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“So she said.” Leif took another step toward her. “But I happen to believe that no one should be left alone after experiencing the shock and anguish you must have felt on the beach.”

She looked away, the grief on her face like a knife to his heart.

“Rune was not aboard my vessel,” he continued. “It was only when I heard him coming up the sand behind me that I realized he was part of my father’s entourage.”

“Rune? That is the name of the celebrated Viking?” she asked bitterly.

“There is nothing about Rune that I would wish to celebrate.”

“Then tell me this.” Her voice broke. “Why is it that this Rune—a man with so black a soul that he would murder an old man intent only upon saving his daughter—laughs as he sets foot on the sand of Ynys Môn while his victim lies buried in a cold grave?”

He ached for her. Ached for the part the Vikings of Dyflin had played in tearing apart her small family. “I do not have the answer you seek, Rhiannon, but this I know: one day, Rune will have to answer for what he did.”

“When?” She clenched her fists, her tears falling anew. “When, Leif? You are the son of Jarl Ottar. Surely you have sufficient influence to act against so heinous a crime.”

Leif winced. Rhiannon had lived through a terrifying Viking raid, but she likely did not realize that raids were often far more violent than the one she had witnessed. He looked out across the cemetery to the vast sea beyond. It was a view much like the one he’d shared with Father Robert when he had plied the priest for answers to similar questions.

“A Christian priest taught me that there will be many times when life appears unfair, when those who do evil seem to profit and those who do good are left to suffer. He told me that I must turn such injustices over to God. That as much as I willed it otherwise, only He could make such things right.” Leif turned back to her. “I cannot stand before you and say that I found Father Robert’s counsel easy to accept. Indeed, it took many weeks before I was willing to admit that the resentment I felt when Vikings such as Rune received accolades for returning to Dyflin with ill-gotten gain was hurting no one but me. But over time, I have learned for myself that Father Robert spoke truth.”

“But why would God allow such heartache?”

He shook his head helplessly. “I have much yet to learn about God, but I have recently wondered whether He allows some to hurt so that others may offer aid. The Jesus of whom Father Robert speaks went about doing good. If no one was ever in need, there would be little opportunity to give service.”

She wiped her cheeks with her shawl again. “I do not think I can do what He asks.”

“You already have. I witnessed your kindness to Gwenllian after Prince Anarawd was killed. Although your cousin’s loss was more recent, it did nothing to negate yours, yet you set aside your own grief to help her with hers.”

Her sorrowful eyes met his. “I miss my father every day, but some days, the emptiness I feel without him is so great, I come here to speak with him.” Her chin trembled. “Would that he could speak to me also.”

“What would you have him tell you?”

She sniffed. “There is so much . . . I would not know where to begin . . .”

Leif reached for her hand, grateful when she did not pull away. “Although I never had the privilege of knowing your father, may I suggest that he would tell you how inordinately proud he is of you, that your beauty runs far deeper than the loveliness that meets the eye of all beholders—it radiates from the goodness of your soul. And that more than anything else, he wishes you to be happy.”

Her watery smile tugged at his heartstrings. “You forgot the part where he tells me that my hair is unruly and then chastises me for having sand on my gown.”

A lock of her hair blew against her face. With gentle fingers, Leif lifted it away, marveling at its silkiness. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I happen to appreciate both those things. They tell me that you and I share a similar love for the wind, the waves, and the seashore.”

She stilled. “That may be, but it does nothing to negate the fact that you are a Norseman and I am Cymry.”

His people had killed her father. Rhiannon had not verbalized the condemning statement, but it hung over them as real as the most menacing storm.

“I am a Norseman,” he said, “but that does not mean that I would behave as Rune does any more than you being Cymry means that you would emulate Cadwgan.”

She raised her other hand, and her fingers softly touched the scar at her throat. She trembled.

Leif released her hand to draw her into his arms. “Do not dwell on the dark memories, Rhiannon,” he said. “That time is past.”

Releasing a deep breath, she closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against his chest. “Why do I feel that I am where I am meant to be whenever I am with you, Leif?”

He heard her confusion, recognized her vulnerability, and yet he was filled with gratitude. It was time to match her ingenuousness with his own. “Mayhap it is because your heart hears the whispers of mine.”

She looked at him then. “What does it say?”

“It says that no matter their differing heritage, Leif, son of Jarl Ottar, falls more in love with Rhiannon ferch Iorwerth every time he is with her, and he wishes to be at her side always.”

Her dark eyes, full of wonder, met his. “But you are—”