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“Tomorrow?” Freya asked when Whithorn went back to his own meal as if they’d never even arrived.

“He is a strange old man,” Rory whispered, watching as a young man, half his age, sat next to Isaac across from them. He’d been late arriving to the meal and apologized for having missed their introductions. Isaac waved away the apology and offered the newcomer all their names. The two became absorbed in conversation, and Freya returned to her private whispering with Rory.

“There will be no discussions this eve? Does that not seem strange?”

“Apparently not. And aye, it does.”

“What if my brother sends men to look for me and they come here?”

“He is too much a coward to do so. I trust my message to the guard will suffice to keep him at bay.”

Just as he said the last word, Rory’s finger brushed Freya’s when they both reached toward their shared trencher. While she pulled away, as if burned, Rory did no such thing. Instead, he allowed his hand to linger, picking up a piece of meat and eating too slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.

“’Tis so ingrained,” she said with a quick look across the table, likely to assure herself Isaac was, indeed, still engaged in conversation. The trestle table was wide and lent itself to better discussions with the person seated beside, rather than across, from one. “Your need to flirt. You cannot cease it even under the most trying of circumstances?”

Finished chewing, Rory licked his lip, making sure not to answer her immediately. “Pray tell, lovely Freya, why would I cease such a thing?”

Her eyes rolling was fast becoming Freya’s most endearing trait. “Perhaps because”—she picked up a piece of meat—“you do not wish to be here, escorting me to my grandmother. Or because I am in the direst of circumstances, attempting to raise an army against my own brother. Or maybe”—she pretended to think—“because I do not wish for your attentions. Or,” she added quickly, “because you’ve no intention of doing anything more than making me wonder what it would be like to . . .”

She stopped abruptly. Thankfully.

Rory shifted on the suddenly uncomfortable bench.

“I did not wish to escort you, but I’ve committed to doing so. Bemoaning the fact would serve no purpose. As to your army, ’tis your concern, not mine. This mission has one purpose for me now, to see you safely to Lady Miriel.” Rory leaned closer to her, so close he could smell that same sweet scent as when he had been in her bed. A disconcerting thought, that. “I’d not have marked you for a liar, Freya.”

“Liar? I am no such thing.”

He sat back up, waiting for her to connect his accusation to her original proclamation. When she did, he pressed on. “What was that last accusation? Ahh, yes. ’Tis easily dispelled as the others, especially as you’ve no notion of my intentions.”

She dismissed him. “If you had any dishonorable thoughts, I’d already have been plucked. Or did you forget that we met in my bedchamber?” Popping the piece of chicken into her mouth, Freya waited for him to respond.

“’Tis not such an easy thing to forget,” he admitted. “And you are correct. I’ve no thoughts of deflowering my charge, as it were. But”—once again he leaned toward her—“there are more ways for a man and woman to find pleasure between them than that. Shall I show you some this eve?”

She shoved him away, an action that brought Isaac and his companion’s conversation to a halt. They stared at him and Freya, and Rory reminded himself they were under the watchful gaze of a hall full of men and women. As well as Lord Whithorn, who seemed not to have noticed. Reminding himself she traveled without a maid—a fact Freya had cursed more than once that day, though less for the sake of her convenience and more because she worried for the woman—Rory spent the remainder of the meal attempting to forget their conversation.

Attempting not to touch her, accidentally or otherwise, again.

Attempting to pretend he’d gained the control in their conversation, when in truth, he probably lost more than he’d gained. Was it enjoyable to banter with a woman who clearly wanted naught to do with him? A beautiful, spirited woman such as Freya?

Aye, it was.

But she was correct in one way. Doing so served no greater purpose, especially if he would be forced to eat every meal between here and Shenworth with a cock so hard he would be forced to reconsider standing.

Best instead to treat her as he would, say, Isaac. Surely he was disciplined enough to do that?

Unfortunately, Freya chose that precise moment to decide it might be enjoyable to taunt him a bit in return.

“Another piece of meat, my lord? Shall I cut it for you? Perhaps feed it to you, if you’d like?” Freya smiled.

This would not do.

Chapter Twelve

Freya pulled open the door of her bedchamber.

She immediately recognized the servant standing on the threshold. After supper had abruptly ended earlier, the eccentric lord of Whithorn having declared himself and his young wife ready to retire, this very servant, a lovely blonde woman, had approached Rory and asked to speak with him.

The look she gave him, not so subtle.