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He pressed a finger to her lips, cutting off her argument before she could fully voice it. “You have filled my dreams from the first time I set eyes on you,” he said. “Now that I have come to know you better, you fill my waking thoughts also.” He lifted his finger from her mouth and ran it across her cheek. “Truth be told, it has been somewhat torturous.”

“Torturous?” she whispered.

Slowly, he lowered his head until his lips were a breath away from hers. “Aye,” he murmured. “Completely torturous.”

She leaned in. It was the invitation he’d longed for. Softly, gently, he kissed her, expressing all the tender feelings he’d left unsaid. And she responded. Shifting slightly, her fingers found the hair at the base of his neck. A tremor coursed through him. He drew her closer, deepening the kiss. She sighed, melding her body to his. And he was lost. No storm at sea had ever affected him thus. Love for this brave, beautiful woman washed over him in a tidal wave, leaving his heart hammering and his legs shaking. There was no hope of recovering from this. He never wished to.

Sometime later, Rhiannon’s soft voice penetrated his conscious mind. “Leif?”

“Hm.”

“I do not know how you escaped your duties at the llys, but regardless of the poor reception I offered when you first arrived, I am glad that you joined me.”

His duties at the llys. With a groan, Leif raised his head. The shadows cast by the trees had shifted. If he wished to arrive at the great hall at the time appointed by Owain Gwynedd, he would have to run. “The official meeting between my father, Owain Gwynedd, and Cadwaladr was postponed, but if I am to be there before it begins, I must go now.”

She nodded and drew back. “It would not do to lose favor with the king.”

Given what Leif desired of him, Rhiannon could not have spoken truer words. As loath as he was to leave her, it was vital that he make a good impression upon Owain Gwynedd.

“When shall I see you?” he asked.

“There will be a banquet this evening.” Her forehead creased. “But I imagine your father’s men will be in attendance.”

His heart sank. There was no doubt Rune would make his presence felt at such a gathering. The man was insufferable. “I daresay.”

“Then I shall remain in my chambers,” she said. “Mayhap, one day, I shall have the fortitude to be within the same room as Rune, but that day has not yet come.”

With a heart filled with admiration and understanding, Leif cupped her face in his hands and kissed her once more. “On the morrow,” he said. “At daybreak on the beach. Rune will be sleeping off his stupor at that hour.”

“I shall come. The guards are well used to me going to the seashore at dawn.”

He smiled. He had known it without being told. “Until then, Rhiannon.”

She nodded. “Go quickly. Owain Gwynedd is not one you would wish to displease.”

He took two steps back, and then he turned and began jogging along the path that led to the llys.

Rhiannon stood at the window of her bedchamber. The sun had set, and darkness was rapidly consuming the courtyard below. Torches flickered at the entrance to the great hall, illuminating a small area surrounding each sconce and providing a beacon for those making their way to the banquet. Men’s voices floated up to her, most of them speaking in a foreign tongue. Never, since she had relocated to Ynys Môn, had the royal llys housed so many foreigners. And never had she so desperately wished them gone. All but one.

She closed her eyes to the men below as the memory of being in Leif’s arms assailed her. His words had touched her more than she could say, but his kiss . . . She took an unsteady breath. The protective wall she’d attempted to build around her heart had come tumbling down the moment his lips had touched hers. She pressed a hand to her stomach. He had all but confessed his love for her, and she could no longer deny her feelings for him. But what could be done? Surely Leif realized that their situation was untenable.

A knock sounded on the door of her bedchamber, and Rhiannon’s musings scattered. Taking a moment to calm her racing heart, she smoothed her hands down her blue gown and faced the door. “Enter,” she called.

The door opened, and Gwenllian walked in. She was dressed in her newest gown of deep red. A gold girdle hung around her waist and reflected the gold thread woven along her gown’s neckline and wide cuffs. Her hair hung down her back in an elaborate plait.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “I thought it might be best if we faced the Vikings together.”

Rhiannon managed a smile. “You look lovely, Gwenllian.”

If Gwenllian heard the compliment, she chose to ignore it. Instead, she studied Rhiannon with a frown. “Why are you not dressed for the banquet? Have you given no heed to the lateness of the hour?”

“I am not going to the banquet,” Rhiannon said.

Gwenllian’s frown deepened. “This is no ordinary gathering, Rhiannon. The jarl of Dyflin and his men will be there.”

“Of that, I am all too aware.”

There must have been something in her voice, some hint of how difficult this was for her, because in an instant, Gwenllian’s expression changed to one of dismayed comprehension.