faster than I thought you would be.”

Gethin grunted. “It’s a good thing too. Dai will be back ’ere any minute, bringin’ with ’im one of the ’orses that was out today. ’E’s saying it’s thrown a shoe.”

“Then I should leave you to your work,” Leif said, withdrawing a coin from the purse at his belt and offering it to the blacksmith.

“Much obliged,” Gethin said.

Leif glanced at the entrance to the inner courtyard. Returning without arousing suspicion would be nigh impossible, yet he still had so much to learn if he was to prove Cadwaladr innocent.

“How much longer will Owain Gwynedd and his party be at the castle?” he asked.

Gethin shrugged. “They don’t tell the likes of me such things, but I imagine they’ll be gone soon enough. They came for the burial, and that’s behind ’em.”

If the blacksmith was correct, the heightened security at the castle may diminish in the next day or so, and that might work to his benefit. Then again, he would lose his opportunity to observe those who had something to gain by Anarawd’s death. And Rhiannon would be gone.

The thought brought Leif up short. Half an hour ago, he had not known she was here. Now that he had seen her—spoken to her, even—a new resolution settled upon him. Although he had yet to determine exactly how it could be done, he would return Rhiannon’s wooden jewelry box to her before she left.

Across the way, the latch on the stable door lifted. It was all the warning Leif needed. Having no desire for another encounter with the mistrustful groom, he mounted his horse and took the reins.

“Many thanks, Gethin,” he said.